The group stepped outside and froze.
Stretching before them was an endless city, its sprawling expanse dissolving into the horizon like a mirage. Above, two identical red suns hung ominously in the dim sky, casting a blood-tinged light that bathed the city in a sickly glow. Beneath this eerie illumination, the city felt lifeless, as if it had been abandoned for centuries. The air was dense, heavy with the stench of decay, pressing down on them like an invisible weight.
From their elevated vantage point, they could see the vast grid of desolate streets below, radiating out like veins from the heart of an enormous, unnatural organism.
"This place… it's massive," Halia murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Massive and dead," Orion added, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes.
Michael squinted at a silver elevator in the distance. "That thing looks operational. Might be our way out of here."
"Let's move," Julian said calmly, though unease crept into his voice.
The group exchanged wary glances before heading toward the elevator, their footsteps echoing faintly in the oppressive stillness.
Inside, the silence deepened. The elevator descended smoothly, the faint hum of its mechanics amplifying their unease. There was no display, no indicator of where they were going—only the sensation of moving downward, into the unknown.
"Where's this thing taking us?" Michael muttered, his broad shoulders pressed awkwardly against the wall.
No one answered. The tension thickened as seconds dragged into minutes. Four, to be exact, before the elevator shuddered to a halt.
The doors creaked open, revealing a barren road stretching into the distance. The stillness outside was absolute, the kind that made every breath feel too loud.
Michael was the first to step out, his boots crunching against the cracked pavement. The others followed hesitantly, their gazes darting around, searching for any sign of life.
"What the hell is this place?" Michael growled, licking his dry lips. "The air feels like sandpaper, and we've been walking for hours without seeing a damn thing."
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Hunger and thirst gnawed at them, their legs growing heavier with each step. The road eventually ended, leading to a towering structure that loomed before them like a phantom from another age.
A castle.
Its three spired towers clawed at the sky, their sharp, conical tops silhouetted against the crimson glow of the twin suns. Thick stone walls, weathered by time and scarred by some forgotten struggle, encased the fortress, exuding an aura of ancient power.
"Looks like something out of a gothic novel," Halia muttered, craning her neck to take it all in.
Elton stepped closer, his fingers brushing the intricately carved stone. "Baroque architecture," he murmured, his tone tinged with fascination. "Seventeenth century, by the look of it. The level of detail here is extraordinary."
But something caught his eye—a fresco etched into the stone near the entrance. He stepped back, squinting to get a better look.
"What is it?" Orion asked, noticing the professor's furrowed brow.
Elton pointed to the artwork. It depicted twelve hooded figures standing in a circle around a massive bonfire, their hands clasped together in solemn unity. Each figure wore a distinct mask, their faces hidden beneath ornate designs.
"They're performing a ritual," Elton said grimly. "Praying for salvation."
"From what?"
"A plague," he replied, his voice heavy with foreboding. "Legends speak of a catastrophic plague that ravaged this land. The people prayed to their gods for deliverance. And, according to the story, their prayers were answered. A boy descended—immune to the plague. His blood became the cure."
"That's… comforting," Michael said dryly, stepping away from the fresco. "But unless this plague kid left us a fridge full of food, I don't care. Let's see what's inside."
With a grunt, Michael pushed open the castle's massive wooden doors.
The hinges groaned, releasing a cloud of dust as the doors creaked open to reveal a cavernous hall bathed in shadows. The group hesitated at the threshold, their eyes adjusting to the dim light.
At the center of the hall stood a woman.
She was cloaked in crimson, her dress flowing like liquid fire against the muted tones of the castle. Her face was obscured by shadows, but her presence was undeniable—commanding, almost magnetic.
"Who… who is she?" Naima whispered, her voice trembling.
The woman tilted her head ever so slightly, the movement slow and deliberate, like a predator studying its prey. Then she smiled—a chilling curve of her lips that sent a shiver through the group.
"Welcome," she said, her voice smooth, almost melodic, yet dripping with malice.
The word echoed in the vast hall, reverberating through the stone walls like the tolling of a funeral bell.
Michael instinctively reached for the gun tucked into his waistband, his fingers brushing the handle. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, his voice gruff, masking his unease.
The woman didn't answer. Instead, she extended a hand, her long fingers curling as if beckoning them closer.
Orion stepped forward cautiously. "What do you want?"
Her smile widened, her teeth gleaming faintly in the dim light. "I want…" she began, her voice drawing them in, every syllable laced with dark promise.
"…to see who among you is willing to sacrifice the others."