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    Summary

    "Raven sent me."

    Dragan’s expression didn't change, he'd gotten good at that over the years, keeping his face still when his insides felt like a churning mess, but Morte saw right through it anyways. They saw everything, or they pretended to, and somehow the performance of it was as effective as the real thing. "What for?"

    "She needs your blood." Morte's voice was casual, almost bored, the way you’d talk about the weather. "Some experiment she's running. Something about the ritual components. She didn't explain it to me, and I didn't ask." They gave a lazy roll of the shoulders. "You know how she gets."

    Dragan isn't really gifted at making decisions for himself.

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