The blood was still warm.
Chiron knelt beside the dying Elf and dipped two fingers into the crimson pool staining the ground. The moment his cursed blood touched the Elf's lifeblood, the air rippled with strange, thick tension. His hand pulsed—veins bulging briefly with black energy—and then he raised it to the sky.
"Blood Shadow: Reflection of the Fallen."
From the blood that pooled on the floor, a figure rose—not formed of mist or magic, but real, breathing flesh.
An exact replica of the Elf stood before Chiron, eyes lowered, body bare but quickly forming into the familiar worn garments of the original. He was perfect. From the slight arch of his brow to the elegant taper of his elven ears, and even the faded scar under his chin. A clone born of cursed blood.
The clone took one look at Chiron and dropped to one knee.
"Master," he said, with deep reverence.
