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The night air clung to them like a second skin as Dawn House's heavy front doors groaned shut behind the hunting party. The scent of blood —old and new, human and otherwise— trailed through the entrance hall like an invisible banner, marking their passage. The chandeliers above had been dimmed to their lowest setting, casting long amber shadows across the marble floors that reflected their movement like dark water.
Lily stood at the center of the group, her pale dress stained at the sleeves, the fabric darkened in places where crimson had seeped through. She did not look tired. She did not look uncertain. Her red eyes held a clarity that had been absent only days ago, when she had first entered these halls as a newly turned bride, trembling and unsure.
