The ruined, stone, streets of Darkthorn greeted Ilyas with a silence that seemed to speak volumes. It was a former vampire kingdom, turned to ruin nearly a century ago from a civil war that brought them on the brink of extinction. Ilyas remembered Taldris’s words about it being abandoned but frequented. It made him on edge. The jungle faded into the kingdom. The ancient walls, chiseled by time and forgotten sorrows, leaned in with secrets of a lost past. A chill wind stirred dust across cracked cobblestones as he stepped lightly over remnants of what once might have been lively thoroughfares. Every footstep echoed as though it were a question in the empty dark. A mass of what he assumed were houses were spread across the area. Foliage and trees had begun growing over it all. This place must have had thousands of vampires here before.

"I wonder what stories these stones could tell," Ilyas murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper that reverberated off distant arches.

He moved through a narrow alley where stray light fought against heavy shadows. He couldn't help but feel a sense of familiarity with the place. Some of the symbols he saw carved around and etched into items, he remembered seeing in his parents room. Like he had lived here before. He chalked it up to his mothers side of the family. Maybe she stayed here before she met my father.

Ahead, a crumbling doorway beckoned him. It was a larger building, two stories tall, made of black bricks. He wondered if any of the squad might be inside. Maybe I should check it out. The answer came as a creak—a moan from the worn wood swinging on rusty hinges.

"Only one way forward," he insisted, moving into the gloom. The interior was a skeleton of past life: shattered glass underfoot, cracked tiles abandoned in disarray, and faded symbols scrawled on the walls that hinted at rites and ancient rituals once revered here.

Chaos had left its mark. He ran his hand along a smooth section of the wall, its surface inscribed with cryptic carvings that still pulsed with a faint, unnatural sheen. He spotted a white figure crawling behind one of the busted sections. He peeked over quickly, half expecting a foe. What he found however, was much more adoring. A giant moth the size of a puppy sat flapping its wings. He let out a sigh, stress leaving his body. “You scared me.” 

  The moth began to make its way towards him, nuzzling its head on his leg. He squatted down, petting the top of its fluffy head. “Ok buddy, I’d love to sit and play, but I have to find some people.” he gave it a few more pats before turning. The moth let out a sigh of its own it seemed.

As Ilyas made his way deeper into the labyrinthine passageways of Darkthorn, every step was punctuated by a dialogue with his own thoughts.

He paused beneath a collapsed archway, where the wind danced and sculpted shapes out of debris. In the play of shifting light and shadow he could almost see faces—an echo or trick of memory. A low hum vibrated in the air, a sound that could have been the wind through barren trees or perhaps something darker. Ilyas's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the abandoned square just beyond a broken wall, where the ground itself was a mosaic of despair and decay.

He stepped forward and found a crumbling fountain in the center of a forgotten courtyard, its basin dry and its statues mutilated by time. His eyes went wide with fear as he saw the bodies. Two men, bearing the attire of Taldris’s squad laid on the other side of the fountain. He rushed over, sliding onto his knees in hopes of getting a better look at them. He was too late. Their bodies were stiff, and dark, almost blackened, blood stained their already red surcoat, and took the sheen off their armor. Their helmets were fully covering their faces. Ilyas felt his heart sink at the realisation that they were dead. He had killed many Darkdwellers before, but actually seeing a human, that made him feel more uneasy than he ever imagined. 

 He took a deep breath, removing their helmets. They seemed to be twins, both with a mop of brown hair flopping over their cold faces. Ilyas closed their eyes. I can’t just leave them here. He took their bodies outside, where the light had been shining even harder than before. Almost as if the sun had been watching him directly, a beam casted down over a spot of grass. Ilyas decided he’d lay them to rest there. After a couple minutes, he had finished the two graves, putting the two knights at ease. He wondered if he should have gone to look for the other two first. He pulled the medallions off the brothers, hoping to return them to Taldris. He stood for a moment, just staring at the freshly dug dirt. He couldn’t explain what he had been feeling. It was almost as if it were all a weird dream. The sight of the corpses leaving him more rattled than he should have been. At Least he thought that it did more than it should have.

