The abandoned warehouse where Magistrate Corwin had led us reeked of decay and old blood, the scent so thick it seemed to coat the back of my throat. Crimson symbols covered every surface—walls, floor, even the rusted ceiling beams—their meanings lost to anyone outside the Red Chalice Cult's inner circle. The artwork was disturbingly beautiful, depicting scenes of mortals kneeling before winged figures with too many eyes. Candles flickered from iron sconces that looked suspiciously like they'd been crafted from human bones, casting dancing shadows that seemed to writhe with life of their own.
"Please, sit," Corwin gestured to expensive chairs that looked distinctly out of place in the decrepit surroundings. The furniture was clearly high-end—sleek black leather with silver accents, the kind you'd find in a luxury corporate office. His pale eyes never left my face, studying every micro-expression with the intensity of a predator evaluating prey.
