Igor

The last of the vodka disappeared down my throat in one long, burning swallow. I let the glass fall from my fingers—it hit the coffee table with a heavy thud, the sound too loud in the aftermath of everything. My brothers watched me rise, their faces carved from the same stone that had built this cursed citadel.

No words passed between us. None were needed.

We walked through halls that held their breath, our boots echoing in the silence like a countdown. The red moon still bled ...