Inside the Volkov mansion's basement was an expensive medical room, used in the past to help treat wounded members away from the gaze of humanity. A light buzzed overhead, flickering behind a steel cage.
Its light spreading over polished metal, glinting tools arranged in surgical symmetry. It smelled of ammonia and alcohol swabs and sterilised death—too clean to be comforting.
Lunaria came to the basement shortly after meeting Nikolai and now lay motionless atop one of the two examination tables, her skin's pale hue more obvious against stainless steel, red hair spread like a mean unfurled flag.
Faint scars crisscrossed her arms, her chest, her throat.
The only motion came from her shallow breathing—slow, uneven, mechanical.
"Are you alright?" Nikolai asked, holding her hand as Amphitrite prepared the ritual circle, his wrists wrapped with something to help her drink his blood.
He removed his jacket and folded it neatly on a nearby chair.
