The night was thick with silence, the kind that did not just settle—it smothered. It wrapped around the Enigma Castle like a funeral shroud, heavy with the weight of something unseen yet inescapable.
Beyond the towering stone walls, the wind howled through the trees like the mourning of the dead, but within the grand hall of Rage's stronghold, there was no sound, only the slow, rhythmic crackle of torches lining the chamber. Shadows flickered, stretching like clawed fingers along the walls, twisting and shifting as if they too sensed the impending storm.
At the heart of it stood two forces, ancient and unyielding, staring each other down like gods poised for war.
Zereth, the Elder of the Vampires, exuded a presence that swallowed the very air. His company flanked him like specters—silent, unmoving, their crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light—but they were mere echoes of his menace.
