The second vial was warmer than the first.
Not by much. But enough that Caelum noticed as soon as Merin handed it to him. The color looked the same — deep crimson, thick as syrup — but something about the texture clung to the glass differently. Like it wanted to be consumed.
"Same as last week," Merin said, her voice steady. "Drink it quickly."
Caelum nodded and uncorked the vial.
The smell hit harder this time. Still metallic, but richer — like a memory. A scent not just of blood, but of experience. Dust, wind, chalk. Candle smoke. Wand polish.
That's not just blood, Caelum thought. That's… magic.
He drank.
The taste was stronger. Not unpleasant — just overwhelming. His vision blurred. His fingers twitched. He gasped and nearly dropped the empty vial as it hit his stomach like hot coals.
And then—
There it is.
A whisper. Not in words, but in meaning. Shapes, movement, intent. He knew something now. Not how he knew it, but the structure was there. Like a language he didn't speak yet but had suddenly become fluent in.
Wand motion. Vocal components. Will.
A spell.
A simple one. Something to levitate a stone and carve a symbol into it at the same time — a dual-action charm used in rune crafting. He could see the motion in his mind, see the stone rising, spinning. His hand even twitched slightly as if to perform it.
He hadn't read this spell.
He had drunk it.
Blood carries memory, he realized. This blood… this elixir… it's made from people who knew things. From wizards.
No one had told him that.
They had said the blood was "synthetic." But now he wasn't so sure. Synthetic, maybe — but not sterile. Not inert. There was life in it. Or what remained of it.
He blinked. His pupils had dilated wide. He could hear the hum of the containment wards, feel the pressure of magic in the walls. He was charged — the way some magical creatures felt before a thunderstorm.
And then… the fire came.
Not literal flames. But the hunger.
A tingling warmth in his chest, rising upward — like a spark had been lit in the core of his ribs and was now crackling against his throat. He could feel it pressing against his skin, itching at the edge of his control.
Burn it.
Cleanse it.
Turn it to ash.
It wasn't vampiric hunger. He knew that instinct now — sharp, cold, blood-tied. This was different.
This was heat. Desire. Destruction.
He clenched his hands into fists and forced himself to breathe.
"Caelum?" Merin's voice broke through the haze. "You alright?"
He looked up. She had already moved on to the next child — she hadn't seen the flicker in his eyes. Hadn't felt the warmth rising from his palms.
"I'm fine," he lied. "It's just… a little stronger this time."
She nodded. "Adjustments in the formula. You'll adapt."
I don't think I want to.
He left the feeding room feeling hollowed out and burning.
That night...
He sat at his desk with a piece of chalk and a blank stone from the supply drawer.
He hadn't touched his wand yet. He wasn't even sure if they would give him one. But the shape of the spell still lingered in his muscles.
He traced the runes in the air with his finger, lips moving silently.
A pulse of energy crackled across his fingertip. Not enough to spark. But enough to answer.
I didn't learn that spell. I absorbed it.
And there would be more. Every vial. Every dose.
If blood held memory… he could build a library.
And if something inside him wanted to burn, maybe it wasn't about giving in. Maybe it was about mastering the fire before it mastered him.
Not for destruction.
But for truth.
And for survival.