The crypt stinks of mildew and old magic, stone slick beneath Jake’s boots as he descends the coiled staircase. Each step groans under his weight, as if the bones of the earth resent his trespass. Behind him, the entrance seals shut with a grinding clatter of iron and bone, the sigils etched into the archway flaring once — red, then black — before fading into stillness.
Ahead, the dark pulses — not empty, not dead. Alive.
Waiting.
Jake moves like a ghost, cloak soaked from the night’s dew, boots silent on the slick flagstones. The air is thick, humid with decay and something older, heavier. A presence. A promise. His heart beats steady, but beneath that calm rhythm lies something coiled tight — anticipation. Cruel. Fierce.
At the end of the hall, behind a curtain of veined black silk,
