Ink-Bound Covenant

By Ethan Ross

Ink‑Bound Covenant

When visionary artist Eli Navarro mixes his own blood with ink, he unleashes a seductive, memetic force known as the Siren—a song that can turn imagination into a contagious virus. As the Siren's crimson threads begin to corrupt the city's art, technology, and even the very data that powers its networks, Eli is forced to become the unlikely guardian of a fragile peace.

Teaming up with a secretive order of scholars, a brilliant engineer, a cultural‑heritage activist, and a visionary blockchain founder, Eli helps forge the Ink‑Bound Covenant—a living lattice of silver‑infused art, quantum‑secure code, and a violet‑glowing field that can neutralize the Siren's echo. Their alliance expands beyond Earth, culminating in a joint outpost at the Whispering Nexus—a stable Lagrange point where humanity and an alien civilization exchange creations, songs, and safeguards.

Ink‑Bound Covenant is a sweeping tale of art versus apocalypse, where every brushstroke, line of code, and star‑bound transmission must be wielded with responsibility. It asks: can imagination be both a weapon and a shield, and what price must we pay to keep the darkness at bay?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ethan Ross
• Release date: Dec 29, 2025
• ISBN: 9798233958786

Ethan Ross

Ethan Ross is a versatile and prolific author who refuses to be confined to a single genre. While he is acclaimed for his bone-chilling holiday horror, such as the terrifying Santa's Slay List and the short story collections like The December Dark, he demonstrates mastery across the literary spectrum. In addition to crafting relentless tales of winter dread and forgotten folklore, Ross also writes romance that explores the complexities of human connection, high-stakes thrillers that keep readers on the edge of their seats, and many other genres, proving his capacity to engage audiences with a wide array of narrative styles and emotional depths. His diverse body of work showcases a broad storytelling range that promises something for every type of reader.

Book preview

Prologue

Rain hammered the tin roof of the loft with a relentless, metallic staccato, each strike reverberating through the exposed beams like a funeral drum. Outside, the city’s neon veins pulsed—scarlet, violet, electric blue—against a sky that had forgotten how to be clear. Inside, the only illumination came from a single desk lamp, its filament humming softly as it fought the gloom, casting a thin cone of amber over a cluttered workbench.

Eli Navarro sat hunched over a battered drafting table, the surface scarred by years of discarded sketches, coffee rings, and the occasional splatter of ink that had bled through the cheap paper. The deadline for Nightshade Chronicles loomed like a dark cloud on his laptop screen: Final art due tomorrow, noon. No extensions. The cursor blinked, impatient, as if daring him to fail.

His fingers hovered over a bottle of cheap India ink, the cap loosened from overuse. The ink had dried in places, forming crusty ridges that resisted the brush. Eli sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose until a faint line appeared. He glanced at the half-finished panel before him—a hulking, horned demon looming over a crumbling skyline, its eyes two empty ovals that begged for life. The rest of the composition was a tangle of shadows, a city caught in perpetual twilight, a promise of terror that felt too familiar to be original.

He was a storyteller, a craftsman of fear, but lately the well of inspiration had run dry. The market demanded fresh horror, faster, cheaper. The commissions piled up, the rent reminders grew louder, and his bank account stared back at him with a blinking red zero. In the corner of the loft, a small refrigerator hummed, its interior lit by a weak LED that flickered whenever the power wavered. Inside, a single glass vial rested on a shelf of expired medication—a relic from a routine blood-test he’d taken weeks ago. The vial contained a solitary drop of his own blood, bright crimson against the sterile plastic.

Eli’s eyes lingered on it. The thought was absurd, almost comical—a starving artist resorting to self-inflicted vampirism for the sake of a deadline. Yet the desperation that had driven him to accept a publisher’s advance for a series he didn’t feel connected to now whispered a darker possibility. He lifted the vial, the thin glass cool against his palm, and unscrewed the cap with a hesitant twist. A single bead of blood fell onto the tip of his brush, staining the bristles a vivid scarlet that seemed to glow in the lamplight.

He took a breath, the scent of rain mixing with the metallic tang of his own blood. The room seemed to hold its breath with him. The brush trembled as he pressed it to the paper, tracing a thin, deliberate line along the demon’s jaw. The ink sang—a soft, wet whisper—as it merged with the blood, turning a shade darker than any black he’d ever mixed. The line pulsed faintly, as if a heartbeat echoed beneath the surface.

