The castle’s archives lie deep beneath the spiraling towers, a labyrinth of dust-laden shelves and whispered secrets. You descend the winding stone staircase, your boots silent against the worn steps. The air grows colder the deeper you go, thick with the scent of aged parchment and the faint, metallic tang of ink. The archives are vast, stretching into shadowed alcoves where even the flickering torchlight dares not reach.

Your advisor follows at a respectful distance, his skeletal fingers tracing the spines of ancient tomes as if in reverence. "The First’s records are kept in the Black Vault," he murmurs, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Few dare to open them."

You find the vault easily—its door is marked with a sigil of twisted silver, the same one that once adorned your father’s ring. The lock yields to your touch, as if recognizing your blood. Inside, the air is unnaturally still. A single book rests on a pedestal, its cover bound in what looks like aged flesh, the title etched in a language older than the castle itself.

As you open it, the pages seem to hum beneath your fingers. The ink shifts and swirls, forming new words before your eyes. The Veil, the text whispers, is a barrier between your world and the First’s prison. But the seals are weakening, and his dreams are seeping into the waking world. The last entry is a warning: "When the First wakes, the night will bleed."

Your advisor inhales sharply. "My prince, if this is true..." He doesn’t finish the thought. The torchlight flickers, as if in agreement.