Blaise took a deep breath, his exhales and inhales short and shallow.

He was numb to it all.

He leaned down, his fingers curling around the steel blade. He examined the knife, and his mind became set.

Blaise shoved the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, and he slid his finger across the knife, a small rivulet of blood trailing down his pale skin.

He fingered the small trail of blood, the small cut closing up, not allowing any more blood to escape.

He calmed himself down before gently dragging the knife down his thumb. The knife was sharp enough to draw blood, leaving only a sting of pain in its wake.

A strange smell wafted through the air, entering his nostrils and filling him with nausea; the smell of rust. He never did like that smell.

A stream of ruby-red spilled down his thumb., Blaise tilted his hand, allowing the blood to spill. Blaise watched, almost as if mesmerised as the precious liquid that allowed him to live flowed into the vial.

Blaise dug the tip of the blade further into his flesh when the stream of blood seemed to falter.

The vial was filled and Blaise stopped, allowing the dagger to slip from his hand and clatter onto his chair.