Moonbound
Low ceiling, floor sloped toward a dark pool, not water and not oil—black until it tilted red, then black again, as if the color itself had learned wariness.
Evelyn’s body, unconsulted, named it: blood.
It breathed. The surface thickened and loosened in a pulse that was not human, a rhythm that stuttered every so often like a heart relearning itself.
“Stand,” Maera murmured when Evelyn’s knees almost thought of the floor. “It takes kneeling for consent.”
“What is it?” Evelyn asked, though the question was an old coin already worn thin by answers.