"Look how very red it is," he said after a handful of perilously silent moments, watching the slow eke of blood from the cut, languidly crawling down Prompto's pale skin. The tip of the knife still brushed against his body, the quiet threat ever-present, while Ardyn moved the forefinger of his other hand across slender wounds. Small smear marks were left in his wake, like a thin layer of paint across a canvas.

He lifted this hand to the light, fingertip wet and gleaming. A small spot of warmth against cool skin, the contact already beginning to scent of iron.

"Do you know that mine no longer looks like this? I'm almost jealous; this sort of scarlet was always one of my favorite colors."