The crypts beneath the castle are a labyrinth of shadows and whispers, the air thick with the dust of centuries. Your footsteps echo against the stone as you descend, the torch in your hand casting flickering light over the ancient sarcophagi lining the walls. Each bears the name of a vampire who once ruled these lands—some you knew, most you did not. At the heart of the crypt, where the air is coldest, rests the oldest of your kind: Lord Malrik, entombed in a coffin of black marble.

You press your palm to the lid, the stone unnaturally smooth beneath your touch. "Malrik," you murmur, and the name alone is enough. The coffin creaks open, revealing the withered figure within. His skin is parchment-thin, stretched over bones that seem too fragile to hold him together. Yet when his eyes open, they burn with a fire that defies time.

"Prince," he rasps, his voice like dry leaves scraping stone. "You come seeking answers." You nod, holding up the Blood Court’s seal. Malrik’s lips curl into a smile, revealing jagged teeth. "Ah. The Court remembers you, then." He shifts, the sound of his movements like rusted hinges. "They are not to be trifled with, boy. Their games are older than your father’s reign."

You lean closer, the torchlight gilding the edges of his hollow cheeks. "Tell me," you demand. Malrik’s chuckle is a wheezing thing. "The Court thrives on secrets," he says. "But I will tell you this: they fear you. Why else would they send a raven, and not a messenger?" His bony finger taps the seal. "Break it, and you play their game. Leave it, and you scorn them. Choose wisely."