Page 121 of The Sun He Buried

My hand stops on her back. “She has blood.”

“Skorvær blood.”

Ketill crouches beyond the reach of her tail. “Meat fills her stomach. It can’t sustain her. Sanguir feed through the horns.”

I look at the two white points beneath my hand.

“From a living person?”

“Freshly drawn is enough,” Ketill says.

Snowpetal crunches.

“She’s not biting anyone.”

“Agreed,” Eirik says.

I stand. “And nobody is being told they have to give it to her.”

His pale-green eye hardens. “No one in Myrkviðr gives blood by order.”

“They need to know what it’s for.”

“They will.”

“And they can change their mind.”

“Before or during the draw.”

He turns to Ketill. “Ask the infirmary for volunteers. The healer collects it there and brings it sealed. No donor comes near the Sanguir.”

Ketill nods.

Asta folds her arms. “I want to see where it’s collected and stored.”

“Of course you do,” he says.

“Is that a problem?”

“Only for the healer.”

She goes with him.

By the next morning, Snowpetal has a shallow stone bowl, two stoppered jars, and a healer who explains the entire process before opening either one.

The blood came from volunteers. They were told it would feed a Sanguir. They could withdraw at any point. Their names stay with the infirmary.

I ask twice.

The healer answers twice.

Then she pours.

Snowpetal lowers her horns into the bowl. The red gathers against the white surface and thins. Her purr grows loud enough to shake the bowl against the floor.

When it’s empty, she sleeps for six hours.

I send my thanks to the donors without asking who they are.