The blood iswrong.
Not spoiled, not contaminated, just... wrong in ways I can't immediately identify. Flat where it should be vibrant, stale where it should be vital, carrying none of the essence that makes vampire feeding satisfying. It's sustenance without soul,nutrition without pleasure, the equivalent of eating cardboard when your body craves a feast.
I glare at the pack in my hands with disgust that borders on personal offense.
This is what they expect us to survive on?
Cold, lifeless, processed blood that tastes like disappointment distilled into liquid form?
My stomach rumbles again, undeterred by my palette's protests.
Hungry.
Still so hungry.
And not just for blood.
The realization surfaces with clarity that cuts through the disgust.
I needfood.
Real food. Substantial food. The kind of meal that fills not just vampire hunger but the more mundane appetites that come from being partially human, partially fae, partially whatever complicated mixture of inheritances defines my hybrid existence.
Food,I think firmly, setting aside the offensive blood pack with the particular disdain it deserves.
I need to find actual sustenance before hunger transforms into something worse.
Hangry.
The word surfaces with self-aware amusement.
I get hangry.
Genuinely, legitimately hangry in ways that have caused problems before—shortened temper, decreased patience, tendency to snap at people who don't deserve it. Not ideal characteristics for someone navigating complicated bond mate dynamics and mysterious seventh presences and whatever fresh chaos Year Four has in store.
Better find food before I say something I'll regret.
I slip out of the room with the particular stealth of someone trying not to wake sleeping Duskwalkers, closing the door behind me with care that makes no sound. The corridor beyond stretches in both directions—dark walls that seem to drink the ambient light, floor that continues the smooth material from the recovery room, ceiling that disappears into shadows too deep to penetrate.
Where am I?
Where are the others?
And where, exactly, can a starving hybrid find a decent meal in this place?
The questions multiply as I walk, bare feet silent against the cool floor. The energy in the corridor is... strange. Not threatening, exactly, but not comforting either.Lulled—that's the word that surfaces. The magical signatures that should help me map my surroundings, identify allies and enemies, recognize the nature of the space containing me... they're all muted. Dampened. Difficult to read in ways that make navigation frustrating.
If Cassius fell asleep here, it's probably safe.
The logic is sound enough.
The Duskwalker doesn't rest in dangerous environments—his shadows would never allow it, would wake him at the first hint of threat, would transform peaceful slumber into violent response faster than conscious thought could manage.
Unless he was too exhausted to maintain that vigilance.
Unless whatever happened while I was unconscious pushed him past limits even his shadow nature couldn't sustain.
Either way, I've committed to this exploration. Standing in corridors won't answer questions or fill stomachs.
