The guttural hum vibrating through the ancient stone was getting louder, morphing into a low, rhythmic throb that seemed to pulse in time with Avela's heartbeat.
The sound, like the deep growl of some ancient beast, reverberated in her ears, making her temples throb.
It felt… wrong.
Like a bass drum solo played on a coffin, the vibrations sent shivers down her spine.
The air grew thick, heavy, charged with an energy that prickled the back of her neck like tiny needles.
Even Lorson, usually an ice-cold statue of aristocratic indifference, shifted uneasily, his hand instinctively going to the silver dagger tucked into his waistband.
The cold metal of the dagger against his palm was a small comfort in the face of this growing unease.
Following the insidious hum, they navigated deeper into the labyrinthine tomb.
The flickering light of their torches painted grotesque shadows that danced like demented marionettes on the moss-covered walls.
The orange-yellow light cast a warm but menacing glow, and the sound of the torches crackling filled the air.
The stench of decay, ever-present in this subterranean world, intensified, tinged now with something sickly sweet, almost… floral.
It was the kind of perfume a corpse might wear to its funeral, a cloying smell that made Avela's stomach churn.
The humming led them to a dead end, a solid wall of rough-hewn stone.
But Alfred, his eyes gleaming with a feverish excitement that bordered on manic, traced the outline of a hidden door with trembling fingers.
He had a past filled with failures and rejections, which made his desperate pursuit of power understandable.
"Here," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "This is it. The prison of Morrighan." He pronounced the name with a strange reverence, like a devotee murmuring the name of his dark god.
Victor, his face a mask of grim disapproval, placed a restraining hand on Alfred's arm.
"Are you certain about this, Alfred? Unleashing such power…"
"Necessary," Alfred snapped, shaking Victor off with surprising force.
"Think of the knowledge, the power! She holds the key to everything!" He fumbled with a series of intricate locks, his movements jerky and hurried.
He muttered something about ancient runes and blood sacrifices, his breath coming in short, excited gasps.
Before anyone could stop him, a final click echoed through the chamber, and a section of the wall slid open, revealing a small, dark chamber within.
The humming ceased abruptly, replaced by a chilling silence.
Inside, bathed in an ethereal, pulsating purple light, was a sarcophagus of obsidian black.
Runes, similar to those on Lorson's dagger, were etched across its surface, glowing with an inner luminescence.
The air crackled with raw, untamed magic, and the hair on Avela's arms stood on end.
As they watched, mesmerized, the lid of the sarcophagus began to tremble, then slowly, agonizingly, slide open.
From within emerged a figure, shrouded in shadows, yet radiating a power that felt both ancient and terrifyingly potent.
Morrighan.
She was once a powerful being in this mysterious world, feared by many and having had past encounters with some of the group members.
She was breathtakingly beautiful, with skin like alabaster, hair like spun moonlight, and eyes that burned with a cold, otherworldly fire.
But her beauty was a predatory thing, laced with a cruelty that made Avela's blood run cold.
Alfred, oblivious to the palpable tension filling the air, stepped forward, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and fear.
"Morrighan," he breathed, "I have awakened you."
"Indeed, you have," Morrighan's voice was like the chime of ice crystals, beautiful and deadly.
She looked at Alfred with an amused disdain.
"And what, pray tell, do you offer in return for my… liberation?"
"Knowledge," Alfred blurted out, his eyes wide with an almost childlike eagerness.
"Power! I offer you my allegiance in exchange for a share of your power, a glimpse into your secrets."
A slow, predatory smile spread across Morrighan's lips.
"Ambitious," she purred.
"I like that." Her gaze swept over the others, lingering on Avela and Lorson.
"And these... intruders? They offer... entertainment."
With a flick of her wrist, the tomb began to shift and change.
Walls dissolved, reforming into twisted, nightmarish landscapes.
Illusions flickered, playing tricks on their minds, whispering their deepest fears, their darkest desires.
The air filled with the screams of phantoms, the laughter of demons.
Jack called out to Avela, his voice distorted, echoing from a dozen different directions.
Victor roared in frustration, his form flickering in and out of existence.
Emily's crossbow bolts dissolved into harmless wisps of smoke before they could reach Morrighan.
Lorson, his face pale even by vampire standards, gripped his dagger tightly, its runes glowing faintly as if in response to the overwhelming magical presence.
Memories of past battles and near-death experiences flashed through his mind as he felt that flicker of fear.
Avela felt a dizzying wave of disorientation wash over her.
