The air in the sub-crypt of Bran Castle didn't move. It was a dead, dry cold that predated the concept of seasons, smelling of dust, forgotten bones, and a profound, resonant silence that had been undisturbed for a millennium. Lysander Ravencroft stood at the center of a cavern so vast the ceiling was lost in darkness, his form a solitary stroke of black against the intricate, mile-wide design carved into the floor.
This was not a mere summoning circle. It was a prison. A seal. And he held the warden's key.
The carvings were not of symbols any living creature would recognize. They were the geometry of forgotten laws, the frozen music of cosmic prohibitions. Twelve massive, obsidian sarcophagi were arranged in a circle around the perimeter, each one sealed with chains of solidified moonlight and etched with a single, unique rune that seemed to drink the faint light from the single torch Lysander had brought.
