The challenge hangs in the air like a blade unsheathed. You rise from your kneeling position, your fingers curling into fists at your sides. 'I do not seek counsel,' you say, your voice cutting through the crypt's silence. 'I seek what is mine by right.'

The shadows writhe, coalescing into something more solid—more dangerous. The voice that answers is no longer rasping but sharp, edged with something like amusement. 'Bold words from one so young. The power you crave is not given. It is taken.' The temperature plummets, your breath frosting in the air as the torches gutter and die, leaving only the eerie glow of the runes to light the crypt.

From the darkness, a figure steps forward—tall, gaunt, clad in armor blacker than the void between stars. Your ancestor's true form, the one he wore in battle when the world still trembled at his name. His eyes burn like embers, his grin revealing fangs that have tasted the blood of kings. 'Prove yourself worthy,' he hisses, and the crypt trembles with the force of his challenge.

You do not hesitate. Your cloak billows as you lunge forward, your own fangs bared. The clash is silent but brutal—a blur of shadows and crimson. His claws rake your shoulder, drawing dark blood, but you twist away, driving your fist into his chest. The impact sends cracks spiderwebbing across his spectral armor. He stumbles, and for the first time, something like surprise flickers in his gaze.

'Good,' he murmurs, righting himself. 'But not enough.' Around you, the other ancestors stir, their voices rising in a chorus of whispers. The crypt itself seems to lean in, eager to witness your downfall—or your ascension.