Swirling with an effervescent crimson, it lay, an echo of a thousand moons before they were pressed and condensed into fiction. The mist curdling the grey pages coiled beyond the pedestal and beyond the hems of guardian robes. It bit at them, as if the only task of such a blood-fled hue remained to tear at companions and friends.
Not that it needed such ghostly sentinels.
“Open me,” the book cried in dulcet, hissing tones.
And so it was done.