Origins of Blood (RE)

Aston's POV

"Once you feel the rush, you either stop or go all the way down."

—Aston von Rosenmahl

It has been several days since they tasked me with the assassination of Robertson, ruler of Zentria, an orange-blooded monarch from the lineage of great warriors. My orders are simple. The execution, less so.

Eriksson's hands move like blurs, each strike aimed with surgical precision, yet with the casual cruelty of someone who knows he holds all control. His eyes are distant, unfocused, as though he isn't even here with me. He inflicts pain like it's routine, like the training itself is beneath his notice, and yet each motion is deliberate enough to keep me on the edge of collapse. It reminds me of the chambers back home—of my father—but no, never. This is worse. Humiliating.

I drop low, my stance compact, knees bent, and weight balanced. My ankles are stiff from strain yet ready to move at a heartbeat's notice. Eriksson closes in, feinting with a straight jab—his hand open, aiming not for a punch but for a brutal ear slap. He moves across the ground like it's merely a suggestion beneath his feet, barely touching it before springing back into the air. He doesn't fight like a man; rather, he fights like the wind when it chooses to be a storm.

I try to mirror him, but it's like comparing a flicker of wind to the howling of a hurricane. My guard is tight—hands close to my temples, elbows tucked—zigzagging toward him in hopes of catching him off balance. He reacts instantly, always leaping and in motion. As his body cuts through the air, I pivot sharply to my right, anticipating the impact. My right arm rises, sweat dripping down to the damp floor, the same floor I've already slipped on more than I can count.

My elbow swings out wide, and I drop my hip, aiming for a counterstrike. For a heartbeat, I believe I might land it, but then. Nothing. My fist cuts merely through space.

Slap!

The sting explodes across my head, my neck snapping forward as I stumble. My breath catches in my throat, and my guard is gone for half a second, and in that half-second, he punishes me.

One strike to my ribs, two to my shoulders. They're not even at their full strength. He's toying with me; however, even held back, the impact radiates pain through my battered body.

Bruises bloom across my skin like diseased flowers. No broken bones, not yet, but every movement sends a wave of ache through me.

He comes at me again, rising from below, and I push against the collapse of my body. This time, I refuse to simply defend. My hands lash upward, grabbing for his wrists in midair. I abandon the drilled precision of the past days and attack like an animal. My breath tears out of me, hot and ragged, while saliva continues to drip from my lips.

Days of this—days without landing a single strike—and I can feel my muscles burning hotter, tighter, like something inside me is ready to snap. I lean into him, forcing my body toward the open palm angling for my chin.

My eyes fix on his fingers—blue-tainted fingers, the same cursed hue I carry and despise of his mockingly noble disguise, even though his blood runs green—and a sound I rarely make rips from my throat.

His touch grazes my chin. In the same motion, he twists away, his movement a spiral from low to high, so fluid it's almost beautiful, if beauty could exist in something designed to humiliate me. My arm whips through empty air again.

Slap!

This one lands harder. Not as devastating as the very first slap he gave me—the one that shattered any illusion of pride I had—but close. The world tilts, and my vision narrows to a tunnel, the edges dimming. I try to focus on the floor beneath me, but the ground fades into darkness.