Moral Conflict
Blood‑Ink Pact
reading time: 9 minutes
The vaulted library breathes around me.
Its arches—blackened by centuries of candle soot—rise like the ribs of some slumbering titan, and every wall is inked with crimson sigils that pulse faintly, as if stirred by the cadence of my heartbeat. Dust drifts in the air like fallen ashes. The scent of old vellum clings to the back of my throat, chalk‑dry and metallic.
Third hour before moonrise. The Pact Hall is awake.