Chapter 8: The End of an Era (1)
Aston von Rosendahl's POV
"Not all men are created equal. The social order dictates our fate – and we, the blue-blooded, stand on the second tier of the Ten. Yet we remain at the bottom of the pyramid. So why should we look down on others when we ourselves are crushed beneath the weight of this order? We are not equal in strength. But in humanity—if only rarely."
––Aston von Rosenmahl
I stand alone at a grand banquet. The orchestra plays Beethoven's Waltz for the Pianoforte, and I merely sigh, listening to the murmurs of conversation while holding a glass of champagne in my hand.
"I must say, the reds have quite the refined taste. A pity we didn't drag them out of their holes sooner."
Viscount Roderick speaks, his pointed mustache twitching as he lifts his chin with haughty satisfaction.
"What a pity indeed, but better late than never."
Baroness Marquess replies, her laughter ringing out like chimes in the lavish hall. She presses her gloved hands—long and blue—against the folds of her opulent navy-blue evening gown, the corset tightening her already slender waist, while the weight of a crinoline under her skirts gives her silhouette the grandeur expected of nobility.
The orchestra swells, reaching a crescendo as I survey the ballroom, where hundreds twirl and glide beneath the dazzling chandeliers of my father's estate. No woman here lacks adornment; ruffles, pearls, and elaborate hairstyles are the standard, their hair twisted into intricate patterns that rival the finest tapestries. The men, simpler in their vanity, keep their hair short, often slicked neatly to the side, their beards and goatees carefully groomed, gold-chained pocket watches peeking from embroidered waistcoats. They dance clumsily to the waltz, though none seem to care—their movements are fueled by the triumph of the day.