The wind picked up, scattering brittle leaves and paper scraps across the desolate plaza. He thought back to his encounter with the vampire. How he had been chopped up with ease, and how if he hadn't gotten the upper hand, he’d have died. He underestimated them, but he knew not to do that now. He’d just finish it as quickly as possible if he encountered one. So why? Why are my damn hands shaking! He rose and brushed the dust off his pants, stepping away from the graves. His pace quickened as he worried about finding the others. He glanced at a castle on the horizon, atop a hill. He thought that might be the next best bet of finding anyone else. 

At one point, he halted at a tattered sign partially hanging on a post, its letters barely discernible. "Umbratara," it read, a name like an incantation that resonated with his own blood. The very sound of it sent a shiver down his spine.

The deeper he went the more destroyed everything seemed. the bent metal, the darkened stone. They confessed truths that words would dare not speak, a war that had destroyed an entire kingdom.

A sudden rustle from a collapsed doorway caught his attention. Ilyas tensed, hand resting near his side—a silent promise of readiness that had carried him through countless perils before.

"Who’s there?" he demanded into the overwhelming silence, his voice steady despite the surge of adrenaline. He felt like an idiot, he hadn’t taken a bit of silence into consideration the entire time. He had been advertising himself to any of the bloodsuckers that stalked the area. 

No answer came, only the echo of his own call that bounced off the barren hallways.

He didn’t trust it however. He advanced cautiously, each step deliberate and measured. His eyes scanned every detail—a shattered window here, a crumpled relic of a chair there. Despite the desolation, every ruined object seemed to pulse with some life, telling a tale of sudden departure.

 What even caused such a war? he wondered, each possibility stirring a maelstrom of speculative answers. Towards the end of the building, the roof collapsed, sunlight beamed through it, illuminating a blonde man heaving against the wall. He smiled as he felt a pang of hope, one of them was still alive at least. He ran, kneeling down in front of him. He was a fairly young looking man, probably still in his teens. His blonde hair was parted, though it fell forward, slick with sweat and blood. A trail of blood leaked down his lip, and his cheeks had bruises. His armor had been destroyed, even his surcoat torn. “Hey, you alright? Where are you injured?”

He began to laugh, shaking his head despite his condition. “Well isn’t this funny.” He looked up at Ilyas, his green eyes sparkled under the light. “A pink eyed vampire…You’re an Al-Bey.” 

 Ilyas shivered. “How do you-” 

 “Look, I’ll explain later. For now. Get to the castle. Your inheritance awaits there. Blood of Erebus, leave me. I will be fine.” He put a hand on Ilyas’s shoulder. “I just need to rest…for a bit.” 

 “Hey, no way, I’m taking you with me!” 

 “Forget it, you’ll be too slow. You need to move. Now. We’re in for a long day my friend, if you want us to survive, get to the castle. Our saving grace…lies there. Now go!” He shoved him, despite his awkward angle and battered appearance, the push had force enough to topple Ilyas over. 

 He stared in shock. The mans eyes glared at him as if regarding an enemy. “Who are…nevermind.” He got up, gunning for the exit as he realised the man wasn’t kidding. “I’ll be back! I promise!”

As he ran up the hill, the castle came clearer into view. He could see it was very gothic, many sharp, rigid shapes were used for its architecture; it was completely black, with busted out windows and a wall that was practically crumbling. Ilyas found himself standing before a grand doorway of it. Its once regal facade was now haggard, marked with the scars of time and neglect. He stepped forward as if drawn by an invisible thread.

The door creaked open with a sound that spoke of both welcome and warning. Inside, the keep was shrouded in deep shadows, punctuated by the pale glow of rays filtering through broken stained glass. Dust motes danced in the beams, and the air was heavy with the scent of decay and old secrets. Even then, he felt more at home here than he had ever felt elsewhere. It was as if the castle was moulded from his dreams. 

At the far end of the corridor, an ornate mirror hung crookedly on a wall, its surface clouded with age. Ilyas approached and studied his own reflection—a stubbled, determined face set against the dim glow.

He moved to examine a side room cluttered with relics—old portraits, fractured trinkets, and remnants of a life abandoned. As he passed a weathered desk, a brittle stack of letters lay scattered, waiting to whisper forgotten confessions.

Outside, the winds shifted, carrying with them a hint of something unfamiliar—a metallic tang and a whisper of danger that cut through the pall of neglect. Ilyas paused by a shattered window, peering out over a courtyard choked by overgrowth and tangled vines that defied the barren landscape.

