There was no warning before I died.
A sharp flash of pain, a weakness as the blood left my body, then I was tired, and I slept. I can’t say how long I rested, nor could I have guessed where I was. I remember the taste of metal and the fire in my throat and gut as I was fed. When I woke, I wondered if this was heaven, or perhaps hell. Maybe it was both, or neither, or something in between. Yet I woke, and I woke hungry, and where most newborns mewl for milk, I craved only blood.
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alt="Heartwood by R.J. Cannon"
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height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Denied by J.B. Corso"
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>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Cold Recognition by Andreas Flögel"
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>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Winter Feast by Pauline Yates"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
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height="630"
>
