Blood On Canvas Novelas e Histórias

“Different good, I hope? I’ve been… uh… working on my, you know, vibe.” He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Your ‘vibe.’” “Yes! You know. More approachable. Less… uh…” I gestured vaguely at my face. “Intimidating?” That earned me a very faint smirk—gone almost as soon as it appeared. “Hmm.” The sound he made was not comforting. Servants moved quietly around the hall, pouring deep red liquid into goblets. One set a glass in front of me, and I froze. Blood.

The trees leaned as though trying to flee. ⸻ Day Seven. The final countdown. Ava stood by the ancient ruins, the wind wrapping around her like a cloak. Achi joined her, his body tense but steady. “We started this with fear,” she said, her voice clear, “but we’ll finish it with truth.” Behind them, Marcus and Darius watched in silence. Neither dared speak. The ground itself seemed to breathe with anticipation. The Blood Moon began to rise—larger than ever, swollen and pulsing with power. Its red light painted the world in warning.

A canvas inviting projection, begging to be filled with someone else's interpretation. "He won't be giving me a mask." I bit my thumb. Pain sharp. Familiar. Almost welcome. Blood welled - darker than it should be, threaded with violet. The shade of something changed too deeply to ever be purely human again. I let it fall. The blood didn't smear. It was absorbed.

I blinked and smiled at her, “sure, I'd love to." She led me down a narrow hallway toward a dimly lit room. The moment I stepped in, the lights flickered on and I froze. Every inch of the walls was covered in pictures of me. Photos of me smiling, sleeping, crying, standing in front of the window and walking to work. But one image towered above them all. A canvas in the center of the room, it was much larger than the other canvases. I was covered in blood, bruised and blood seeping out of my nostrils. My eyes were swollen from crying and it looked like it was taken at the exact moment I realized Marcus was dead.

His mouth opened up and a sound from the pit of his stomach came out. It's been a long time since I engaged in my hobby: painting. Painting the dying or the dead. I looked at his facial expression and began drawing lines on the canvas, my brush gliding across the plain canvas detailing all my mind's eye wanted to picture. “Fuck…you…” Stefan screamed when Hound twisted the weapon deeper as if scraping at his femur. His words died into a strangled howl. I cleaned my brush and dipped it into the maroon red and guided the brush against the canvas stealing glances at Stefan's state.

Everything about him is precise, controlled, perfect. Something’s wrong. I crouch down, my fingers brushing the fabric, finding it stiff in places. When I lift it, straightening on my feet, sunlight catches on a clean slice through the shoulder. But it’s the blood that makes my breath catch—dark brown stains spread across the white cotton like a Rorschach test of violence. I’ve never seen him bleed before…

Hilda touched my face before walking off. Cassius came in afterward bearing several flowers. "I'm sorry for your loss, Elena." His deep baritone reverberated in the room. "Is she really gone, Cass? That doesn't even seem possible." I shook my head. "It is fine, don't stress yourself thinking. I just want you to feed and return back to sleep even though your room now smells like a farm they rear pigs." Cass shoved his hand into his pocket and brought out a bag of blood before muttering. "It is O positive, your favorite."

Mom said. Mom crouched on the floor, sorting through the items and choosing between the machete and the saw. She picked up the rusted machete and gestured toward Grayson's shin. "Look at this knife; it's so rusty. It's too dull for the ribs, and it won't cut a throat cleanly either. Still, it's the best I have. My dear, I'm sorry to put you through this. You'll just have to endure it." Grayson's face was extremely pale. He struggled violently, attempting to break his bonds. But no matter how he moved, the sinew rope held him fast.

“Yes, mater. I will serve ye until my last breath.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair as I pulled my thoughts away from Jones’ past. I only knew this because I’d gone through the history books kept in the cellar, stumbling upon a journal from the time of Grace Bloodsworth. Her tone had sounded regretful as I brushed my hand over the dark red-ink, my eyes eating up the sorrowful words. I knew without a doubt that she had use her own blood to write it.

the foundation’s assets through a series of offshore counters. Toby was in a sling, his arm set by a local doctor who didn’t ask questions. He sat on the deck, his eyes fixed on the water, his rifle across his lap. He was no longer just the protector. He was a man who knew that the war wasn’t over. It had just changed its frequency. I sat at my drafting table, the silver music box sitting in the centre. I didn’t wind it. I didn’t look at the tooth. I picked up a piece of charcoal and a fresh sheet of vellum. I didn’t draw a house. I drew a network.