blood

The history of Empire—there is only ever one, and only one who did not grow in the shadow cast by its death would claim not to know it—is fraught with danger. Even the most theoretical study of its contours risks stumbling upon an old taboo, a deadly truth wrapped in undying chains by ghoul-kings who feared the touch of sunlight upon their sins.

She wanders into the kitchen midway through your preparations, drawn by the warm scents of cooking meet and browning bread and your heartbeat's happy rhythm. You tug the blackout curtain closed as she does, walling out sunset's last beams before they can touch her grey skin.

"Hey!" you cheerfully greet her sleep-mussed hair and hollow eyes, "do you want some coffee? It'll be ready in a minute."

She grumbles at you and shakes her head; not a surprise, since things like her don't really need to eat, but you like to offer anyway.