Her pulse flutters beneath your lips like a trapped bird. You hesitate for only a breath—then strike. Your fangs pierce her throat with surgical precision, and the first rush of blood floods your mouth like liquid fire. She stiffens, a choked gasp escaping her, but your arm snakes around her waist, holding her close as the warmth spreads through you. Her knees buckle, but you don’t let her fall.

The taste is exquisite—ink and parchment, the faint metallic tang of late-night study, and beneath it all, the intoxicating richness of youth. Her fingers clutch at your sleeves, then slacken as the life drains from her. You drink deeply, the world narrowing to the rhythm of her slowing heartbeat, the way her breath hitches between swallows. When at last you pull away, her body is limp in your arms, her eyes half-lidded and glassy. You lick your lips, savoring the final drops.

A shadow shifts in the alleyway. You whirl, your senses sharpening—only to find a ragged street urchin staring at you, his mouth agape. The boy can’t be more than ten, his face smudged with dirt, his clothes hanging loose on his bony frame. He’s frozen, one hand still outstretched toward the dropped coins that scattered when the scholar fell. The scent of his terror is sharp, acidic. But beneath it, his blood sings with something rare—a lineage you recognize. This boy is marked, though he doesn’t know it yet.