Journal Entry 1
Date: 01/22/7500
Author: Blake Justinian Margrave
When we are born, our paths have already begun, at least that is what some say. In reality, it starts even before that. It begins with who our parents were, their DNA shaping what we are: our eye color, hair, even our height and how easily we gain muscle. Even now it is being discovered that it affects our minds, just as it influences our immune systems.
It is through our parents that we are created. Yet we strive to be both different from them and somehow the same. Sometimes this happens without us knowing. In trying so hard to escape what we fear, we often become it.
It was the same when I was born, into a high-blood house, the blood of a Solrein. A people who had mastered the concept of magic so thoroughly that our DNA was said to be made of it. I wish true magic were real. Yet even in this world, it was not meant to be. Instead, we had Spellblood, a type of crystal that, when melted, became a liquid the color and texture of blood, smelling faintly of sweet sugar. Somehow, that liquid was what allowed us to exist.
Spellblood was slowly introduced into the human body long ago. Many died from it, their bodies rejecting the substance entirely. But eventually it worked. Even now, we cannot replicate the process. Truly, luck must have played a role. But I write this so you understand why it is important.
Spellblood meant we aged slowly. Someone who was a hundred might look barely twenty. Some lived to be a thousand years old. We could not get sick. And when we bled, the Spellblood mixed within allowed for magic, or what primitive people might have called magic.
When the blood is placed in certain symbols, it has effects, a flame bursting forth without smoke, a lake freezing solid, or an orb of light floating into the darkness. All useful, but risky.
In reality, Spellblood was used to power our grav-ships and our astral swords. Without it, we would be back in the Stone Age. And when Spellblood dries, it returns to crystal form. These crystals grow endlessly, so the Empire controls their trade strictly.
But it seems I am out of time for writing.
Journal Entry of 01/22/7500
Name: Blake Justinian Margrave
I stood up, closing the leather journal as the knocking at my door grew more insistent. The lightbulb in its glass casing glowed dimly over the wooden desk where I sat. My red, high-back velvet chair was worn from years of use.
Yawning, my black hair a mess, I walked toward my bedroom door, a thick ebony slab with swirling natural patterns. Before I reached it, a voice sounded from the other side.
"Open up, my lordship. Your father has requested your presence for breakfast this morning," came the voice of a man through the heavy wood.
"One minute, monsieur," I replied, pulling on my white button-up shirt and fastening each metal button.
I adjusted the collar in the mirror. My older brother had taught me to fix the collar before the sleeves to prevent them from riding up. The shirt was plain white, with heavy black metal buttons.
I turned the lock with a click, unhooked the chain, and opened the door.
"I am ready now. So terribly sorry for the wait, monsieur," I said without any true kindness.
He was just one of many house guards serving my family. Even if he was Solrein, he was nowhere near our standing. My father was a Praetor, ruler of an entire region, with rights to trade Spellblood and command a standing army.
"There was no wait at all, my lordship. Only the waiting of the Praetor, your father, Lazinus Justinian Margrave," he said, tilting his flat cap, a heavy black wool piece that matched his metallic greatcoat.
As he led the way, the light caught on the metallic threads woven into his coat. We had long abandoned the old ideas of bulletproof vests or plated armor.
Instead, we made metal into string and sewed it into our clothes. Heavy, yes, but lighter than plate armor and far more fashionable. It could stop most bullets, though enough shots could still break through. It was the bare minimum standard for protection.
Following him down the swirling black-and-white granite floors, long black-and-gold rugs guided the path.
Paintings and photographs lined the walls, showing past members of my bloodline alongside images of flowers and extinct animals like cheetahs and eagles.
The sword at the guard's waist caught my eye, the scabbard poking out behind him. A classic gladius. The ancient Romans once used that sword. We adopted it because, in close quarters, ammo runs out. A longsword was unwieldy indoors, but a gladius was perfect. Its metal could pierce a metallic greatcoat more easily than a bullet.
As we descended the stairs, a butler was placing fresh flowers in the vases, red roses by the look of them.
"Morning, young lordship. I expect you are heading for breakfast with our Praetor?" he asked, stepping aside as we passed.
I slowed slightly, turning only my head toward him.
"Indeed I am. Any idea what the cooks have prepared?"
"I believe it is a stew of sorts. Beef, perhaps? With thick toast and strawberries," he replied with a genuine smile.
Perhaps he had not expected me to respond.
"Well, thank you. Have a pleasant day, sir."
I gave a gentle smile, though it never reached my eyes, and continued down into the main hall.
The guard's footsteps echoed off the granite floors. Smooth dark gray walls with gold trim led to many doors, but he stopped at a pair of heavy wooden ones with gold handles.
"Breakfast has already been served, my lordship," he said, opening the doors.
Large windows lined both sides of the long dining room. High above hung chandeliers of diamond and glass.
A massive ornate walnut table dominated the space, with gray velvet chairs, twenty-five in total, twelve per side and one at the head.
In that seat, at the far end, sat the man whose eyes I shared. My father. His ruby-red eyes were not like blood, but like polished gemstones, the eyes of royalty.
"I am here as requested, Father," I said plainly, moving along the left side.
My brother and sister sat to my father's right. My brother, twenty-two, would inherit nearly everything. At best, I would receive a manor on some useless stretch of land.
My sister, twenty-one, sat beside him. Both had inherited our mother's traits, diamond-blue eyes and golden blond hair.
My brother, however, had our father's physique, broad shoulders and a well-balanced build.
My sister was the smallest of us, yet carried herself as though she were seven feet tall rather than five-foot-six.
"You will address me as 'Praetor' or by name, boy."
His glare cut across the room. My siblings ignored the exchange, continuing to eat.
The butler had been right, beef stew and thick toast, about an inch thick. The meal had gone cold. The stew was now only lukewarm.
"Of course, my Praetor. I merely forgot myself. Being your son should not prevent me from using your titles," I said, holding back a smirk.
That was something I did not inherit from him, my tongue. He spoke in facts and politics, as though personality never existed.
My sharpness came from my mother and the maids who raised me. One could often hide an insult within truth. After all, nothing rude had technically been said.
My mother fell ill after I was born, a rare thing for a Solrein. Only two things could affect us, Spellblood crystallization being one.
When an injury failed to heal properly, Spellblood could cool and solidify into crystal. And crystals grow endlessly. They damaged veins, organs, and even the heart.
Though Spellblood could heal minor damage, over time the growing crystals exhausted the body, ruined blood flow, and caused sudden pain anywhere in the body. Eventually, internal bleeding would overwhelm the healing and kill.
"As you should, boy. Rank must be reminded to everyone, even family," my father said, gesturing for me to sit on his left.
I sat. Though I had his eyes and hair, I was far leaner, like my mother. My brother always said I would fill out when I was older.
We ate quietly.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting my shadow across the table. Below us, the ocean raged unseen against the cliffs on which the manor stood, the sound drowned beneath the silence of breakfast and the lukewarm taste of beef stew.