A storm loomed on the horizon. The ocean churned violently, waves crashing against the sides of the small, weathered ship that fought against the relentless currents. Above, the sky was an ashen gray, swirling clouds shifting unnaturally, like unseen forces twisted them into impossible shapes.

  A small ship, barely holding against the relentless currents, struggled toward its destination—a pentagram-shaped island at the heart of the archipelago. The waves crashed against the vessel, but it pressed forward, guided by an invisible pull.

  As soon as the ship landed, Dorian Kael and Aldric Veyne stepped onto the island, their boots sinking slightly into the damp, dark sand. Neither spoke as they made their way toward the island's center, where jagged black stones formed an ancient ritual circle.

  Aldric reached into his coat, pulling out the same weathered book he had used before. His fingers traced the symbols on the page before he began reciting a complex incantation, his voice steady, unwavering.

  The air around them shifted—an unnatural stillness settling over the island. Then, out of nowhere, a small ornate boxmaterialized before them, suspended in mid-air.

  Without hesitation, Dorian stepped forward and placed the artifact inside the box.

  The moment he did, he felt something shift in the fabric of reality.

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  A low hum filled the air, growing in intensity. The box vibrated violently before disappearing in a sudden flash of red light.

  A deep, sinister laughter echoed through the empty expanse.

  Dorian’s blood ran cold.

  Where the box had vanished, a hooded figure now stood in its place, its laughter reverberating through the very air.

  "Now I know," the figure said, its voice dripping with triumph.

  Dorian gasped as he snapped awake.

  His vision was blurry, the edges of the room swimming as his body ached from unseen wounds.

  He was still in the inn. Still in the same bloodstained room, with the figure looming over him, its eyes burning like two gaping voids.

  Dorian’s pulse spiked. Somewhere deep inside, he already knew what had happened. He had given the creature exactly what it wanted.

  A slow, satisfied chuckle rumbled from the hooded figure. "You have helped me dearly," it murmured, its voice slithering through the air like oil.

  Dorian gritted his teeth. He had tried his best to build his mental walls, but it was useless—the creature was way strong.

  The figure raised a skeletal hand, dark energy crackling between its fingers. Before Dorian could react, a crimson wave of electricity erupted from its palm, slamming into his chest.

  Agony ripped through his body. His muscles seized, his breath was forced from his lungs, and every nerve screamed in torment. The world blurred at the edges, but before unconsciousness took him, he saw the figure open a shimmering portal, stepping through and vanishing.

  Moments later, the door to the room burst open. The innkeeper stood frozen in terror. His eyes darted around the blood-streaked floor, his breath caught in his throat.

  Four severed heads rested on the table, their empty eye sockets staring into nothingness, their mouths twisted in silent screams. The innkeeper stumbled back, his hands shaking.

  A nightmare had unfolded in his very inn.