Origins of Blood (RE)

Elliot’s POV

“I am but a mere mortal controlled by things I cannot see.”

––Elliot Starfall

The door slides open with that slow, theatrical groan that belongs in an old cowboy film—only here, the proportions are off. It’s as tall as me, even a little taller, scraping at the air with that sense of forced civility while everyone behind me breathes in the heat of this den. A gust rushes past us, and I feel the temperature of the big room shift, the warmth sucked out.

Inside, flames flicker inside a tall stone hearth. Not normal fire—blue, icy at the center, shading to cobalt at the edges where the wind hits it as we enter. I fix my gaze at it, the unnatural light washing over the walls, throwing harsh shadows across the floor. My skin prickles at the warmth it radiates despite its cold color. It’s refreshing, almost comforting, but only for a moment.

I take a step forward, trying to mimic a walk I remember from a time ago that feels like ages. Aston’s walk. Precise, steady. It’s a different time, different people, but I force myself to match his pace, match the slight roll of his shoulder, the measured arrogance he wore like a cloak. I try to become him, even as everything about me revolts at the thought.

Ahead, she waits. The woman with eyes cold as the flames, ice-blue and clear, unyielding. Her hair is blonde like mine, but lighter, smoother, better kept—an affectation of control she doesn’t bother to hide. She wears tight black trousers over a snow-white blouse cinched neatly at the waist. She’s in shape, lean and strong, every line of her body a calculated threat.

I keep walking. No one really watches me. That’s the worst part. Two or three glance over, vaguely interested, before going back to their drinks. The rest ignore me completely, as if I’m nothing more than a breeze disturbing their stale, smoky air.

Why am I even here? I ask myself, but the question vanishes as I stop in front of her.