His hand, pale and steady, returned to his cup. He took a slow sip of the crimson drink, savoring the warmth it brought his cold blood while staring past the rising mist outside the high windows of the library. He had gifted them immortality, strength, and a chance to forge their own path.
But perhaps… he had also cursed them.
And himself.
"What do you want?" Roth asked, his voice low and cold.
Ethan stood still, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across his crystallized limbs. The soft, rhythmic ting of his blood-crystal feet had gone silent now, replaced by a tension that clung to the air like mist. His expression remained unreadable, sculpted from discipline and detachment.
"I am here about our previous conversation," he said, tone neutral—deliberate.
"That being?" Roth asked again, colder this time, his eyes narrowing slightly, glowing faintly in the dim library.
