Several hours had passed, and Elliot’s nose was still buried deep within the thick book. The window beside him was open, and the wind whistled gently as it swept by. The sky had darkened, cloaked in a deep turquoise horizon, with heavy clouds veiling the sun, casting a comfortable gloom. It felt like the endless night hours spent reading a novel, but with one difference—his eyes had long lost the shimmer of excitement. His brow furrowed, and he rubbed his temples with thumb and forefinger. With a sigh, he muttered under his breath, "What on earth is the meaning of all this? Those verb tenses?"
He groaned, dragging a hand across his face before continuing, “Pronunciation isn’t the worst of it—not for the future at least—but the grammar? Half the book is just grammar! And then vocabulary... that’s expected, but why does the formality have to be so complicated?" In frustration, he buried his hands in his hair, leaning on the desk with his elbows. "At least I’ve learned a bit about ritual magic."
Leaning back in his chair, Elliot stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts racing. There are three prerequisites, no, sometimes just two. First, you must speak the language of the gods, and offer something in return. Sometimes it's plants, objects, or even blood. On occasion, you need a formula written on a piece of paper. The eye without a pupil stands for us, those who draw power from the nine gods, but also for the Seraphim, the angel who once watched over the gods.
Elliot sighed as he rocked his chair back and forth, still gazing at the ceiling. The thick book rested in his lap, its pages barely touched. But those are the easy parts. How long will it take before I can read a few sentences for good? The letters are mostly the same, except for ä, ü, and ö—no idea how to pronounce those.
Frustrated, Elliot pushed the book back in front of his eyes but immediately sat upright. There were sentences written in German, with translations beneath them explaining what the godly incantations did. Flipping through the pages faster now, a smile crept onto his face, his dimples deepening. It took only minutes before he found the section, just three pages ahead. One of the sentences read:
"Gott des Wissens schenke uns deine Kraft. Lasset uns wissen welche Gabe ihr uns schenket! Oh alwissende Gottheit teilet uns euer unermessliches Wissen!"
The ingredients for the ritual were listed below: 2 grams of powdered silver lizard, a herb called Fluora, and the addition of one’s own blood (the primary blood type). Additionally, a sheet of paper and a quill made of Nishe were required. The incantation had to be concluded with, "Lasset es uns durch das Blut meines Wissen, Oh werter Gott des Wissens!"
During the process, the hands must be held in the shape of a book, from the forehead down to the chest.
However, a note at the bottom added that this only worked for lower blood types (red to orange). Elliot swallowed hard as he read the passage, his mouth twitching. At least I can discreetly research blue blood at some point. Frustrated once more, he snapped the book shut, but just as quickly opened it again to continue studying. The sky had cleared. The wind no longer whistled through the open window, and the world outside seemed crystal clear. The cloudless sky, now a mix of turquoise and sky blue, stretched endlessly, while white and blue seagulls flew toward the distant city of Trüben. Everything felt serene—perhaps too serene.
…
Aboard the Ten-Day Train to the Kingdom of Zentria, heading toward the capital, Denklin.
Errikson Triesta, the green-blooded figure from Elliot's visions, sat in a small compartment in third class, a newspaper in hand and a hot cup of coffee balanced on his crossed legs. The train, powered by steam as the familiar sound indicated, jolted every few dozen seconds, but Errikson remained composed, balancing his cup effortlessly while most passengers had already stained their fine suits. What a lovely view. That turquoise-blue sky. This land rich with fertile soil.
Errikson’s cold eyes drifted to the man sitting across from him, his voice low and deep. “May I?” He gestured to the sugar jar on the table, fixing his gaze on the man clutching a suitcase on his lap, who merely nodded in response. As Errikson added more sugar to his brown coffee, he glanced at his left middle finger, hidden within his loosely clenched fist. His dried, dark green blood was visible beneath the skin. With a swift motion, he opened the wound using the edge of his nail. The sweeter, the better, he thought, bringing the cup to his lips once again before returning his focus to the newspaper. Nothing exciting so far. Just the discovery of large quantities of elithranium steel, boosting the economy of the Elitran Kingdom, a massive hydroelectric power plant being repaired, and a string of unexplained murders across multiple cities in the Kingdom of Avelor... but what’s this? King Galestine III has been assassinated by an unknown assailant. A man with half blue, half yellow blood? Here, in Elisia, the Kingdom of Avelor?
Errikson’s expression remained unchanged as he stared at the paper. He then looked out the train window, gazing at the distant turquoise-green bushes and trees, but soon his view was obstructed by the darkness of an approaching tunnel.
…
In the grand sleeping chamber of the Rosenmahl noble house, a young blond man lay sprawled across his bed, his hand resting on his forehead—Aston himself, comfortably nestled in a bathrobe. Droplets of water trailed from the closed door to the bed. Aston nervously bit at his well-manicured nails, which had a pale bluish hue, not the usual pink flesh tone. The embodiment of a god? A god? Why would a Gold Blood target me?
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
He shut his eyes, deep in thought. But what could such a powerful being want from me? One who lacks for nothing—wealth, status, anything. His pale face tightened as he chewed at his nails, his hands trembling slightly.
...
Along Wellington Street, Bill sat dressed in his detective attire—an all-black suit and coat—though this time, he carried a long cane, reminiscent of something used by the elderly. His weary eyes, marked by dark circles, gazed out from the horse-drawn carriage. The sky was crystal clear, devoid of clouds, and only the tall, sharp, Gothic-style buildings loomed in the distance. Bill listened absentmindedly to the chatter of pedestrians walking through the open streets until the carriage came to a stop. He tossed a Celi coin into the hand of the driver, even though he had already paid for the ride.
