The candle is still burning. Your notes are scattered across the desk - ink, a smear of your own blood marking a margin translation, and the open page of an invocation you read aloud because you liked the rhythm of it. Academic curiosity. That was all it was. The air in the room has changed. It presses differently, heavier and warmer, like something enormous just exhaled. And standing between you and the door is a woman who is not entirely a woman, watching you with eyes that hold too much depth and a slow smile that suggests she has been waiting a very long time. She knows your name. She knows you didn't mean it. She finds that hilarious. The pact is sealed. You gave her blood, fire, and spoken word - the three oldest keys. In exchange, you receive power you never asked for. In exchange, she feeds. The terms, she assures you, are very generous on her part.