The next destination was the main hall.

  As Caspian approached, the massive double doors groaned and creaked open on their own — inviting, ominous. A gust of stale air wafted out from within, thick with the scent of ancient stone, burnt wood, and something faintly metallic. The prince didn’t so much as pause, striding forward with effortless grace, a shadow moving through an even older shadow.

  Bones followed.

  The hall was vast with walls that reached upward into near darkness, the ceiling lost somewhere thirty meters above. A pair of long banquet tables stretched down either side of the hall, their surfaces draped with timeworn linen and unlit silver candelabras. The walls were lined with faded tapestries bearing crests unfamiliar to Bones—some torn, some burned, others still clinging stubbornly to their place as if history itself refused to be forgotten.

  A fireplace set into the far wall coughed and sputtered to life as they entered, its flames flickering like the breath of something sleeping deep beneath the castle. Shadows danced across the uneven stone, illuminating cobweb-draped chandeliers and carvings of monstrous visages staring down from the upper walls. Somewhere above, the rapid flutter of wings echoed faintly—bats, disturbed by their presence.

  At the center of the room stood an elevated podium, where a high-backed throne loomed, worn down by centuries. The once-opulent cushion on the seat had faded to a dull gray, torn at the seams, and riddled with dust.

  Caspian slowed, gesturing lazily around. “We don’t use the main hall much. Everyone prefers their own little corner of the castle these days. Privacy over grandeur. I haven’t seen some of my kin in decades.”

  “There are… others here besides you?” Bones asked hesitantly, his tone wary.

  “Of course.”

  “Then —” Bones glanced around, tense, expecting to see eyes watching from the shadows.

  “You won’t see any of them,” Caspian interrupted, his tone dismissive, though a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Rest assured. The Lord and the other heirs are in deep slumber. A state much like yours… Eternal Rest, was it?”

  Bones gave a cautious nod.

  “At a certain point, it becomes difficult to cope with the longevity of our kind. There’s only so much time can offer before it all begins to blur. Most of us sleep. Deeply. For centuries at a time.” He paused, tapping his temple with one finger. “Usually, only one heir stays awake to guard the halls. To… endure. I remember my first slumber. I was five hundred years old and terrified they’d forget about me. I awoke a century later and found nothing had changed. The second time, I slept through two whole wars. That one started when I turned a millennium.”

  Bones blinked. Still doing the math, calculating Caspian’s age and picturing ancient vampires dozing somewhere deep within the castle.

  Caspian noticed his silence and grinned. “Well, no need to overthink it. These aren’t the sort of secrets we usually share with outsiders. My father would turn in his coffin if he knew I had an undead roaming the halls!” he laughed.

  “Lord Gawain…” Bones muttered under his breath, realizing the weight of where he was. Gawain — one of the Four who defeated the Skeleton King. No wonder the old vampire wouldn’t want anything undead nearby. When he looked up again, Caspian was already moving toward the exit on the far end of the hall. Casting one last glance at the empty throne, Bones followed.

  They passed through a narrow corridor into a courtyard where cracked stone benches circled the remains of a garden. The soil was dry, cracked, and lifeless, save for the twisting, overgrown vines now wrapping tightly around crumbling pillars, the only remnants of life.

  From there, they stepped into a grand lobby. A faded marble floor stretched out beneath their feet, its checkerboard pattern worn smooth in places. High above, tall arched windows filtered in pale blue light. Opposite the reinforced main doors stood a staircase that split and curled upward like embracing arms, its railing adorned with tarnished golden leaves. The entire room spoke of faded luxury—wealth left to rot.

  Despite the dimmed splendor, Bones’ attention was drawn to the fountain between the stairs. A thick, dark red liquid gurgled from its spout, flowing down sculpted grooves shaped like fangs. The liquid stuttered and spat intermittently, as if something clogged the pipes.

  Caspian turned to comment on the architecture but stopped when he noticed Bones stopping in front of the fountain, staring.

  “This is… a blood fountain?” Bones asked, half-sure.

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  Caspian recoiled slightly, eyes widening in mock offense. “What? Of course not! It’s rust. And clay. As you know, the castle is… old.”

  He didn’t sound convinced.

  Bones squinted at him, then pointed at the weak sputtering flow. “Your rusty fountain’s stuttering.”

  “What?” Caspian strode over, inspecting it. The intermittent trickle confirmed it. He clicked his tongue in irritation. “Clogged again.”

  Then, turning toward Bones, a spark of mischief in his eye, he asked, “You’re an adventurer, yes?”

