Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) Jonathan Michael (red novels .txt) 📖

my head at the entire situation and attempt to dismiss my suspicions by pondering what today’s lesson in etiquette will incorporate. It’s painful every day I sit through it. Particularly having to call him Master Martelli. I must find a way to rescue my sister and rid myself of this place. Thankfully, it’s a course that only takes place every fourth day. The Taoiseach doesn’t have time for anything more. Not surprising when you’re also the tyrant of an entire civilization. But what is surprising is he can fit etiquette into more than one lesson. Each time he has a new topic about what we’re doing wrong. How to properly have a discussion while at a formal dinner, how to present yourself while attending a ball—because I find myself at so many balls—or how to properly cheer while at an event. Who stops to think how to properly cheer while at an Ironball match? Nobody. What will he come up with today? How to properly wipe your own ass. I wouldn’t doubt it’s in his syllabus. If only there was a way to avoid the Taoiseach’s class instead. But I can’t. The consequence would be severe, and it’s the best way for me to get closer to him. To learn his secrets. Even though he’s aware of my identity, I must be his pawn until the time is right. Until I have the perfect opportunity to do whatever it is I’m going to do.

The Taoiseach, as always, stands just outside the door to his lesson hall with a greeting, patiently waiting for everyone to arrive. His glare is a bit off today. Very uncharacteristic. His eyes follow me as I remove my shoes and sit with proper posture at my assigned seat. Susy forbid we taint his pristine lesson chamber. We make eye contact, and we share an understanding in the moment. We both know what is happening here. We are keeping one another close. Watching and waiting. But why would he take part in this game? He is the Taoiseach. He has the power to do what he wants. He is immortal. He schemes. But what?

When all are accounted for, he enters the room, closes the door behind him, and starts right in on the day’s lesson. Nobody is ever late or absent from the Taoiseach’s class. Not without prior consent from the Taoiseach or a note from the infirmary. And even then, he expects to be informed well in advance. Rumor is every season one person comes in tardy to a lesson early in the season—usually someone who has complete lack of respect for authority—and that one tardiness is all it takes for the Taoiseach to receive perfect attendance throughout the remainder of the season.

“Compromise.” He starts into his lesson. “The right and wrong moments to do so…”

Wonderful. There is proper etiquette for making decisions to benefit others. I slouch a bit in my seat, but not so much that he will notice.

He continues. “Are you willing to sacrifice something of value? For that is what you are doing when you compromise. If something you cherish, something you would not bend for, something you cannot live without was being taken from you in this compromise, would you do it? There is no correct answer, is there? For it is an equation of the greater good. That is what we would all like to think, but that is not how we all go about compromising. Is it? Compromise is a mold that takes a different form depending who is working it. You must, and I reinforce must, compromise based on the greater good and leave your selfish antics in the gutter. That is what I will be lecturing on today…” His eyes target me once again, then he proceeds with the lecture.

I find it hard to believe he understands what compromise is. He takes anything he wants. He frolics in the misery of others, looking down on us always. What does he know of sacrifice? He took my life away from me without compromise. He killed my parents. He took my sister. He murdered my best childhood mate. And he tore a chasm between me and my new best mate. I have nothing left to sacrifice except my own flesh, so what good is this lesson? It’s all delusional.

Following my dreadful Social Etiquette class is Intro to Regeneration. Thus far, I have mastered the physical tests but fallen short in understanding any of it. Supposedly this is a class I should breeze through, and although I’m told my talent is above average, I don’t have any of the knowledge as to why or how it is that I do what I do. Astor has been a great help with this topic, constantly encouraging me and pushing me to understand.

“Welcome, Elder. Welcome. Have a seat.” Master Backwater runs his lessons far more relaxed than the Taoiseach does. For starters, we don’t have to remove any clothing, and we can sit anywhere as long as we are not disruptive. It’s a needed comfort following the previous lesson.

All my classmates are several seasons younger than me because this is a first-season course, which is probably why his tolerance for poor manners is higher. The Taoiseach’s class is a third-season course, hence he expects the students to be properly trained in basic etiquette by the time he lectures them. Judging by how every other instructor runs their lessons, that likely isn’t what happens, though.

“Class, today we will discuss the limitations of regeneration. Now, you all know you cannot create life from nothing. You must have a substance that is alive and well. Whether that be a single cell, a seed, or a complex organism, it must be alive.”

My hand shoots into the air. I’m not typically one to speak out in a lecture. I typically struggle to absorb what’s already being presented and wouldn’t dare