The tomb, once a solid structure, now felt like a shifting, unstable dreamscape.
She could see Lorson battling a shadowy figure that looked suspiciously like herself, his face a mask of grim determination.
Was it real?
Or just another illusion conjured by the vampire witch?
"This is… interesting," Lorson's voice, strained and close to her ear, startled her.
He grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly tight.
"Stay close. This witch… she's playing games."
Avela nodded, her heart pounding against her ribs.
The floral scent intensified, cloying and suffocating.
She felt a sharp pain in her head, like a spike being driven into her skull.
The world spun, the illusions blurring into a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds.
Avela was filled with a mix of fear, despair, and anger at Alfred's reckless actions.
"Lorson," she gasped, clinging to his arm as the ground seemed to dissolve beneath her feet.
"I…"
"I know," he muttered, his eyes scanning the shifting landscape, a flicker of fear–genuine fear-visible for a fleeting moment.
"I know."
Then, the world went black.
And a voice, cold and filled with amusement, echoed in the darkness.
"Let the games… begin."
A guttural rasp, like nails dragging across a chalkboard made of bone, shattered the tense silence.
It emanated from the heart of the tomb, resonating through the ancient stones and making Avela's teeth ache.
It wasn't just a sound; it was a feeling, a palpable wave of wrongness that washed over them, heavy and suffocating.
"What the hell was that?" Jack muttered, his hand instinctively going to the silver-plated stake strapped to his thigh.
The cool touch of the stake against his fingers was a reminder of a possible defense.
Even Lorson, with his centuries of experience with the macabre, stiffened, his crimson eyes flickering with an unsettling mixture of fascination and… fear?
The air crackled, charged with a sudden surge of arcane energy.
Dust motes danced in the newly electrified air, swirling around the central sarcophagus like disturbed spirits.
The sight of the dancing dust was both mesmerizing and terrifying.
Alfred, oblivious to the rising tension, practically vibrated with excitement.
His eyes, wide and manic, were glued to the intricate carvings on the tomb, a feverish gleam in their depths.
He looked like a starving man presented with a feast.
A feast of nightmares.
"It begins," he whispered, a tremor in his voice that wasn't entirely from excitement.
"The awakening."
Another rasp, louder this time, ripped through the tomb.
Cracks spiderwebbed across the sarcophagus lid, spreading outwards like corrupted veins.
A faint, sickly green light pulsed from within, casting grotesque shadows that danced across the walls.
Avela exchanged a worried glance with Lorson.
This wasn't part of the plan.
Hell, they didn't even have a plan beyond getting into this dusty death trap and figuring out what Alfred was up to.
Now, whatever was locked in that tomb was breaking free, and judging by the gut-wrenching feeling coiling in her stomach, it wasn't going to be a tea party.
"Alfred, what the hell did you do?" Avela snapped, her voice sharper than broken glass.
This was going sideways, and fast.
Alfred didn't answer.
He was too engrossed, chanting in a low, guttural language that sounded disturbingly familiar to the rasps emanating from the tomb.
His hands moved in arcane gestures, weaving invisible patterns in the air.
He looked possessed, a puppet dancing to a sinister tune.
Suddenly, the sarcophagus lid exploded outwards, showering them with fragments of stone and dust.
A figure rose from within, bathed in the unsettling green glow.
It was a woman, her skin pale and translucent, her eyes burning with an unholy light.
Long, black hair framed a face that was both beautiful and terrifyingly inhuman.
Molly.
The sealed witch.
She was once a powerful and feared entity in this world, with a long-standing enmity with some of the characters.
The whispers about her power had haunted Avela's dreams since she'd first heard them.
Now, those whispers were screaming.
"Foolish mortals," Molly hissed, her voice laced with venom.
"You dare disturb my slumber?"
Alfred, still buzzing with manic energy, practically threw himself at her feet.
"My mistress," he croaked, his voice raspy with reverence, "I have awakened you! I offer you my service, my life, in exchange for your power!"
Molly looked at him, a cruel smile twisting her lips.
"Power?" she echoed, her voice like the rustling of dead leaves.
"Oh, you shall have power, little man. The power of oblivion."
A wave of pure, unadulterated magic erupted from her, knocking everyone back against the tomb walls.
Avela gasped for air, the force of the blast stealing her breath.
This wasn't just a vampire; this was something ancient, something primal.
And it was pissed.
This wasn't just a bloody mess anymore.
This was a massacre waiting to happen.
And Avela, along with everyone else trapped in that tomb, was about to become the main course.