“This was difficult to come by…”
A mottled grey hand snatched the little bottle out of the servant’s hand.
“Leave,” its owner hissed.
The servant left. And she began the rite.
On her table, swaddled in layers of rune-stitched satin, there was a jar – stained with the flaking sheen of years of use, except for its crystalline lid. The pommel atop the lid was in the jagged shape of a wreath of thorns, capped by a yet-to-bloom bulb as sharp as raw crystal. She took the vial, swirling with red, and unstopped its simple cork seal.
The blood flowed. Quickly. It coiled through the glass bud and the thorny wreath until it began to drip into jar beneath. When the contents had completely travelled through the device, she pried off the crystal covering with a wet suck. On the underside of the lid, a mirror sheen began to take form amongst the droplets of remaining red.
“Show me…” she whispered. “Show me everything.”