The water in the dark stone basin turned a bright, clean pink before it dissolved into a muddy, swirling red.
Deep inside the heavy obsidian walls of the Blood Council Capital, thousands of miles away from the freezing northern mountains, Lucien stood completely alone in a cold, shadow filled washroom. He did not rush his movements. He washed his hands with a quiet, steady rhythm, watching the thick red fluid slide off his pale skin and disappear down the small iron drain.
When the water finally ran clear, he turned his right hand over. A fresh, deep cut ran cleanly across his palm, the edges of the wound raw and angry.
Lucien looked at the injury without a single flinch. The pain was nothing more than a dull, distant hum in the back of his mind.
