Of Ink and Blood — Chapter One: The Binding
The bell above the bookstore door gave a reluctant chime as you stepped inside, brushing rain from your coat. Elric & Sons Rare Books was a forgotten corner of the city—tucked between a shuttered theater and a pawn shop that reeked of rust and regret. The air inside smelled of dust, old paper, and something sweeter, almost metallic.
You weren’t looking for anything in particular—just escape. Your eyes wandered along warped shelves and leaning towers of books until a glimmer of red caught your eye.
There it was.
The tome sat alone on a locked display table, its cracked leather binding laced with dark, inky veins that seemed to shift beneath your gaze. There was no title, only an embossed symbol that pulsed faintly when you touched it: a circle of interwoven thorns encasing a slit eye.
The old man behind the counter didn’t speak as you brought it forward. He only looked at you for a long moment before saying, “You read it… it reads you back.”
You should’ve walked away.
But that night, under lamplight and storm, you opened it.
The language inside was not one you knew, but somehow, you understood. Each symbol writhed slightly on the page. Illustrations of twisted figures clawing at invisible walls. Maps of places that shouldn’t exist. Instructions in bleeding ink.
And when you whispered the first phrase aloud—just to hear the sound—something in your apartment shifted. The shadows lengthened. The air grew colder. And from the corner of your eye… something moved.
You closed the book.
But it didn’t matter.
The first mark had already been made—on the page, and on you.