Seconds stretched into a taut silence before the only response was the creak of the old wood beneath his boot.

A distant sound caught his attention—a rhythmic tapping, as if someone, or something, were pacing slowly across the corridor beyond. His pulse quickened; every instinct screamed caution.

"Someone there?" he addressed the unseen presence, voice firm yet laced with an edge of wary nervousness. By now all hopes of being sneaky were out of the plan.

The middle corridor stretched before him like a gateway to another era. At its end, a heavy door marked with faded heraldry loomed. Ilyas felt the embossed insignia, feeling the chill of ancient metal under his fingertips.

He pushed the door open and entered a vast hall bathed in ghostly luminescence. The ceiling arched high above, supported by columns that bore witness to a defiant splendor now marred by neglect. In a far corner, an ornate candelabra lay toppled, its wax hardened into surreal He moved toward a narrow staircase that led into further depths of the castle. Each step produced a cadence of determination mingled with trepidation. "Come on, I can’t chicken out now," he said, more to convince himself than to expect comfort from the dark. 

Ascending the stairs, Ilyas's footsteps created a rhythm that almost felt like a conversation with the past. When he reached the landing, a beam of light illuminated an expansive library of sorts—shelves of decayed books, scrolls scattered like fallen leaves, and relics arranged in haphazard display. The high ceiling allowed the light to peer in through shattered stained glass, casting fractured rainbows over the dust. That was to the right. To the left, a strange room sat, one with a podium and a book opened on it. It looked untouched, as if the book were magical, or it was recently placed there. Ahead of him, he could see the grand spectacle of the castle. 

"What the hell have i gotten myself into," Ilyas muttered as he stepped forward, echoing throughout the walls. They whispered secrets in voices only he seemed to hear, yet he couldn’t quite make sense of any of it.  

There was only silence, punctuated by the scuffle of his sneakers on broken tiles. As he continued his exploration, Ilyas's voice filled the emptiness. He laid his eyes on a majestic throne, and in front of it stood a sword stabbed through the ground. He moved without thought. Almost instinctively heading towards it. the ancient throne seemed to murmur as he eased himself into its cold, cracked seat. His breath hitched as the weight of unseen years pressed upon him. Maybe this is it, this is what that man was trying to send me here for? He stared at the sword in the ground. It was massive. Longer than the greatsword he already used. It’s hilt was fashioned in the shape of a bat, and a similar, pink gemstone like the one on his pendant, was embedded in the center of the hilt.

He reached for the blades hilt. "It calls to me," he whispered, almost reverently. The sword's surface shimmered with an eerie vitality, the runes along its spine pulsing softly like the beat of a forgotten drum. Gripping the hilt, his fingers closed around it as if in communion. In that heartbeat, a sudden, searing agony lanced through his hand. "Argh!" he cried, the sound ricocheting off ancient stone. Tiny, cruel spikes burst from the hilt and drove into his flesh, each one a vicious reminder of the price of power. "What the-" he gasped, his eyes wide as crimson stains spread up his wrist. The spikes grew, piercing out the other sides. The burn resonated throughout his arms.

Yet, even as waves of pain surged, the blade's call deepened. He could almost hear it now. "Endure. Fate burns through your blood," came the disembodied whisper, resonant and commanding. Ilyas gritted his teeth, the pain awakening something deep within him—a mixture of fury, resolve, and a strange, liberating clarity. "I accept your trial," he declared, voice steady despite his trembling hand.

A cold wind stirred within the hall as if punctuating his vow. Shadows slithered along the walls and the throne's carved visage appeared to smile in solemn approval. "A king is not forged by ease but by suffering," the voice reminded him, reverberating through the dark corridors. His heart pounded in tandem with the rhythmic drip of blood from his injured hand. "Do you feel it, the burning truth in each pulse? Let this agony be your awakening!" the voices chanted in a silent chorus, merging with the clashing of his internal resolve and the ancient magic of the blade.

Despite the agony, Ilyas's eyes glazed with determination as he tightened his grip, his mind racing with doubt. Why was he even doing this? When did he decide he wanted to grab the bloody sword in the first place? 

Ilyas began to feel dizzy. And his vision betrayed him. The throne room had turned to sand, and he was sinking in it. As the sand collapsed the throne, he came to the realisation that his eyes were not in fact lying to him.