The crypts. A place of power, of secrets whispered through the ages. You sweep your cloak behind you as you descend the ancient stone staircase, each step worn smooth by centuries of your lineage’s passage. The air grows thick with the scent of old bones and damp earth, the torches along the walls flickering as if in reverence to the dead. At the bottom, the great iron doors stand ajar, their surfaces etched with runes that pulse faintly in the gloom.

Your ancestors lie in repose within, their sarcophagi arranged in a circle around the central altar—a slab of black marble stained with the offerings of countless midnights. You approach slowly, your boots silent on the stone. The weight of their gaze settles upon you, unseen but undeniable. The first of your line, the one who carved this kingdom from blood and shadow, rests closest to the altar. His name is not spoken aloud, only felt in the chill that lingers near his tomb.

You kneel before the altar, pressing your palm against the cold surface. The runes flare to life beneath your touch, glowing a deep crimson. A voice, ancient and rasping, coils through the crypt. 'You have come seeking counsel, child of the night.' The words are not heard but felt, reverberating in your bones. Shadows peel away from the walls, forming indistinct figures that watch with hollow eyes. The dead are listening.

'They fear your rule,' the voice continues. 'The council, the Blood Court—all of them. But fear can be a weapon, if you wield it wisely.' The shadows shift, and for a moment, you see them—your predecessors, their faces gaunt and regal, their eyes burning with the same hunger that now gnaws at you. The vision fades as quickly as it came, leaving only the echo of their warnings.