A trail of blood he might be willing to leave, but perhaps he was not prepared to find: as Albedo strode through the darkness, there rose a faint hint of scorched wood (and beneath it, for those who might know, burnt flesh). Beneath his feet the carpet rustled quietly, and should he care to look there were first droplets, then thin smears, and finally a thick pathway of blood extending beneath his feet.

But perhaps the boy would be distracted. From the distance, the recesses of the room untouched by light, there came the patter of footsteps, the quick bare-footed run of a child.