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Chapter 45: Blood Writ
The storm had moved on, but the city still smelled of rain—an acrid blend of wet asphalt, rust, and diesel fumes. The flicker of broken neon signs cast jagged shadows across the narrow backstreets, painting Dante’s face in stuttering light as he stood at the mouth of an alley that seemed to swallow sound. His coat dripped faintly, the waterline still clinging to his boots, but it wasn’t the cold that had his jaw tight.
It was the paper in his hand.
The Blood Writ.
Its ink was not ink at all, but a thin, shimmering crimson, faintly warm to the touch even through the gloves. Every sigil carved into the page seemed to pulse, each line drawn in looping, unbroken strokes that betrayed an expert hand—someone steeped in the old blood codes of the underworld. This w