Eli forced himself to keep drawing, his hand moving on autopilot. He added a claw, a ridge of spines, a flicker of flame in the demon’s eye. With each stroke, the scarlet ink seemed to thicken, to gather weight, to resist the paper’s fibers. The demon’s form sharpened, the horns curling tighter, the muscles coiling with a latent tension that made the page feel alive.

A sudden gust of wind slipped through the cracked window, rattling the loose shutters and sending a shiver down Eli’s spine. The rain intensified, beating the roof in a frantic rhythm that matched the thudding in his chest. The demon’s eyes—once empty ovals—now glowed with an amber fire, a flicker of something that was not merely pigment.

Then, impossibly, the ink-bound creature lifted its head. The paper trembled under the weight of its own creation. A low, guttural growl emanated from the page, vibrating through the wood of the desk and into Eli’s bones. The demon’s clawed hand brushed the edge of the paper, and a thin ribbon of ink slipped from the surface, dripping onto the floorboards like fresh blood.

Eli froze, his brush suspended mid-air. His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, each exhale fogging the lamp’s glass. The demon stepped forward, the paper bending under its weight as if it were a membrane between worlds. Its foot—an amalgam of ink and shadow—made contact with the floor, and the impact sent a ripple of darkness across the room. The loft seemed to contract, the walls narrowing, the ceiling lowering, as if the very architecture were being rewritten by the creature’s presence.

A sudden, sharp crack split the air—the sound of a glass bottle shattering on the floor. The vial of blood lay in pieces, its contents seeping into the cracks of the wooden floor, merging with the ink that the demon had spilled. The creature paused, as if sensing the mingling of its own essence with the source of its existence.

For a heartbeat, the room was silent except for the rain’s relentless percussion. Then the demon raised its head, eyes now fully alight with a feral intelligence. It spoke—not with words, but with a cascade of images that flooded Eli’s mind: a child’s first drawing, a lover’s smile, the crushing weight of unpaid bills, the endless night of sleepless creativity. The visions twisted together, forming a tapestry of fear, longing, and desperation.

Eli’s hand trembled, not from terror alone but from a dawning comprehension. He had not merely drawn a monster; he had summoned it, using his own blood as a conduit. The ink was no longer a medium—it was a bridge, a living artery that carried his innermost anxieties into the world.

The demon lunged, its form rippling like liquid night, and Eli felt a cold, viscous tendril wrap around his wrist. The touch was both painful and oddly familiar, as if the ink recognized the vein it had been born from. He tried to pull away, but the creature’s grip tightened, pulling him toward the paper. The lamp flickered, casting the room into a strobe of shadows and crimson light.

In that instant, a faint chime rang from the hallway—a soft, metallic tinkle that seemed out of place amid the storm. The sound was the same as the one that accompanied the arrival of a package, the sort of discreet notification that a courier would leave at a doorstep. Eli’s eyes darted to the narrow corridor, where a thin sliver of light leaked from the stairwell.

The demon released him with a hiss, retreating back onto the page as quickly as it had emerged. The ink on the floor recoiled, forming a perfect circle around the shattered vial, the blood pooling in the center like a dark sun. Eli collapsed onto his chair, gasping, his heart hammering in his throat. The lamp steadied, bathing the room in a steady amber glow once more.

He stared at the demon, now frozen in a pose of snarling anticipation, its ink-black form poised as if waiting for a command. The paper beneath it was warped, the fibers stretched thin, as if the very act of summoning had strained its limits. The rain continued its assault on the roof, a relentless reminder that the world outside moved on, indifferent to the horror that had just been birthed within these four walls.

Eli’s mind raced. He could discard the page, burn it, hide it—anything to erase the creature he had conjured. Yet a part of him, the part that lived for the thrill of the macabre, felt a perverse excitement. He had discovered a power that could turn imagination into reality, a power that demanded a price he had yet to understand.

A soft knock sounded at the door, muffled by the storm. The knocking was tentative, almost hesitant, as if whoever stood beyond the threshold sensed the danger within. Eli rose slowly, his legs shaky, his hand still tingling where the ink’s tendril had brushed his skin. He walked to the door, each step echoing in the empty loft, and peered through the peephole.

Outside stood a man in a dark coat, his face obscured by the brim of a soaked hat. In his gloved hand, he held a small, leather-bound notebook, its cover stamped with a crimson sigil that seemed to pulse faintly in the lamplight.

Eli opened the door a crack, the rain splashing onto the threshold.

Mr. Navarro? the stranger said, his voice low and measured, carrying a faint accent that hinted at a foreign tongue. "My name is Victor. I represent a... group interested in your recent... work."

