Origins of Blood Chapter 6: Chapter 5: Amber in the Depths of Mine

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Aston’s POV—Blue Blood “Why should we look down on others in a society, when we are crushed beneath its order like the rest? Neither are we equal in strength nor in blood, but we can be in morality.” I idly twirl a seemingly black, but Golden-Cont coin between my fingers, its head bearing the effigy of Young Conta, her name arched above: Conta Elisia , the first middle child of the Elisian Royal Family from the first epoch, a historical anomaly, for she was the only daughter of orange origins to lack a regnal suffix. Running my thumb over the cool, textured coin, I touch my glabella. The truncation neatly cuts off her bust, bearing the initials E.E. Its tail bears the number fifty within the Elisian emblem: a crown atop a crescent moon. It is also said that her elder sister, Elisia I. , commissioned it as a memorial after Young Conta’s untimely demise. I lampoon my frivolity and set aside the Fifty-Cont—which a serf toils more than a month for—and turn towards the italic typography of amber ink (seemingly raven-black) on blue. —break— Dear Lord Aston, I hope this letter finds you well. Until a year ago, Father believed your merchant venture would amount to little; honestly, turning half your consols from military to commercial voyages was a falling knife; however, it turned out to be Noble Rust settling into the market’s heart; His Grace the Duke von Rosenmahl proved the world wrong, indeed. Perhaps it would have been wiser to become bigger shareholders in the invasion. But Father piques whenever he reads about your name in the Zentria journals; the Elisian Times is particularly insufferable to him. Mother, sister, and I must endure his tirades about the disruption of noble order in trade; you practically have a monopoly, though not officially on paper. But enough about Father’s grievances; I have a proposal. I understand, despite your lineage, you do not hold the most fabulous wealth among your kin, and I sincerely apologize for not attending the banquet celebrating the invasion. I would have offered my compliments in person, but alas, Father forbids me from setting foot on yours. I assure you, this will not be a waste of your time. Through reliable sources, I have learned methods to acquire High-Blood. From orange—and I do not lie—even False God and violet. Artifacts of the fourth degree may even be available for purchase; the only thing these freelancers demand is discretion, and, of course, what you possess in abundance: wealth and the finest herbs from the Rosengarten. I swear on my house that, should you agree to assist me, you will gain access to resources even his Majesty the King of Elisia is limited in obtaining. Believe me, Yours very sincerely, Arthur von Löwenherz —break— I read the letter once more, skepticism knitting my brows. Yellow and violet blood? Artifacts of the fourth degree? He must think me a lunatic. Nay; he must be one! Rarely do such things circulate outside grand auctions—the ones in which the King himself partakes—held only once a decade, and False Gods’ blood has been scarce ever since the Great Fall of Empire Delora—scarcely any Yellows flee from the Violet Seas. Massaging my temples, I stretch my neck. By the time Father lets me attend such an auction (if he ever does), I will be rotting beneath necrophages. Only Bastian has ever been to one; he was gifted a blood dose of imperceptible golden hue on his thirtieth birthday. I was but fifteen at the time. I tap my glabella, dip the quill into an open inkwell, and press the soft end of the quill to my upper lip. Setting pen to paper, I halt above the fresh blue parchment—the ink a mudlark teetering on the brink of a river until a sadist decides to seal the deal. —break— Dear Lord Arthur, It grieves me to hear that you and your family must suffer under your father’s resentment, due to my own; however, regarding your proposal, I am quite intrigued. How about we meet on the Day of False Gods, an hour past Apollo’s crossing, at