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Jonah’s steps were unsteady as he stumbled back to his chambers. Every corner of the fortress felt sharper, every shadow deeper, as though the stone itself was listening, waiting. The weight of Draven’s words pressed against his chest—The ritual begins tomorrow night.
He couldn’t let it happen. But what could he do? He was one boy against something ancient, something vast and unfathomable.
Back in his room, Jonah collapsed onto the edge of his bed. His mind raced through every option, every half-formed plan, but they all led back to one conclusion: he couldn’t do this alone.
A faint knock came at the door.
“Elara?” Jonah whispered.
When he cracked open the door, Elara slipped inside. Her face was pale, her eyes sharp and calculating.
“We don’t have much time,” she said. “Draven’s preparing the ritual chamber now. Once it begins, there’ll be no stopping him.”
Jonah rubbed his face with trembling hands. “What do we do? How do we stop him?”
Elara hesitated before speaking, her voice low. “There’s a passage beneath the archives. An old tunnel. It was built long before Draven took this fortress. If we can reach it, we might find a way out—or a way to stop the ritual.”
Jonah frowned. “You’ve known about this all along? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because the passage is dangerous,” Elara said, her voice trembling slightly. “It’s... alive, Jonah. Like the rest of this place. But if we want to stop Draven, we have no other choice.”
Jonah felt the weight of her words settle over him. It wasn’t a choice at all—it was survival.
“Then let’s go,” he said.
The corridors of Castle Draven were deathly silent as Jonah and Elara moved through them. The flickering light from Elara’s lantern barely pushed back the suffocating darkness. Every step felt too loud, every breath too sharp.
They reached the entrance to the archives without incident. The heavy iron door loomed before them, its ancient runes faintly glowing. Elara produced a rusted key from her pocket and turned it in the lock.
The door groaned open, and the air inside was colder than Jonah remembered.
“Stay close,” Elara whispered.
The archives stretched out before them, the towering shelves casting long, skeletal shadows across the stone floor. Jonah could feel the weight of countless eyes watching them from the dark corners of the room.
Elara led him toward a narrow archway hidden behind a collapsed bookshelf. Jonah hadn’t noticed it before—perhaps it hadn’t been there before.
The passage descended sharply, a crumbling stone staircase spiraling into darkness.
Jonah hesitated at the top step. “Are you sure about this?”
“No,” Elara said, her voice tight with fear. “But we don’t have a choice.”
They descended in silence, the lantern’s glow barely illuminating the rough stone walls. The deeper they went, the colder it became. Jonah’s breath fogged in the air, and a faint sound—like distant whispers—drifted up from below.
At the base of the staircase, they emerged into a cavernous chamber. The walls were slick with moisture, and veins of faintly glowing crystals threaded through the stone like frozen lightning.
In the center of the chamber stood an altar.
It was carved from black stone, its surface etched with the same twisted symbols Jonah had seen in the ledger. Chains hung loosely from its edges, rusted and stained.
Elara froze. “This... this isn’t right. This isn’t supposed to be here.”
Jonah stepped closer, his heart hammering in his chest. The altar seemed to pulse faintly, as though it was breathing.
“Elara,” Jonah said, his voice trembling, “we need to leave.”
But it was too late.
A voice echoed through the chamber, smooth and sharp as broken glass.
“Did you think you could hide from me, Jonah?”
Count Draven stepped out of the shadows, his silhouette framed by the faint crystal light. His black eyes gleamed with something triumphant, something predatory.
“You’ve been quite resourceful,” Draven said softly, his voice carrying effortlessly through the still air. “But did you really think I wouldn’t know? Did you really think I wouldn’t see?”
Elara stepped in front of Jonah, her arms spread wide. “Stay back!”
Draven smiled, and it was the coldest thing Jonah had ever seen.
“Oh, Elara. Always so brave. Always so foolish.”
With a flick of his wrist, Elara was thrown backward, her body colliding with the stone wall. She crumpled to the floor, unmoving.
“No!” Jonah screamed.
Draven stepped closer, his black coat trailing behind him like liquid shadow.
“It’s time, Jonah,” Draven said. “Time to fulfill your purpose.”
Jonah backed away, his eyes darting around the chamber for anything—anything—that might help.
His gaze fell on the altar.
The symbols. The chains.
Without thinking, Jonah lunged forward, grabbing one of the rusted chains and pulling with all his strength. The altar shuddered, and the glow from the crystals flared brightly.
Draven’s smile vanished. “What are you doing? Stop!”
But Jonah didn’t stop. He pulled again, and the symbols etched into the altar began to crack and splinter. The air filled with a low, resonant hum, and the ground beneath them began to shake.
Draven lunged toward him, but Jonah yanked one final time.
The altar shattered.
A blinding light erupted from its broken remains, and Jonah was thrown backward, his body colliding with the cavern floor.
The last thing he saw before darkness took him was Count Draven, his face twisted in rage and... fear.
Then everything went silent.