Viscount Ironthorn stood on the scorched earth of Needleleaf Valley, rain sliding down his armor and dripping into the soil.
His gaze was cold and resolute, as if he no longer felt any hesitation.
"Begin."
He said.
The Curse Master nodded, took out a pitch-black bone dagger from his robe, the blade etched with twisted runes, glimmering with a dark red light in the rain.
The other members scattered back, leaving an open space.
The Curse Master signaled for the Viscount to extend his wrist.
Viscount Ironthorn did not hesitate, unfastening his armguard, revealing his veined, muscular arm.
The Curse Master chanted an obscure incantation in a low voice, the dagger trembling slightly at his fingertips, as if it were a living thing eager for blood.
He swiftly cut the Viscount's wrist, and blood surged forth, not dripping down, but instead pulled by an invisible force, suspended in the air, forming a constantly spinning blood bead, drawing more of the Viscount's blood.
