The offer of blood is never made lightly. Your fingers curl into your palm, nails sharpening into claws as you press them against your own wrist. A slow drag, and the dark ichor wells to the surface, beading like rubies against your pallid skin. You hold your wrist over the altar, letting the first drop fall. It strikes the marble with a sound like a distant heartbeat, and the runes blaze brighter, hungrily drinking in the offering.

The crypt shudders. The shadows writhe, elongating into gaunt figures that circle the altar, their hollow eyes fixed upon you. The air hums with power, thick enough to choke on. Your blood drips steadily now, each drop a whispered secret, a vow. The voice from before returns, stronger, clearer. 'Clever prince,' it croons, a chorus of the dead weaving through the words. 'You understand the old ways. Blood calls to blood.'

The visions come sharper this time—flashes of your ancestors in their prime, clad in battle-worn armor, their mouths stained with the vintage of war. You see your father among them, his crown of black iron gleaming as he raises a chalice to his lips. The memory is so vivid you can almost taste the copper on your tongue. Then, just as suddenly, the images fracture. A new presence presses against your mind, colder than the rest. A warning. 'They are coming for you,' it hisses. 'The Blood Court has already chosen its blade.'

The connection snaps. You stagger back, your wrist sealing shut as the crypt falls silent once more. The runes dim, but their afterglow lingers, painting the tombs in hues of crimson. The message is clear: trust no one, not even your own council. The dead have spoken.