Origins of Blood Chapter 11: Chapter 10: Lieben

Read chapter 11 of Origins of Blood by Bloody_Potato on NovelPedia.

Aston’s POV—Blue Blood “Neither heart’s fuel nor clothes define a righteous man, but the integrity to act just and honorable.” On the Day of the Seraphic Shroud—four days after his appointment with Arthur von Löwenherz—the ninth day of the second week of five in Astra (the middle of the last month of the Hemorion Calendar), Aston is resting in his bedchamber at the Estate von Rosenmahl. I knuckle roll the Golden-Cont, its weight a familiar comfort, and rest my chin on my left hand, embracing wind through the repaired window—the staff had reported the broken window, but I was not punished. The breeze coming from the Ocean of Helios’s Domain tempers the day’s heat, along with blue doves that soar across the Rosengarten. I sigh and flick the effigy of the Young Conta into a small box. Leaning back into my chair, I savor the silence as my fingers drift along the desk’s edges to the drawer, where emerald blood rests in a vial next to a syringe. The rules are simple: taste the blood of a subject and morph; it can be anyone—the tramp from the most penurious district in Stein; the scholar from the most prestigious university in Rhein; it can even be the eldest daughter of His Majesty, Elisia, or the King himself. And the best part is that my metamorphosis should, in theory, surpass that of a Green in remaining hidden, for they can morph their appearance but not the essence of life itself. I pull my lower lip, stare aimlessly at the galleons sailing toward Helios , and swirl the emerald blood vial with three fingers. I could morph into an Orange, but would never succeed in official meetings, as a mere glimpse of a tongue is enough to tell. However, I could seamlessly integrate into another family of my kind, the only obstacle being blood tests, but those are rarely conducted. I close my eyes and massage my temples. After taking more huffs than Father could scold me for a week, I reach for the syringe and open the vial, thinking about Father’s punishments. The needle seems to loom as its barrel fills, and the rest of the world drifts away. My vision starts flickering in black and white, but I manage to grasp it—falter then; it slips and falls. “No …” I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow, as if thorns were cutting my throat. “ By Helios , please—” I hold my breath but peer down—then sigh in relief when it does not stain the blue-crocheted carpet. Bending over, I slap myself, pick up the syringe, and place it against my bare skin, the bevel on the vein at the crook of my elbow. Groaning, my eyelids gain weight, and I depress the tube of emerald blood; my blood oozes out. I pull the needle out and press with my other finger onto the wound. I slide off my chair, placing the syringe beside me; both my hands shake, so I press them against the rose patterns on the carpet; then the door knocks. “Brother,” says a muffled voice behind my bedchamber’s door, and knocks twice more. Three heartbeats or less is all it takes for me to roll the empty syringe along the vial under my desk; two more, and my sleeve hangs down. Breathless, I stand up and half-sit on my poorly positioned chair—a strand of hair falls over my eyes. “Brother,” says Lieben with his usual gloating eyes. “Yes?” “Are you engrossed in your finances again?” He strides toward me, two strands of hair falling forward while the rest cascades down his shoulder. “Never mind,” he says, placing his hands on his hips as he takes his final step and looks past my shoulder. “Father said we should gain more experience … we are to experience firsthand what our family takes for our glory.” As I hold my breath, he seems to want to spit on my carpet, but refrains … that much courtesy he can show, and thus, he goes on. “We are to bring those maggots to market ourselves; we are to breathe the same stale air.” Lieben’s voice turns mumbled, but he claps his hands, the sound muffled by gloves. “Anyway, Aston …” He gazes up at the tenebrism of Apollo and Helios on the ceiling, and I take a shallow breat