"Much appreciated, good sir!" The driver tipped his hat and urged the horses forward, pulling away from Bill, who stepped down onto the street with a faint smirk. One more good deed done.
Ahead, at the intersection of Wellington and Fern Street, stood a large building—marked as the post office of Trüben-City. The sound of a bell greeted Bill as he entered. With a direct and sharp gaze, he said, "A letter, in blue, to Renegade."
The orange-haired woman behind the counter, dressed in the post office's blue uniform, nodded with a flat hand and a proper stance, gesturing to her right. "Please, follow me, sir."
But Bill had already begun walking ahead, turning left, then continuing straight until he reached a door on his right. Without hesitation, he pricked his finger, leaving a drop of blood on the door's handle. Ignoring the woman’s presence in his shadow, a twisted voice slid past Bill’s left ear.
"Well, if it isn’t Bill."
Bill dodged the outstretched arm of the man who had spoken his name, his voice slick with familiarity.
"Is Gerlinger here?" Bill asked, his gaze steady, undeterred by the dimly lit room. The window blinds were partially lowered, casting shadows, but even in the darkness, the man’s grotesque face was unmistakable—full of boils and blisters, shifting between pale blue and white. One eye lacked an eyelid, making it seem permanently open.
With a cane in hand and a black coat and top hat completing his strange appearance, the man with the burnt face stepped closer. "What brings you here... Bill?"
…
At the High Council for Migration and Border Protection—the HCMBP—Elton and William ascended the long, winding staircase. Elton, bent slightly with slouched shoulders, muttered under his breath, tongue half out of his mouth, "How many floors does this place have?"
No sooner had the complaint left his lips than they reached their destination. The partners entered a large room where, behind a glass window to their left, sat a woman—slightly plump, bespectacled, with brown hair pulled back.
"What can I do for the likes of you?" she asked, her voice lilting as Elton, visibly weary, leaned against the counter with a half-smile. He raised his badge—marked with two blue droplets of blood—matching William’s own. With a wink, Elton managed, "What can we do for you?"
His eyes suddenly widened, and he coughed, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. William gave him a side-eye, attempting to salvage the situation.
"Apologies for my colleague’s... lack of focus," he said smoothly. "Might we request records or, if possible, blood samples from migrants who arrived in Trüben-City up to ten years ago?"
The woman, resting her hand on her cheek, appeared slightly flustered as she glanced at William. "Of course, I'll fetch everything you need." Her face turned an odd shade of blue as she hurried away, leaving William staring off in bewilderment, more startled than Elton.
"What... was that?"
"I have no idea," William muttered, his eyes still wide. Both men watched as the woman, her face flushed blue, tucked her hair behind her ears. She scurried down a hallway barely wide enough for her, and just as she disappeared, they heard a sudden crash.
Time seemed to slow as she fell face-first onto the floor. Elton and William stiffened, muscles tense, struggling to keep their composure. When she finally rose, blood trickling from her nose, glasses shattered, and hair disheveled, the two officers pressed their lips together, their veins nearly bursting from their tightly buttoned shirts.
The woman, wiping the blue blood from her nose with the back of her hand, gave a nervous laugh. "So sorry... here are the documents, though I’m afraid we never received the blood samples." She looked down, ashamed, holding the papers out to them. "These are copies, but if you'd like, I could bring you coffee while you go through them?"
Elton glanced at William, who mirrored his look. In unison, they spoke, "No, thank you. But we appreciate your hospitality."
As they turned to leave, William whispered behind his hand, "Were we too harsh?"
Elton’s lips twitched, barely holding in a laugh. "Pffff..." He let out a stifled chuckle.
Click!
The woman, whose nose was still smeared with blue blood, wiped it away again with the back of her hand. Her expression shifted, no longer embarrassed or flustered, but dark and furious. Glancing at the documents, she muttered to herself, "Why does everything have to go wrong now?" Veins pulsed on her forehead, but as the blue blood stopped dripping from her nose, its color subtly shifted—yellow, almost golden, if one wasn’t paying close attention.
…
At the intersection of East and West Street, Elisia and Chris stood before a door marked with the number 2 on a white plaque. As Elisia, dressed in a knee-length skirt that complemented her fair skin, prepared to knock three times, the door creaked open on the second knock. Chris glanced at Elisia with a soft smile, his eyes shining, while Elisia’s stance grew more serious.
With a slow, deliberate movement, she drew a revolver from beneath her skirt. The sight snapped Chris out of his trance, and he quickly pulled his own weapon, hidden beneath his coat.
They advanced cautiously, blood seeping from their bitten fingertips, blue drops falling to the floor. Chris moved behind Elisia, glancing sideways and back, while Elisia kept her eyes fixed ahead. As they edged forward, Chris nudged Elisia’s back, tensing as he gripped his revolver tightly. In a single fluid motion, he spun around her, his weapon aimed forward, eyes narrowed in focus.
But what greeted them inside the secluded room was not an enemy—only the corpses of two people, a woman with her head split open, and a man, his limbs severed. They sat slumped over at the dinner table, wine glasses filled with their own blue blood, and half-eaten bread on their plates. Beneath their pale, drained bodies, hidden from plain sight, was a thicker, darker pool of yellow blood.