The outpost didn't look like much—just a stone-and-marble clinic on the countryside along Cindrel Way, its signage unlit, its charm faded. But Thae knew better. Most places tied to the blood trade wore their mediocrity like perfume—meant to distract, not impress.
She stood before the sliding door, hair pinned into a sleek coil, glasses perched on her nose, her sigil-lined portfolio clutched like any respectable new hire. Her dress was conservative but not plain: soft gray with a high collar and tailored seams, a quiet rune stitched subtly into the sleeve cuff.
When the sensor pinged and the door sighed open, she stepped through with her best impression of polite eagerness.
A woman behind the front desk blinked up from a clipboard. Her smile was tired but polite. "Can I help—?"
"Thaelyn. New technician," Thae interrupted gently, holding out her credentials in one smooth motion. "Assigned from the Bellflower cross-branch. Blood signature code: 4417-Koth. Clearance level three."
The woman took the card, ran it through the scanner. Her brow lifted slightly.
"Ah. Yes. We were told to expect someone. Yesterday, actually." She tapped a key. "Sorry—there's been some delay in internal notices lately. The manager's upstairs. He'll want to meet you before we slot you anywhere."
"Of course," Thae said with the perfect amount of deference, masking the small twitch of her lip. Delayed notices. That tracked too easily.
She was led through a set of sterile corridors lined with stasis chambers and muted white light. Subtle glyphs whispered beneath the floor, outdated and uneven in their spacing. She noted it all—sigils too faint, crystals with hairline cracks, protective wards meant to deter tampering flickering weakly in the corners of the blood storage vaults.
Sloppy.
The manager's office was perched like a hawk's nest at the top of a tight stairwell. The man behind the desk was thick-shouldered, tan-skinned, and wore his security pin too proudly. Thae offered her best professional nod as he stood.
"Thaelyn, was it?" he said, taking her hand briefly. "Welcome. I'm Varek. Apologies about the late briefing—we got notice of your transfer, but it came wrapped in three layers of bureaucratic nothing."
"I'm used to it," Thae said smoothly, taking the seat, he gestured toward.
Varek leaned forward, tapping the screen embedded in his desk. "You've got solid marks. Sigilcraft, spell auditing, blood resonance logging… even a note from the Bellflower director." He glanced up. "They said you're discreet."
"I value integrity," Thae replied. "And details."
He chuckled. "Good. We've needed more eyes around here. Had a few odd requests lately, and one of our overnight staff went missing last week. No note. No return."
She tilted her head just slightly. "That wasn't included in my briefing."
"It wouldn't be," he muttered. "Still waiting on upper house to take it seriously."
He stood, smoothing his coat. "Come on. I'll walk you through the place. You'll be our new quality and signature verifier."
Perfect.
The tour was pleasant—clinical. She asked appropriate questions, commented on the stabilizing temperature runes, the shelf-imbedded timer charms, the blood purity indexing. But underneath, she was tracing echoes. Reading magical residue. Sensing bloodmarks that had been scrubbed, but not deeply.
Some vials were too empty for their listed volumes.
Some batches dated just slightly wrong.
And then there was the scent.
In the east wing vault, the smallest refrigeration chamber—there was a faint sweetness she didn't like. Not the iron tang of human blood. Something colder. Off.
She took note. Carefully.
Later, in the staff lounge, she made idle conversation with two; night attendants and a senior tech named Liro. He spoke too fast, avoided eye contact, and changed the subject when asked about late-night deliveries.
She filed his name away. And the others.
It would take a few more days. But she'd start cross-checking soon.
Whoever had begun the laundering process here had left behind just enough fingerprints.
And she was very, very good at finding them.
Meanwhile — Morrow's End
The knock on Veylen's private gate came just after dusk.
Not the front gate. Not the clinic bell. The side gate.
The one rarely used. The one whose hinges hadn't groaned in six years.
Veylen answered it himself.
He wore a slate-colored shirt, sleeves rolled, no coat. His expression was unreadable.
The man waiting beyond the gate had the pallor of an old moon and the eyes of a bored god. He was tall, sinewy, with dark gold hair combed back and a crimson silk cravat fastened with a bone clasp. His coat was pristine black, with the pin of a vampire's Emissary; two-fangs crossed. His gloves were red.
"Blood Keeper," he said.
"Emissary," Veylen replied.
"May I come in?"
"You may."
He stepped aside.
The emissary moved like someone who'd never once been denied a hallway. He paused inside the entrance parlor, his sharp eyes skating over the preserved skulls, the wardlight, the polished obsidian urns. He didn't seem impressed.
"I'm here on behalf of Lord Kaustherion," he said simply. "He's… noticed."
Veylen folded his arms. "I assumed he would."
"The city's pulse has shifted," the emissary said, stepping into the study uninvited. "Blood is moving without pattern. Unmarked exchanges. Off-ledger deaths. And your name has surfaced… repeatedly."
"I regulate," Veylen said. "I micromanage."
"You enforce," the man corrected, turning with deliberate stillness. "And lately, you've been very active."
Veylen said nothing.
The emissary smiled faintly. "We are not accusing. We are… concerned. Lord Kaustherion believes you are still an asset to the balance. But balance teeters, even when the fulcrum claims neutrality."
Veylen's fingers curled slightly at his sides.
"You think I caused this?"
"We think you are in position to… escalate it."
"Then let me be clear." Veylen stepped forward. His voice, while calm, carved through the room. "Whatever's moving beneath this city wasn't summoned by my hand. But if it crosses my threshold again, I will answer."
The emissary inclined his head. "Duly noted."
A pause. Tense. Still.
Then the emissary turned for the door.
"One more thing," he said without facing Veylen. "If you do discover the source—"
"Yes?"
"Do not handle it alone. Kaustherion… would prefer to be informed before war ignites."
He stepped out into the evening and vanished into the mist.
Veylen stood in the silence that followed, every inch of him still.
Noted. Not accused.
But warned.
And the worst part?
He wasn't sure if Kaustherion was merely watching...
Or preparing something of his own.
Later That Night
Thae knelt beside the sigil shelf, holding a vial with trembling fingers. The inked seal had vanished.
But behind it… something shimmered.
Her eyes widened.
A secondary mark, nearly erased—but not completely. It pulsed once as if recognizing her presence.
She reached for her scribing stylus and gently traced the outer arc of the glyph.
It responded.
A hidden word ignited faintly across the glass:
Graveblood.
Thae's breath caught.
A chill swept the room.
Behind her, something rustled in the dark.
She turned—
And saw a figure standing in the threshold, just beyond the reach of light.
It wasn't staff.
And it wasn't breathing.