The ancient temple beneath the mansion had become a cathedral of darkness.
Dozens of cultists stood in solemn formation around the stone altar, each dressed in black hooded robes that concealed their faces beneath deep shadows. In their hands, they held dark stone bowls brimming with the blood of the innocent prisoners they had slaughtered as an offering to their grotesque goddess.
On the cold floor below, a vast star enclosed within a circle had been freshly painted in blood. Surrounding it, dozens of black candles fashioned from human fat glowed ominously, casting long, twisting shadows up the stone walls.
At the centre of it all stood Vance Prescott.
Before him, Cedric lay motionless upon the cold stone altar, his upper body bare save for the blood-drawn symbol painted across his chest.
His amber eyes remained open… yet they were utterly lifeless.
Deep within, every fibre of his being screamed for him to move, to fight, to run.
But his body refused to obey.
