The docks of Camp Vamps were a liminal space, caught between the suffocating pulse of the city and the endless expanse of the dark, roiling sea. Sioux felt the shift in atmosphere as they approached, the air growing colder and heavier, tinged with salt and decay. The sound of lapping waves mingled with the groan of rusting ships, creating a haunting symphony that set their nerves on edge. 

The docks were a forgotten corner of the city, its edges frayed and crumbling. Shipping containers stood stacked like a giant’s game of dice, their faded paint and graffiti telling stories of neglect and rebellion. The streetlights were few and far between, their flickering bulbs barely cutting through the gloom. 

Sioux kept their hood low, their steps measured as they moved deeper into the maze of containers and dilapidated warehouses. Sable’s words rang in their ears: “Grayson will take you to the archivist… if he doesn’t try to kill you first.” 

Their fingers brushed the grips of Bonnie and Clyde, the familiar weight a comfort against the growing tension. They didn’t trust anyone here, least of all someone who had once worked for the Masquerade. But if this Grayson had the answers they needed, it was a risk they had to take. 

The meeting spot was a warehouse on the far end of the docks, its roof caved in and its windows shattered. Sioux could feel eyes on them as they approached, shadows shifting in the corners of their vision. This wasn’t just a place where secrets were traded; it was a hunting ground. 

Inside the warehouse, the air was damp and stale, thick with the smell of mildew and rust. Dim light filtered through the broken roof, casting jagged patterns on the floor. Sioux’s boots echoed on the concrete as they stepped inside, their senses on high alert. 

A figure emerged from the shadows near the far wall, tall and broad-shouldered, with a face that looked like it had seen too many fights and won too few. Grayson. He wore a long coat, its edges frayed and stained, and his eyes glinted with the sharp, predatory gaze of someone who lived on the edge of survival. 

“Sioux, I presume,” he said, his voice a low growl that carried across the space. 

Sioux stopped a safe distance away, their posture tense. “You must be Grayson. Sable said you could take me to the archivist.” 

Grayson smirked, crossing his arms. “Sable’s still sending people to their deaths, I see. And here I thought she’d learned her lesson.” 

“I’m not here to die,” Sioux said, their voice cold. “I’m here to find answers. The sigil. The Elders. What the Masquerade is planning.” 

At the mention of the sigil, Grayson’s smirk vanished. His expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as he took a step closer. 

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he said. “The sigil isn’t just some ancient symbol. It’s alive. It’s a doorway. And if the Masquerade is trying to open it…” He trailed off, shaking his head. 

“That’s why I need the archivist,” Sioux pressed. “Sable said he knows how to stop it.” 

Grayson let out a bitter laugh. “Stop it? Kid, the archivist isn’t interested in stopping anything. He’s obsessed with the sigil. Spent decades studying it, trying to understand its power. If you think he’s going to help you destroy it, you’re more naïve than I thought.” 

Sioux’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll make him help me.” 

Grayson studied them for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighed and nodded toward the far end of the warehouse. “There’s a boat waiting. The archivist lives on an island, off the coast. If you’re serious about this, I’ll take you to him. But you’d better be ready for what you’re about to find.” 

Without waiting for a response, Grayson turned and began walking toward a small, rusting motorboat tied to the dock outside the warehouse. Sioux followed, their mind racing with Sable’s warnings and Grayson’s cryptic words. 

The boat ride was silent and tense, the only sounds the chugging of the motor and the crashing of waves against the hull. The city faded into the distance, swallowed by the darkness, until only the vast, open sea remained. The island loomed ahead, a jagged silhouette against the night sky. 

As they drew closer, Sioux could make out the shape of a crumbling stone mansion perched on the island’s highest point. Its windows glowed faintly with an eerie green light, like some eldritch beacon calling them in. 

Grayson cut the motor as they reached the dock, tying the boat to a post before turning to Sioux. “This is as far as I go. The archivist doesn’t take kindly to uninvited guests, and I’m not interested in getting on his bad side.” 

Sioux nodded, stepping off the boat and onto the creaking wooden dock. The air here was colder, heavier, as if the island itself were alive and watching. 

“Good luck,” Grayson said, his tone grim. “You’re going to need it.” 

Sioux didn’t respond. They turned and began the climb up the narrow, winding path that led to the mansion, their heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. 

The front door of the mansion was unlocked, creaking open with a low groan as Sioux pushed it. The interior was just as foreboding as the exterior—dark, musty, and filled with shelves upon shelves of books and artifacts. Strange symbols were carved into the walls, their shapes eerily similar to the ones in Sable’s tome. 

“Welcome,” a voice said, deep and resonant, echoing through the hall. 

Sioux turned to see a man standing at the top of a grand staircase, his figure shrouded in shadows. His eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, and a faint smile played on his lips. 

“I’ve been expecting you,” the man said, descending the stairs slowly. “You’ve come for answers, haven’t you?” 

Sioux squared their shoulders, meeting his gaze. “You’re the archivist.” 

The man nodded. “And you’re the blood omen.”