The command leaves your lips in a whisper, barely audible even in the stillness of the crypt. The shadows recoil for a moment, as if hesitant to obey. Then, they surge forward, swirling like ink in water, coalescing into a shifting, nebulous shape. The air grows heavy, thick with the scent of burning herbs and old blood—the remnants of your father’s final ritual.

The shadows flicker, revealing fragments of the past. You see your father standing where you now kneel, his regal form hunched with exhaustion. His once-piercing eyes are clouded, his face gaunt. The council surrounds him, their expressions masked, but their postures tense. One steps forward—Lord Varis, the oldest among them, his voice like rusted iron. 'The throne requires strength,' he murmurs. 'The Blood Court will not wait forever.'

Your father’s jaw tightens. He lifts a hand, and the torches flare, casting long, trembling shadows. 'I have given centuries to this kingdom,' he rasps. 'But the night demands its due.' The scene fractures, revealing a glimpse of the castle’s highest tower, where your father stands alone beneath the full moon. His cloak billows as he turns to face the horizon, his lips moving in a silent prayer. Then, the shadows twist violently, and for a heartbeat, you see it—the dagger, gleaming in the moonlight, its hilt carved with the sigil of the Blood Court.

The vision dissolves, leaving only the echo of your father’s last breath—a shuddering sigh that lingers in the crypt like a curse. The shadows retreat, their duty fulfilled. The altar’s glow fades, plunging the chamber back into near-darkness. The weight of what you’ve seen settles upon you, cold and unyielding.