  Bones gave him a hard stare. “You know I am.”

  “And adventurers take commissions?”

  “No,” Bones answered flatly, already seeing where this was headed. “I’m not unclogging that.”

  Caspian straightened, trying to look serious. “You… haven’t killed all the vampire spawn on your way up, have you?”

  Bones shook his head. “No. Some are still roaming outside the gates. A few inside, too.”

  “Ah! Good, good! Then the mysterious source of rust shall be dealt with soon enough,” Caspian said, clapping his hands once with exaggerated relief.

  Bones rolled his eyes. “No need for theatrics. I don’t particularly care who they were. Still… I thought adventurers didn’t visit this place. Because of the fog and all.”

  “They don’t,” Caspian replied quickly, glancing again at the fountain. “Haven’t had one in years. It's rust and clay, I tell you.”

  That’s definitely blood, Bones thought. With that much iron in the air, even I can smell it.…

  “You best be on your way,” Caspian said, smoothly changing the subject. “You’re headed to… Wolford, I assume?”

  Bones nodded. “Yes.”

  Caspian nodded back, then—like a proper host—offered a parting gift: a wicker basket, sealed with a velvet ribbon and accompanied by an unreadable smile.

  “Take this. Consider it a token of hospitality. And a word of advice — avoid burrows in the Dark Forest. Some vampire lairs aren’t as… civilized as mine. Not all of us live in castles. The ones in dens are primal, feral. No sense of culture or nobility.” He spat the word like it offended him. “If you're struggling to grasp the difference in strength… imagine fighting two or three Garriks. That’s what you’ll find out there.”

  Bones gave a subtle nod. Caspian’s words weren’t lost on him. Just like that — barely an hour after meeting — Bones was on his way. Out the gates, along the dirt path, no fog to blur the horizon. No Garrik chasing after him.

  The whole meeting had been awkward. Unsettling. And, in a strange way… thrilling. Once he was far enough from the castle, Bones let out a loud, cackling laugh.

  “What’s in the basket, anyway?” he asked aloud.

  He opened it. Inside, he found: a small romance novel titled Moonlight Surrender, a handful of polished finger bones wrapped in red cloth, and… a severed hand.

  Bones stared. “I suspect he just wanted to get rid of a few things…”

  He closed the lid with a mutter. “I’m not a zombie, you know.”

  Back at the castle, Caspian returned to the main hall, slumping into the faded throne with a deep sigh, boredom settling over him again now that Bones was gone. Footsteps echoed behind him. He turned as a figure entered the hall.

  “Forefather,” Caspian greeted lazily, not rising.

  Gawain emerged from the corridor’s shadow — slightly hunched, his every step deliberate, as though the weight of centuries pressed down on his shoulders. His long hair, streaked silver and charcoal, was tied back in a loose knot that swayed behind him like the tail of a beast just barely restrained. There was no beard to frame his sharp, time-worn features — his gaunt cheeks hollow, his skin stretched taut like parchment over bone. Sunken eyes burned beneath a heavy brow, dim with age yet still watchful, as if he'd seen far too much and still remembered every moment.

  He wore the remnants of an old ceremonial robe, its once-rich crimson faded to wine-black, clasped loosely at the collar. Dust clung to the hem like ash, and faint arcane embroidery glittered faintly in the firelight. It wasn’t clear if the robe was meant for battle or burial. Perhaps both.

  Gawain grunted and approached one of the long tables, dragging a chair in front of the fire. He sat heavily, the chair creaking beneath the presence of a man who had not moved in centuries. Only then did Caspian get up and do the same, settling beside him.

  “Forefather? Is that how you greet me now?” Gawain grumbled, disapproving.

  Caspian scratched his chin awkwardly. “...Father. You heard us?”

  “I heard everything. If you’re that bored, go outside.”

  “I couldn’t be rude to our guest, could I?” Caspian said, half-smiling. “Besides, he was… interesting. Unique in a way.”

  Gawain’s gaze stayed fixed on the fire. “Have you felt it? He carries his mark.”

  “…His?” Caspian’s brows furrowed. Then widened. “His? You mean Vyrus? That presence I felt… it was His?”

  Gawain grunted. “We don’t need another Skeleton King,” he muttered, rising to his feet.

  “You’re leaving already?”

  “I am. Be patient, Caspian. Just ten — no, five more years.”

  Caspian groaned internally at the thought of five more years of this.

  At the threshold of the hall, Gawain paused. “Did you send him off with the gift?”

  “Of course. Like a proper host.”

  Gawain gave a satisfied nod and disappeared into the shadows.