Your fingers tighten against the altar, nails scraping against the cold marble as you rise. The shadows recoil at the sudden movement, swirling like disturbed smoke. 'Enough riddles,' you command, your voice echoing through the crypt. 'If you know of the Blood Court’s message, reveal it to me now.' The silence stretches, thick with defiance—or perhaps appraisal. Then, the runes flare brighter, crimson light licking up your arm like flames made of blood.

A rasping laugh fills the air, the sound of dry bones rattling. 'So like your father,' the voice murmurs, almost fond. The shadows coalesce into a skeletal hand, hovering over the altar. A scrap of parchment materializes, brittle and yellowed with age, yet marked with fresh ink. The raven’s message. The hand offers it to you, and as you reach for it, the script burns itself into your vision—not just words, but images, sensations.

The Blood Court does not merely summon; it warns. A hunt has been called, not for prey, but for a traitor—one of your own court. The name is seared into your mind, accompanied by the scent of wolfsbane and the taste of betrayal. Your lips curl back from your fangs. This is no ordinary missive; it is a test. The Court watches to see if you will act... or falter.

The shadows dissipate, the crypt suddenly too quiet. The parchment crumbles to dust between your fingers. Above, the castle groans, as if sensing the storm to come. You turn on your heel, cloak snapping behind you. The dead have spoken. Now, the living must answer.