Eli swallowed, feeling the blood-ink still warm on his wrist. He glanced back at the demon, its ink-black eyes fixed upon him, as if waiting for his decision.

Come in, he managed, his voice hoarse. We have a lot to discuss.

The door swung open, and Victor stepped inside, the rain following him like a veil. As he entered, the lamp flickered once more, casting a fleeting shadow that stretched across the floor and merged with the dark circle of blood.

Eli felt the weight of the vial’s broken pieces at his feet, the scent of iron rising anew. The demon, still trapped on the page, seemed to pulse in rhythm with the storm, a silent promise that the line between creation and creator had been irrevocably crossed.

And somewhere, deep within the city’s underbelly, a faint whisper traveled through damp alleys and cracked walls: the Crimson Circle has awakened.

The ink was only the beginning.

Chapter One – Red Ink, Red Eyes

The rain had not let up. By morning it had become a relentless curtain of water, each sheet striking the city’s steel skeleton with the same indifferent precision as a metronome. The loft’s single window was a thin slit of glass, its panes fogged from the humidity that seeped in through the cracked seal. Droplets raced each other down the pane, leaving streaks that blurred the neon glow of the street below into smeared ribbons of magenta and cobalt.

Eli sat at his desk, the lamp’s amber pool now a small island of warmth in a sea of damp chill. The demon on the page—still inked in that fresh, scarlet hue—stared back at him with hollow, amber pupils that seemed to flicker whenever a stray gust of wind rattled the shutters. He had left the brush in the cup, the bristles still stained with the blood-ink mixture, a dark stain that would not wash away.

He ran a thumb over the dried line, feeling the slight tackiness left by the coagulated blood. The texture reminded him of old parchment, of something that had once been alive and now lay inert, waiting for a command. The demon’s jaw was slightly ajar, as if it were about to speak, and Eli felt an inexplicable urge to listen.

A soft knock at the door jolted him from his reverie. The sound was muffled, as if someone were trying to be polite in the midst of a storm. He rose, his knees protesting, and padded across the creaking wooden floorboards. The loft’s single door was a heavy slab of reclaimed oak, its surface scarred by years of graffiti and weather. He eased it open a crack, just enough to peer out.

On the stoop below stood a woman in a drenched trench coat, her hair plastered to her cheeks, a tote bag slung over one shoulder. She held a glossy, black-bound manuscript in her hands, the cover embossed with a silver glyph that resembled a stylized feather. Her eyes, a striking shade of hazel, flicked up to meet his.

Mira Patel? Eli asked, recognizing the name from the email chain that had been pinging his inbox for weeks.

She nodded, pushing the manuscript toward him. I’m sorry to barge in like this, but the deadline’s tomorrow and the editor’s been breathing down my neck. I saw the... the work you sent over last night. It’s... it’s exactly what we need.

Eli took the manuscript, feeling the weight of the paper between his fingers. The cover was cool, the silver glyph catching the lamplight and throwing a faint glint onto his palm. He opened it to the first page, the ink still wet, the demon’s outline crisp against the white.

It’s brilliant, Mira said, her voice low but edged with urgency. The panel you did for Nightshade Chronicles—the way the demon’s eyes seem to follow you, the texture of the blood... it’s visceral. The editor loved it. He wants a full spread by noon. That means you need to finish the rest of the issue tonight.

Eli swallowed, the metallic taste of his own blood still lingering on his tongue. I... I think I can manage, he said, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his anxiety. But there’s... a problem.

Mira frowned. What kind of problem?

He gestured toward the demon on the page. When I used my own blood as ink, the drawing... it moved. It wasn’t just a trick of the light. It... it seemed alive.

Mira’s eyebrows rose, a flicker of curiosity crossing her face. You mean the illustration reacted? Like an animation?

It was more than that, Eli replied, his eyes darting to the demon’s amber pupils. It stepped off the page, even if only for a moment. It... it breathed.

Mira’s expression shifted from intrigue to concern. Eli, we’re talking about a commercial comic here. If you’re saying the art is... haunted, that could be a liability.

He laughed, a short, brittle sound. I’m not saying it’s haunted. I’m saying something... something happened that I can’t explain. I think... I think the blood gave it a... a conduit.

Mira placed a hand on his forearm, the fabric of her coat damp from the rain. Listen, we have a deadline. If you can finish the rest of the issue, I’ll make sure you get paid extra. If not... well, we’ll both be in trouble.

Her grip was firm, grounding. Eli felt a surge of determination, mixed with a lingering unease. He closed the manuscript, slipped the blood-ink brush back into its cup, and turned back to his desk.

