Beneath the Leeds Minster, close to the River Aire, the air smelled of rust and candle soot. Dozens of flames trembled across the nave, each one fed by a thin thread of crimson oil. Radha Sat cross-legged before the altar, eyes closed, palms upturned.

In the bowl before her, blood steamed gently in the cold. It was her own; an offering, a mirror. She whispered the ancient verses; words that had once been prayers and were now passwords to eternity.

The surface quivered. A ripple spread outward, slow and deliberate.

Radha’s eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide. The ripple came again, this time carrying a faint warmth.

Human warmth… impossible… blasphemous!

Somewhere, someone had mixed mortal life with immortal blood.

She touched her chest, where her heart may have beat many centuries ago.

“Sacred be the Blood,” she hissed, “cursed be the ones who profane it.”

Candles flickered wildly, their flames bending toward her.

She closed her eyes once more, and for an instant saw it; an image behind her eyelids, a man with dark eyes and a steel band at his wrist, standing in a river that glowed red beneath the moon.

“Someone has mixed the sacred with the unconsecrated,” she whispered. “The First Law is broken: the Blood shall not be shared with those who draw breath.”

Above the Minister, the wind shifted.

“For the Blood is the First Fire and the Last River. It burns, it flows, it remembers. Those who drink without reverence are consumed, but those who listen become the voice of eternity.” She finished chanting, eyes still welded shut.

In the stillness, even the candles trembled. Far above, in the city of steel and light, the Sweep whispered through its hidden veins.

She felt it pass through her bones like static; a living machine holding its breath

“You escape tonight, bronze-eyed mortal. Tomorrow you will not be so lucky.”