The blood continued to drip—thicker now, faster. The rivulets on the walls bled like open veins, winding down into the floor's grooves, which Kain hadn't noticed were carved into the shape of a vast sigil beneath their feet.
The pulsing heart on the altar throbbed faster.
At the same time, the 'blood'—if the mysterious liquid dripping from the ceiling even was that—had an even more prominent effect on the paintings.
The first painting to respond rippled.
A clawed hand pressed against the canvas from inside, stretching the material like a membrane. The dragon-human hybrid's face contorted—first in ecstasy, then agony—as it fought to free itself.
Kain's dagger twitched in his hand.
A subtle pulse.
Then another.
Like it was reacting.
He looked at Soreia, who had already drawn closer to the altar. Her eyes remained locked on the heart, but her stance shifted, more guarded now.
Drip