The rain outside intensified, a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. The demon on the page stared at him, its amber eyes reflecting the lamp’s glow. Eli set his notebook down, opened a fresh sheet of Bristol board, and prepared to continue.

He drew a second panel—a close-up of the demon’s snarling mouth, teeth elongated into razor-sharp points, a thin line of crimson dripping from the corners. As the brush touched the paper, the blood-ink mixture surged, the scarlet hue thickening into a viscous sheen that seemed to pulse.

He felt a prickling sensation at the base of his thumb, as if the brush were conducting something more than pigment. The ink flowed from the tip, a thin ribbon that curled and twisted, forming the demon’s tongue. The room seemed to inhale, the lamp flickering in response.

A sudden gust slammed the loft’s shutters shut with a bang, sending a shiver through the rafters. The sound was followed by a low, resonant hum that vibrated through the floorboards, as if the building itself were humming in sympathy with the ink.

Eli’s heart hammered against his ribs. He forced his hand to move, each stroke deliberate, each line a promise to the creature he was summoning. The demon’s form grew more defined, the muscles on its shoulders bulging, the horns curving upward like the antlers of a night beast.

When he finally laid the brush down, the panel was complete. The demon’s eyes now glowed a deeper amber, the pupils dilated as if anticipating something. The ink on the page was still wet, a sheen that caught the lamp’s light and threw it back in a faint, eerie reflection.

Mira leaned over his shoulder, squinting at the new drawing. That’s... intense, she whispered. You really think this is...?

Eli swallowed again, feeling the blood still warm in his veins. I don’t know. But I need to finish the rest of the issue. There’s a story to tell, and I think... I think the demon wants to be part of it.

Mira gave a short, nervous laugh. Well, if it wants to be part of it, let’s give it a role. We have three more pages to fill. You can make it the centerpiece, the villain. That’ll sell.

He nodded, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. He pulled out a fresh sheet and began sketching the cityscape that would surround the demon—a skyline of crumbling towers, broken windows, and a river that reflected the storm’s fury. He added silhouettes of fleeing citizens, their faces twisted in terror, their bodies rendered in stark, angular lines.

As he worked, the rain outside seemed to synchronize with his pencil strokes. The thunder rolled in low, distant booms that resonated in his chest. The ink on the previous panel began to dry, the scarlet hues turning matte, the demon’s outline solidifying as if cemented into the paper.

A sudden, sharp crack echoed from the hallway. The sound was unmistakable—a door slamming shut. Eli’s head snapped toward the source. The loft’s only other entrance, the back door that led to the alley, was now closed, the bolt sliding home with a metallic clang.

Mira looked up, eyes wide. Did you...?

He shook his head. I didn’t touch it.

A low, guttural chuckle rose from the demon on the page, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the wood of the desk. Eli’s skin prickled. He stared at the panel, the demon’s mouth now slightly open, as if it were about to speak.

The lamp flickered again, this time casting a brief, stroboscopic flash that illuminated the entire loft. In that instant, Eli saw something he had missed before—a faint, translucent script etched along the demon’s forearm, letters that seemed to writhe like living ink. The script read, in a language he could not decipher, but the shape of the symbols felt ominously familiar, like the sigils he had seen on the cover of the manuscript Mira had brought.

He reached out, his fingertips hovering over the page, the heat of the lamp warming his skin. The ink was still tacky, the blood-tinged pigment refusing to fully set. He felt an impulse, a tug at his consciousness, urging him to trace the symbols, to understand them.

Mira’s voice broke the spell. Eli, we need to get these pages to the printer. The editor will be there by ten. If we don’t—

She trailed off, eyes darting to the demon’s now-animated form.

Eli forced himself to look away. He gathered the finished panels, stacking them carefully, the demon’s eyes still seeming to follow his movements. He slipped the manuscript back into Mira’s tote bag, the silver glyph catching the lamplight once more.

Okay, he said, his voice steadier than he felt. Let’s get this done.

They moved to the small, battered printer in the corner of the loft, its metal body dented and rusted, the rollers squeaking as they fed paper through. Eli fed the freshly drawn sheets into the machine, watching as the ink transferred onto the glossy stock. The printer whirred, the sound a low, mechanical growl that blended with the storm outside.

As each page emerged, the demon’s image seemed to shift ever so slightly, the amber eyes gaining a faint, almost imperceptible glimmer. The printed copies were crisp, the blood-ink retaining its deep crimson hue, the demon’s form standing out against the stark white background.

Mira inspected the prints, her fingers lightly brushing the edges. These are... amazing,