The stone door groaned open with the sound of centuries dying. Cold, damp air rushed out in a suffocating gust, carrying with it the scent of mildew, old dust, and something fouler—like rotting magic.
Hope hesitated at the threshold. "Whatever's down there hasn't seen the light in a long time."
London's hand still tingled from the way the flame had danced over his skin—without burning him. He glanced at his palm. No scar. No mark. But inside… something felt off. Or maybe right. He couldn't tell anymore.
Raphael took a deep breath and stepped forward, cracking a glowstone crystal he'd picked up from the supply room. Its dim blue light cast eerie shadows on the rough stone walls.
"Let's not die," he muttered.
"Good plan," Hope replied, drawing a glowing sigil in the air with her fingertips. The yellow light from her magic flickered brighter in the gloom. "Let's keep quiet. We don't know what's waiting."
They moved down the tunnel slowly. The walls were etched with forgotten runes—some faded, some still glowing faintly as if whispering secrets to those who dared enter. Strange claw marks raked across the stone at intervals. Some were deep enough to be unsettling.
London looked around. "Why would Richard come down here alone? It's like a crypt mixed with a prison."
Hope stopped in front of an archway carved into the wall, its keystone bearing the symbol from Richard's old journal—an ouroboros looped around a tower.
"This was his," she whispered. "His personal seal."
The tunnel forked into two. Without waiting, London turned left. "This way."
Hope raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
"No," London said honestly, "but something's pulling me this way."
Raphael nodded. "It's as good a lead as any."
They continued deeper. The blue light from the glowstone began to flicker, as if afraid of what lay ahead. Just as they passed another arch, a sudden shriek tore through the passage—then vanished, like it had never been there.
All three froze.
"Was that a scream or—" Raphael began.
"Echo," Hope whispered. "I think."
But her magic flared brighter, reacting to something.
That's when they found the door.
Unlike the previous ones, this wasn't sealed by magic. It was iron—rusted, dented, and smeared with old, dark stains.
Hope raised a hand to push it open—but London stepped in front of her. "Let me."
She started to protest, but something in his face stopped her. He looked... different. Not scared. Not reckless. Sure.
He shoved the door open.
The room inside was circular, with black stone walls covered in ancient sigils. A single torch burned in the center, floating midair. Beneath it was a slab—a stone table.
And on it—
"Richard," Hope gasped.
He lay unconscious, breathing shallowly. Chains bound his wrists and ankles, glowing faintly with restraint runes.
Raphael rushed in and began inspecting the chains. "These are high-level containment spells. Vampire-forged, reinforced with witch seals."
"Why would someone use these on Richard?" London asked, stepping closer. His eyes flicked to the symbols carved into the ground around the slab. "These aren't just restraints. This… this is a ritual circle."
Hope clenched her fists. "Someone wasn't just keeping him here. They were using him."
Suddenly, the torchlight flared—then went out.
Darkness slammed over them.
"Get back!" Hope shouted.
But it was too late.
Whispers filled the room. Cold, slithering words in a language none of them recognized. The runes on the floor flared red, and something rose from the shadows—tall, cloaked in smoke, its face obscured by shifting darkness.
"You shouldn't have come here," it hissed.
Hope threw a burst of golden magic. It hit the figure—and passed right through.
Illusion? Spirit?
"No one hurts Richard and walks away," London said, stepping forward.
The figure turned to him.
"You again," it whispered, almost amused. "Still don't know what you are, do you?"
London's heart pounded. "I know enough to stop you."
"You're not ready."
Then it lunged.
But not at London.
It went for Hope.
London moved before he could think—throwing himself in front of her just as the shadow struck.
There was a blinding flash.
Then fire.
The room lit up in a blinding inferno. Hope screamed. Raphael pulled her back as the flames roared around them.
And in the center—
London stood, chest pierced by the shadow's claws, blood dripping down his shirt.
"London!" Hope screamed, breaking free from Raphael's grip.
He turned to her, his face peaceful, even smiling faintly. "I'm sorry…"
Then his body caught fire.
His eyes flared golden. Flames consumed him, roaring upward like a pyre.
"NO!" Hope shouted, running toward him—but Raphael held her back.
"He's—he's gone," Raphael said hoarsely, eyes wide with disbelief.
But the fire didn't die down.
It burned hotter, brighter—until it exploded outward in a blinding burst.
Then silence.
And in the ashes—
A figure stirred.
Coughing, naked, blinking at the sudden return to reality.
Hope stared.
"London…?"
He sat up, confused, looking at his hands. "Why am I… not dead?"