They say blood remembers the moment it is spilled.
Cerulean Hemorrhage was born of a ritual meant to still a war, where arcanists bled themselves into frost-white basins and bound their sacrifice with ocean-deep magic. The spell failed. The blood did not stop flowing, it changed.
Veins of crimson froze mid-pulse, suspended in the pale, while a cold cerulean shimmer crept through the wound like a living tide. Those who survived claimed the magic did not rage or burn, it seeped, slow and inevitable, turning strength into certainty.
These relics carry that memory. Each roll echoes a controlled hemorrhage, power released not in fury, but precision. The wound is clean. The outcome is not.
They say blood remembers the moment it is spilled.
Cerulean Hemorrhage was born of a ritual meant to still a war, where arcanists bled themselves into frost-white basins and bound their sacrifice with ocean-deep magic. The spell failed. The blood did not stop flowing, it changed.
Veins of crimson froze mid-pulse, suspended in the pale, while a cold cerulean shimmer crept through the wound like a living tide. Those who survived claimed the magic did not rage or burn, it seeped, slow and inevitable, turning strength into certainty.
These relics carry that memory. Each roll echoes a controlled hemorrhage, power released not in fury, but precision. The wound is clean. The outcome is not.
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