Unknown Ruins, 1831 since the beginning of the Renaissance Era.
From the very moment he arrived at this God-forsaken place — the ruins of a bygone civilization — Abraham Barrow felt ill at ease. Whether it was the sudden wind, the thickening shadows in inconspicuous corners, or the feeling of being watched. But Abraham could do nothing about the situation: neither he nor the other seekers. Because he and many others were here not out of a passion for history or a desire for fame, but simply for money. And without money, life is hard.
Moving slowly at the center of the group, Abraham surveyed his surroundings. The castle was not merely dark, as legends and ancient chronicles described it — it was black, devouring light, be it from the sun or from their spirit lanterns. A massive, bulky, grotesque structure, made of darkness and poor decisions (perhaps the seekers' own, for having come here), loomed before a group of diverse faces and social standings, presenting a grim picture.
Victor Push — a stocky, stern, middle-aged man leading the group — gave a signal and stopped before the skillfully crafted stone gates. Raising his right hand, he silently called for them to heed his command. His bright red uniform marked him as a retired old officer. His once-lush mane had left behind only a few strands, expertly combed back. Black gloves, dark blue trousers, worn boots — that was what the officer wore. But what set him apart from the others was an old, weathered hip holster containing a deadly weapon — a pistol.
-"Stop. Barrow and Morgan, try to open the gates," said Push, pointing his lantern (held in his left hand) toward the gates while simultaneously drawing the spirit pistol from its holster.
Abraham, though unwillingly and already regretting agreeing to this mission, exchanged a glance with Morgan, and they began approaching the gates. Their attempt to open them was unsuccessful: the gates stood firm and refused to let the uninvited guests in.
"Step away from the gates!" Push barked at the clearly useless duo, and unwilling to remain long in this dreary place, he lowered the lantern and aimed the spirit pistol at the gates.
"Magma shot," mumbled the old officer. The barrel of the pistol quickly heated up, and a fiery bullet composed of magma erupted from it, devouring the once-strong steel gates.
Recovering from the shock, the mercenaries crossed to the other side. They were greeted by an empty courtyard (except for an uneven path) and a suffocating, absolute, unsettling silence. Push ordered them to form a line and move forward toward the entrance of the dark castle. The spirit lanterns cast bizarre shadows. The only sounds were footsteps and the prayers of some among the group.
"Collins!" the officer barked once more.
"Here, Mr. Push," said a man of about forty, approaching the old veteran with a leisurely gait. He had an unremarkable appearance, except for his eyes — emerald, calm, yet alert.
"Open the door. Now," Push said in a commanding tone, pointing toward the castle's crimson door. Collins simply shrugged and approached it.
Taking a bag off his shoulders, Collins began to retrieve items: a vial of blood, a silver blade, work gloves. Dipping the dagger into the blood, Collins began reciting an incantation that no one except the old officer recognized, and he traced sixteen symbols around the door.
"Runes," the term flashed through Abraham's mind.
The runes glowed with golden light, after which the door opened inward with a soft but distinct click.
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Abraham, like the others, stared at the sight before them. It had been assumed that the layout of this building would be the same as in other castles of that era: a spacious hall, high ceilings, numerous staircases, paintings, and gilded decor. But that was not the case at all. They were met by a circular hall with a high ceiling adorned with a fresco of the starry sky, a floor of black obsidian tiles, numerous mahogany bookshelves filled from bottom to top with books, ancient chronicles, manuscripts scattered throughout the hall, antique carved furniture — and a black box that stood majestically in the center of the hall, vaguely resembling a coffin with a runic array inscribed upon it. The runes glowed faintly crimson. As soon as Abraham saw this sarcophagus, he could not look away. Gazing at it, he felt happy, whole.
He did not notice that he was not the only one looking at it that way. Everyone in his group — be it the sullen Morgan or Officer Push — each of them stared at it and slowly, against their will, walked toward it, like lambs to the slaughter.
The path to the sarcophagus was short, only about fifteen meters, but for Abraham, that time felt like an eternity. The group of seven, with frighteningly fast, synchronized steps, surrounded it. And all of them, except for Abraham — who resisted the sarcophagus with the last of his willpower — laid their hands upon it.
For several seconds, nothing happened. Abraham sighed, not knowing what he had been afraid of, but suddenly the runes on the coffin began to glow, and with each second, the light grew stronger until it began to blind the eyes. Abraham squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hand to his face, desperately praying for it to end as quickly as possible. What Abraham did not hear — or did not want to hear — were screams full of pain, agony, and hatred.
Abraham did not know how much time had passed, but the light went out, leaving only him, the ominous coffin, and six dead, desiccated bodies.