The room was pitch black—oppressively so—almost as if someone had gone to great lengths to ensure that not even the smallest flicker of light could breach its suffocating stillness. H
eavy drapes smothered the windows, thick enough to drown the sun itself, and not a single candle dared flicker in defiance. The air inside was cold, stale, and still—thick with silence that felt alive, pressing against the skin like a second, unwelcome presence.
At the center of this suffocating darkness, the ground had been disturbed. The floor, once smooth and cold, had been torn open and dug deep into a gaping crater.
And resting solemnly in the heart of that cavernous wound was a coffin—massive, heavy, and old. It sat nestled within the earth as if it belonged there, like the ground itself had parted willingly to cradle it.
