Velra held his gaze for a long, unnerving moment, the weight of centuries flickering in her crimson eyes.
She had watched parasites rise and fall, dynasties of demons claw their way to power only to crumble into dust.
But this creature—this Faceless Imposter—was something altogether different.
A ripple of unease stirred in the pit of her stomach, an instinct older than reason.
"By the way," he said at last, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "How's it going on your end?"
Velra blinked. "…What do you mean?"
"Don't play dumb," he replied smoothly, a sly smile curling his lips. "I'm talking about the recovery of your power."
Her fingers twitched before she could stop them.
To a vampire, blood was more than nourishment.
It was life itself—mana, strength, and sovereignty condensed into a single, intoxicating essence.
Thanks to him—and to Amelia, who had risked much to bring back monster blood—they had managed to refill her depleted blood pouch.
