THE BLOOD-FILLED UNDERGROUND ROOM

A thin veil of mist still clung to the morning air, biting and cold to the bone. Dew had frozen along the wild grasses that crept through the stone cracks of Saint Hiller’s courtyard, glinting like rows of glass daggers in the pale morning light. Hidden in a shadowy corner of the garden, behind a wall of old purple shrubs, sat a boy in silence. *Brian Nicole*.

His eyes, swollen and tired, stared blankly at the winding path swallowed by the fog. Endless nights of strange dreams had left him drained. Every time he closed his eyes, visions of a dark underground room, whispers in foreign tongues, and faceless figures haunted him relentlessly.

Since his arrival, Brian had sensed that Saint Hiller was more than just a school. There was something far older, far greater—something that lived within the castle beyond its stone walls and textbooks.

Saint Hiller was a fortress that aged with time—and perhaps, outlived time itself.

This was a far cry from everything Brian had known in Havlen.

Havlen was a small, modern town. There were no castles there, only large old houses. The people lived in a world of electricity, routine, and order. Here, Saint Hiller was like a land torn from a forgotten fairytale—mysterious, archaic, unsettling.

In the distance, the black stone castle loomed atop the cliffs, as solid and eternal as an ancient giant. Its basalt walls drank in the pale morning sun, casting shadows darker than the ever-gray skies of Belgorov.

The towers speared upward toward the clouds. Their bronze-tipped spires pierced the low-hanging mist. At the summit of the tallest tower stood the Great Clock of Saint Hiller—a massive relic that chimed only at certain times, seemingly chosen by the will of the castle itself. Each toll felt heavy, sinking into the bones and unsettling the soul.

And indeed, the castle felt…alive.

The air in the corridors would shift—from warm to icy cold—as if reacting to unseen moods that lingered in its stonework. Hallways sometimes grew longer. Shadows moved without masters. Stained-glass windows shimmered with hues of blood-red, frost-blue, and ancient purple—like giant watching eyes, silently tracking all who passed below.

In the central courtyard, old stone statues stood frozen. Most of their faces had worn away with age, vines slowly pulsing over them as if the plants themselves breathed.

At night, a ghostly fog would roll across the garden paths, distorting the spiral layout that wound like a spider’s web.

The ancient trees in the corner where Brian sat stretched their gnarled branches like skeletal fingers, bent in unnatural shapes as if reaching for anyone who wandered too near.

Brian stood. Something within him—a whisper born from those cursed dreams—was calling. He felt pulled toward the hidden parts of the castle, as if they had been waiting for him. He followed a twisting path that led behind the eastern wall.

There, behind a curtain of thick ivy, he found an old wooden door. The blackened wood was nearly hidden beneath tangled vines, as if nature itself sought to bury it. But Brian knew—he had to enter.

With trembling fingers, he brushed away the wet leaves and slowly pushed the door open. Its hinges groaned, tearing through the morning silence.

Beyond the door stretched a narrow stone passage, long and damp. The air was freezing, the stone walls slick with moisture. A strange cocktail of scents—wet soil, aged wax, and crumbling parchment—hung in the air, stirring a quiet dread in his chest.

Flickering torchlight lined the walls, casting dancing shadows among ancient carvings. Brian’s footsteps echoed softly as he ventured deeper.

He passed old wooden doors, each sealed with rusted iron locks. He remembered whispers—rumors about hidden rooms beneath the castle, rooms never drawn on official maps. Sometimes at night, when all was quiet, one could hear soft knocking behind these forgotten doors.

The deeper he walked, the heavier his steps became. But something—something unseen—kept calling him onward.

At the end of the corridor, he discovered a descending staircase carved of stone. The steps were worn, slick with moss.

Brian took a deep breath and stepped down carefully.

Halfway down, a faint sound made him freeze.

**Tap… tap… tap…**

Footsteps. Soft. Barely audible. But close—too close.

His heart pounded. Slowly, he turned.

From the shadows emerged a large wolf—no, larger than any natural wolf. Its body matched the size of a grown man, sleek black fur gleaming even in the dim light. Its eyes glowed red, and its long snout curled into a silent snarl, revealing fangs sharp as knives, dripping with saliva.

Without warning, it lunged.

Brian’s mind raced. Then he remembered Viktor’s words: “If you’re ever in danger, grip this medal and speak the name ‘James.’ He’ll come to help you.”

Without hesitation, Brian grabbed the medal hanging at his neck, gripped it tightly, and shouted, “James!”

A sudden flash of silver light burst into the air. The wolf, mid-leap, was thrown violently against the stone wall. The impact boomed like thunder. A force unseen dragged the beast upward, flinging it into the darkness above. It vanished without a sound.

Brian’s knees nearly buckled. He was trembling all over. But the pull inside him hadn’t stopped. It urged him onward.

Wobbling, he continued down the stairs.

At the bottom, Brian emerged into a vast underground chamber, easily the size of a baseball field. Giant stone pillars held up a ceiling that soared into the shadows, etched with carvings nearly consumed by moss.

But it wasn’t the architecture that stole his breath.

It was the smell of blood. Sharp. Metallic. Overwhelming.

Brian gagged, stumbling forward, only to realize that the entire floor was covered in a shallow pool of thick, crimson liquid—blood.

He stood frozen at the base of the stairs. Every step forward caused ripples in the red.

“So much blood... whose blood is this?” he thought, horrified.

In the center of the room, shadows of tall, unmoving figures loomed. They blended so deeply with the dark that it was impossible to say whether they were statues—or something worse.

Brian dared not go further.

His instincts screamed. He needed to get out. Now.

Quietly, carefully, he turned and began climbing the stairs. Every step took eternity.

As he neared the top, he froze again.

In the trees outside the corridor entrance, a pair of red eyes watched him—sharp and unblinking, from behind the mist.

Someone—or something—had been watching him the entire time.

Without thinking, Brian darted into the woods, weaving between the trees, running faster than he ever had. His breath tore through his throat. His body shook violently.

Even after reaching the dormitory, locking the door behind him, and collapsing onto his bed, the feeling remained. The presence still lingered. Watching.

He was sure of it.

This wasn’t a dream. It was real. And none of this madness would ever have happened in Havlen. This was no longer the world he knew.

He felt as if he’d been thrown into a storybook filled with ancient riddles, monsters, and magic.

Somewhere deep behind the stone walls of Saint Hiller, an ancient power had begun to awaken.

And now… it had noticed Brian Nicole.