Constructed from cold, black stone, the ancient castle loomed like something conjured from the nightmares of mad kings--a citadel built not for mortals, but for a Dark Lord who once ruled over death and despair.
Inside the place, Will's eyes snapped open with a jolt.
Darkness.
That was the first thing he saw.
Thick, suffocating darkness wrapped around him like a burial shroud. His pupils struggled to adjust, the shadows resisting his gaze like an old enemy. But gradually, ever so slowly, his eyes began to acclimate. Silver moonlight leaked in through shattered gothic windows high above, filtering down in broken beams that shimmered like ethereal knives through the dust-laden air.
And then, he saw it.
The moment his surroundings came into focus, Will wished they hadn't--because what he was witnessing now would forever be seared into his memory, branded there like one of the many horrific scenes from a nightmare he could never fully wake from.
He found himself lying flat on his back, positioned squarely at the center of a massive ritual altar, hewn from the same pitch-dark stone that made up the rest of the hall. The altar was elevated slightly above the floor, its surface etched with faint, jagged runes that glowed dully in the silver light. Beneath him--extending from the base of the altar and spreading outward across the stone floor--was a sprawling, intricate geometric ritual circle, carved with unnerving precision. The design was drawn in thick, crimson lines--some forming rigid angles, others curling like vines or tendrils.
Instinctively, Will reached out and touched one of the lines beside him.
It wasn't paint.
It wasn't wax.
It was blood.
The lines were drawn in blood--thick, old, and clotted in places. Some of it was still wet.
And he was lying right in the center of it.
Unmoving.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
All around the massive hall, half-melted candles flickered with unnatural stillness. They burned without the aid of flame, undisturbed by the occasional draft that whispered through the cracked windows. A strange chill filled the air--an unnatural coldness that seemed to seep into his very bones, creeping beneath his skin like a living thing.
Will slowly turned his head, his eyes wide with a growing sense of horror.
Bodies.
Dozens of bodies.
They lay all around him in eerie silence--men and women clad in ceremonial black robes, sprawled across the cold floor like discarded puppets whose strings had been suddenly severed. Their limbs were twisted into strange poses, as if frozen mid-motion. And yet... not a single one of their faces showed surprise. There was no terror in their eyes, no sign of resistance or last-minute struggle.
It was as if they had simply... stopped living.
Peacefully. Completely.
On the rob of every robed figure was a strange, alien symbol--etched, embroidered, or scrawled in dark ink. It resembled two inward-facing fangs or curved hooks, symmetrical and sharp, like the horns of some forgotten beast. It looked almost like a heart split in two and twisted by rage, or claws trying to grip the very air. There was something horribly *organic* about it--something wrong, as if it had been *drawn by a hand that didn't belong to this world*.
Will felt a chill run down his spine.
He recognized that symbol.
He had seen it before.
Or at the very least, he had *heard* about it somewhere--in a whispered tale, a cursed book, or a forbidden story spoken only once.
But he was unable to remember it.
His heartbeat spiked.
Like a man realizing he had just stepped into the opening scene of a horror movie, Will's chest tightened with panic. Gasping, he tried to sit up--only to feel the sticky coldness of blood clinging to his skin. A shiver ripped through him as a draft from the window caressed his body. The massive curtains that hung from the ceiling fluttered violently in the sudden gust, like the wings of some slumbering beast stirred from rest.
And that was when Will noticed it--truly noticed it.
He was naked.
Completely.
His body was drenched in drying blood--most of it not even his own. Yet there wasn't a single wound on him. No cuts. No bruises. No signs of injury.
Just blood.
Everywhere.
A primal fear clutched at his mind. He was terrified even to move--afraid that a single step off this altar would trigger something worse. Because the last thing he remembered was being at home. In his room. In *his* world.
And now... now he was here.
Wherever *here* was.
For what felt like a lifetime, Will remained frozen--sitting among the dead like some unwilling statue. Around him, the silence pressed down like a suffocating blanket. He pinched himself. Once. Twice. Slapped his face. Bit his tongue.
But the nightmare didn't fade.
It stayed.
Clung.
Like mold.
"Am I dead…?" he whispered.
"Is this… Hell?"
Eventually--after the weight of the silence became unbearable--Will forced himself to stand. His knees trembled as if carrying the burden of a century's worth of fear. He took a deep, shaky breath, trying to assess his situation like a rational man. But nothing about this was rational.
In the far end of the hall, partially hidden behind the shadows, he see a massive wooden door--twice the height of any normal entryway. His instincts screamed at him to run, to flee this place without thinking. But his cautious mind reminded him: *it could be worse outside*. It could *always* be worse.
So he moved slowly.
Step by step.
Each movement felt like wading through a swamp of invisible hands. His legs wobbled. His breath was uneven. His bare feet brushed against cold stone--and occasionally, a cold *corpse*. The sensation sent electric shocks of revulsion up his spine, like touching a snake in a pit of vipers.
He tried not to vomit.
Tried.
But as he reached the massive doors and looked down the dark corridor beyond, the sight of more bodies--lined up like discarded dolls, clad in the same dark robes--was too much.
He retched violently.
His stomach heaved, and bile splattered onto the stones.
Gasping, he leaned against the wall beside the door, trying to compose himself.
Another gust of wind howled through the corridor, slicing through the silence. It was sharp, almost intelligent in the way it crept across his bare skin, making him feel like a trespasser in a temple meant only for the dead.
At his feet lay a corpse different from the others.
This one wore armor.
Dark red tabard. Dull steel plates. A weapon belt.
A guard.
One of the door wardens, perhaps.
Still trembling, Will dropped to a crouch beside the body. He didn't want to do it--*everything* in him resisted. But some fragile part of him still clung to the hope that this man… this person… might still be alive.
He reached out.
Checked for a pulse.
Nothing.
The skin was ice cold. The flesh stiff.
Dead.
Truly, irrevocably dead.
Will's last threads of denial unraveled.
*He was in Hell.*
There was no other explanation.
With shaking hands, he began to strip the corpse--apologizing under his breath, even as he took the man's clothing and draped it over himself. He needed warmth. He needed armor. He needed… *something* that made him feel even slightly human again.
From the man's belt, he pulled a longsword and fastened it awkwardly around his waist.
Not for protection.
Not really.
But for confidence.
"For god's sake," Will muttered under his breath, his voice weak and bitter, "who even uses swords anymore?"
Clutching the sword as if it were a lifeline, Will stood in the haunted corridor--alone, terrified, and entirely unprepared for what lay ahead. But he knew one thing for certain.
He couldn't stay here.
He had to get out.
Even if it meant walking through the belly of this cursed place.
Even if it meant waking every dead thing on the way.