Dorian Kael moved through the dimly lit corridors of Mound Inn, his boots making little sound against the creaking wooden floor. He had been in this establishment countless times, but tonight, something felt different.

  The air was thick with an unnatural stillness, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The usual murmur of travelers and smugglers exchanging whispered deals was absent.

  When he reached the locked door at the end of the hallway, he hesitated. A feeling of unease suddenly arose within him.

  Without wasting any more time, he slipped a key from his coat pocket, and inserted it into the lock to open.

  The door creaked open an inch—then stopped. A sound slithered through the gap. A voice. Cold. Shrill. Inhuman.

  “You’re late, Dorian. I have been waiting for you along with your friends.”

  The hair on Dorian’s arms stood on end.

  His fingers itched toward his weapon, but something in the air—something rotten and heavy with the scent of blood—warned him against sudden movements.

  Taking a slow breath, he pushed the door fully open. Then, he saw the bodies. His stomach twisted violently.

  Three dismembered corpses were strewn across the floor, their twisted limbs frozen in grotesque angles. Blood had soaked into the aged wooden planks, pooling in thick, dark puddles. On a table against the far wall, several severed heads rested in a row. Their mouths were locked open in silent screams, their eye sockets hollow and dark, as if whatever had killed them had left them frozen in terror.

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  At the center of the carnage stood a figure, tall and unnervingly still.

  Its long, lizard-like tongue flicked across its fingers, savoring the lingering traces of blood.

  Dorian forced himself to breathe through his nose, shoving aside the nausea twisting in his gut.

  He reached for his gun, his grip firm, but his heart hammered against his ribs.

  “Who are you?” His voice was steady, but his mind raced. “What have you done to my friends?”

  The figure didn’t answer. It simply tilted its head, as if amused by the question.

  Dorian’s grip tightened. He pulled the trigger six times.

  The gunshots echoed through the room, sharp and deafening against the unnatural silence. The bullets struck dead center in the creature’s chest, one after another—a perfect grouping, right over where its heart should be.

  But nothing happened. No blood. No recoil. No stagger. The creature didn’t even flinch.

  It simply stood there, unfazed, its head tilting slightly as if bored by the effort. The dark fabric of its cloak rippled slightly from the impact, but beneath it, its flesh remained untouched. No wounds. No pain.

  Dorian’s breath hitched. His grip on the gun tightened.

  He had fought many things in his lifetime—some human, some not—but he had never seen something take a shot at point-blank range and act as though nothing had happened.

  The creature lowered its gaze, its mouth curling into a slow, unsettling smile.

  Then, without a word, it raised a single clawed hand and pointed at him.

  A pulse of unnatural energy crackled in the air.

  Dorian barely had time to register the horror before the world exploded into violet lightning.

  The air crackled with dark energy.

  A surge of violet lightning shot forward, striking Dorian with unimaginable force.

  His body was lifted off the ground, slammed into the ceiling with a sickening crack, then came crashing down onto the blood-streaked floor.

  Pain exploded through his body. His vision blurred.

  The last thing he saw before slipping into unconsciousness was the creature stepping toward him, its grin widening, its eyes glowing like gaping voids.

  Then—darkness.