The path the Dire Boar had cleared led them to the center of the Forbidden Zone.
Here, the trees stopped abruptly. They didn't fade away, they formed a perfect circle, a wall of black timber that refused to grow any further.
In the center of this dead circle sat the Source.
"By the Gods..." Kaelith whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her own heart.
It was a structure. But it was unlike anything the Aethelgard Empire, the Elven Dominion, or the Dragon Clans had ever built. It was a towering edifice of grey stone and dark glass, rising three stories high into the gloomy sky. It had sharp, jagged spires and arched windows that looked like unblinking eyes.
To a modern human, it was a slightly dilapidated Gothic Victorian Mansion.
To Kaelith, it was a Necropolis.
"It is a Tomb," Elara breathed, clutching her staff. Her face was as pale as the moon. "I feel no life inside. No wood breathing. No stone shifting. It is... hollow."
"It is dusty," Volkan noted, his golden eyes scanning the structure. He was back in human form, but he kept his distance. "Look at the windows. Covered in the filth of ages. The roof has holes. Whatever lived here... has been dead for a very long time."
"Or it doesn't care about the cold," Gorn muttered, his mechanical suit hissing quietly. "My scanners are picking up zero thermal signatures. The inside of that building is absolute zero. It's a void."
"We move in," Kaelith commanded, though every instinct in her body screamed at her to flee. "We leave the unconscious guards here. They will only slow us down. Stealth formation."
They approached the massive double doors. They were made of black oak, reinforced with iron.
Volkan reached out a hand to push the door. His hand trembled slightly. He, the King who bathed in lava, was afraid to touch a piece of wood.
CREEEEAAAAK.
The sound was agonizing. It wasn't just a rusty hinge, in the dead silence of the zone, it sounded like a scream.
They froze, weapons raised, waiting for a trap. Waiting for a laser beam or a dragon's breath.
Nothing happened. Dust motes danced in the sliver of light from the open door.
"Clear," Volkan whispered.
They stepped inside.
If the outside was a tomb, the inside was a mausoleum of nightmares.
The foyer was massive. A grand staircase swept up to the darkness of the second floor. The floor was covered in a thick, plush carpet that ran down the center of the hall.
"Don't touch the floor!" Kaelith hissed, floating slightly using her Aether. "That red fabric... the color... it looks like dried blood."
"A Blood Carpet," Gorn shuddered, stepping carefully on the stone edges. "A ritualistic pathway for the sacrifices."
"The air," Elara gagged, covering her nose. "It smells... stale. Like time itself has rotted here."
It was just dust. The house hadn't been cleaned in three thousand years. But to them, it was the scent of the grave.
They crept forward, passing into what looked like a sitting room. Furniture was draped in white sheets.
"Look at these shapes," Volkan pointed at a covered sofa. "They cover the bodies of their victims in white shrouds."
"No," Elara said, stopping in front of a massive painting hanging on the wall. The canvas was cracked with age, but the image was clear.
It depicted a man. He was tall, pale, with hair as black as the void and eyes like burning coals. He was dressed in strange, elegant black clothing, holding a goblet of red liquid. He was smiling, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
"The Pale Ones," Elara whispered, the ancient Elven legends surfacing in her mind. "The Night Walkers. My grandmother told me stories... beings that drank the essence of life. I thought they were myths."
"That isn't a myth," Kaelith said, pointing her rapier at the painting. "That is a portrait of a monster. Look at the arrogance in his eyes. He is drinking blood in the painting."
TICK.
The sound was sharp and mechanical.
TOCK.
The entire team spun around, weapons primed.
"What is that?" Gorn yelled, scanning the room frantically. "I hear a timer! It's a bomb! A Time Bomb!"
TICK. TOCK.
The sound was coming from a tall, wooden box in the corner. A pendulum swung back and forth behind a glass pane. A Grandfather Clock.
They had never seen a clock. In their world, they measured time by the sun or by burning incense.
"It is counting down," Volkan snarled, smoke rising from his skin. "It is a torture device. It marks the seconds until your death."
"Don't attack it!" Kaelith warned. "It might be rigged to explode if you touch it!"
They backed away from the clock, terrified by the rhythmic, relentless sound of the gears. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It felt like the heartbeat of the house.
They reached the foot of the stairs.
"The presence is upstairs," Elara said, looking up into the gloom. "I feel... it. A very hollow one."
"We go up," Volkan said, gripping the banister. He squeezed it too hard, and the dry wood splintered. He jumped back as if the wood had bitten him.
They ascended the stairs, step by agonized step. The dust on the steps was thick. They could see their own footprints, the first marks in this dust for eons.
"Sector Clear," Gorn whispered as they reached the landing. "Hallway extends ten meters. Three doors."
"The center door," Kaelith pointed. "It's slightly ajar."
They crept toward the center door. The tension was at a breaking point. Kaelith's Core Fusion was trembling. Volkan's Internal Furnace was sputtering. Elara was holding her breath.
They reached the door.
And then, they heard it.
Thump.
A footstep. Inside the room.
It wasn't the heavy, earth shaking stomp of the Dire Boar. It wasn't the skittering of a monster.
It was the slow, lazy shuffle of a bipedal humanoid.
Scrape.
The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor.
"It's awake," Volkan mouthed, his eyes wide with horror.
"Prepare for combat," Kaelith signaled with her hand. "On my mark. We burst in. We hit it with everything we have. Gorn, aim for the head. Volkan, burn the room. Elara, bind it."
They stacked up against the doorframe. Kaelith held up three fingers.
Two.
One.
CREAAAK.
Before they could kick the door down, it swung open from the inside.
The Suicide Squad froze.
Standing in the doorway was not a ten foot demon. It was not a dragon. It was not a god of death wreathed in shadow.
It was a man.
He was barefoot. He was wearing loose, black silk trousers and no shirt. His hair was messy, as if he had just rolled out of bed. He was holding a glass of red liquid in one hand and a half eaten moon berry in the other.
He looked at the four fully armored, terrified warriors standing in his hallway. He looked at the railgun pointed at his face. He looked at the glowing magic sword.
He didn't flare his aura. He didn't roar.
He blinked. His crimson eyes, the color of fresh blood, looked annoyed.
"Do you have any idea," the man asked, his voice dry and raspy, "how rude it is to stomp around a house with muddy boots?"
Draven had awoken from his second nap. And he was not happy about the noise.