The first thing I see is the glint of the blade.

A silvery coating, smooth and reflective; a mirror of ice, coated in forgotten crimson memories. Looming closer, flashing in the moonlight, the edge crisp and freshly adorned by its master. The fingers clutching its hilt are coated in grime and silt, clenched tightly and dampened with sweat, unrecognizable under the layers of their hardy travels.

My gaze is fixated on the dagger as it arcs across the sky in one swift movement, winking at me once more with the light of the stars, before turning against me and sliding down my arm, drawing thin, beaded droplets of my blood to add to the many stains already painted on its silver edge. As it digs into my forearm, I resist the urge to wince, and bite my tongue to prevent any cry of surprise. The only hint of pain is the sharp intake of breath I allow before resuming control over my reactions.

Because I cannot allow them to see my pain. I cannot allow them to find my weaknesses, to know that I am a failed attempt. A spoiled body. An impossibility. I cannot allow them to realize that my pain is as stark as it ever was, that the blood still draws nervosity in my mind, that the fear pounds away in my heart with a growing strength day by day. Never weakening, never fading, always intensifying; but never seen. My vulnerability is inexcusable after everything they have put me through. It should have been sought out and extracted long ago, in the earliest stages of the many tests I have completed; and yet it only thrives. I can’t weed it out like I can the many other emotions riddling my mind. I can only hide it from them, from myself. And I can only struggle to muffle its defiant words, try to keep them locked away from reality. If they ever found out, my fear would be pointless. History. If they do, then they will kill me. After all, the dead fear nothing.

The blade pulls away from my skin, stealing droplets of my blood as its own. The gash running down the length of my arm tingles angrily, my gaze locking on it insistently, trying to discern the paled silvers from the red snaking down my wrist; crimson turning to ashen gray. The wielder of the blade grins at me with cracked teeth, eyes an inky pool of darkness watching my every move. Recreating his sinister grin in false satisfaction, I plaster it on my features, and close my prying eyes, listening to the last droplets of my own crimson memories stain the leaves below. The moment they have been waiting for since my birth. The moment they all cherish. A moment I have always feared. Now, though, I find it renewing. Awakening. A sense of rebirth. Something new.

The man leans in closer to me, his breath hot on my cheeks and reeking of foreign smells, rotten and unwelcoming, hissing into my ear. “Samantha Hexus. Are you ready to join the Blood?”

Flattening my grin into a sly smile, I tilt my head in his direction, lifting my eyelids starkly, knowing that what once was hidden beneath will now be gone. That my history has ended, and that a new life begins. That I wasn’t the same as I was just a moment ago. My gaze locks with his sternly, holding that in my stare, knowing that this is only the beginning. The beginning of the end. I have waited too long for this. I have feared the blood for too many years. I have been ready the moment they first drew me in.

“Yes.”