Then Father smirks, a hearty laugh escaping his blue lips under the beard that stands in near contrast to the rest of his being.
"Good, Youngest."
Sebastian eyes coldly. He will never accept , even though we share the sa father. But Father's grin continues to widen. It feels alien—to see this cold-blooded man looking at with wrinkles favoring in this mont.
"Aston. Good. Good."
But I clench my teeth. I know it isn't because of —but because of the opportunity he imagines. The expansion of his influence, his strings, through the suffering of the Reds.
Sebastian turns back toward the horizon, where more slaves are being deported under our orders.
"Then let us take the quick route!" Father nearly shouts, grabbing a pen and dipping it into orange ink. "Let's do it that way!"
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And he starts to write.
…
I step out of the private carriage—one of the two that belonged to my brother Lieben. I am now nothing more than his living corpse, stolen and alive in his place. Not Aston, but Lieben von Rosenmahl. Hair longer. Face sharper. Hands behind my back. I stand tall, my feet in dark, bluish boots thudding over the asphalt.
I notice the young butler—not Kayl, the old golden retriever-like servant, who originally served , but another whose na I do not know. He's younger than I, and catching him in my peripheral vision, I casually throw my shirt over his bowed head, while passing with a smile put on.
I walk into the estate bought with our family's money. The one Lieben once married to extend our influence. But the wife is long dead, and now I see only my nephew—my son, though the lie feels wrong every ti I think it.
Seeing his downturned face and the way his eyes et mine—it hurts. But then he winks.
Lieben wasn't a good father. It will take more than a few days or weeks before my son begins to like . The Reds are easier. Doran likes them, sowhat—though he doesn't show it openly.
As I walk deeper into the Rosenmahl estate—still registered under my father's na since it was never changed to Hellenes—I spot them. The three children. The girl and the boy who don't share my color, nor Doran's, but still look at with genuine smiles.
Only a few steps in, and even Doran embraces .
It feels odd. I've never experienced anything like this before. Especially not from Doran—or from any child. Be it as a nephew or as a son.
But I crouch and return the embrace, patting him gently. His hair is blonde like mine, though shorter—the longest strand only reaching his brows.
"Tristan and Ella haven't troubled you, right?" I say with a mocking tone, referring to the red children I deported here.
I thought my father would punish for it. But the middle son is left alone, again. Maybe Father wouldn't care if Lieben enslaved a few red children, went on a rampage in broad daylight, or did so other, even worse things.
My lips curl faintly, and I walk off, hearing Doran's shy and timid voice behind .
"No."
"Good. Good," I say.
The red children—now servants in disguise for Doran—receive a quick pat from as well. I continue walking into the room where letters await—written to Lieben, and therefore now to . Letters from various trading partners, friends, and other acquaintances.
I start to read through them, sighing as my eyes fall on the first one resting on the desk.
No other than her.
The girl I regret most ever eting—not because of betrayal, not even because of danger—but because she gave nothing of value except pleasure. And that, I cannot even enjoy.
Emma Jäger.
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