Madark floated motionless on a black lake. The shore seemed far. Too far to swim. Impossibly far. Madark had never been a good swimmer. As a child, he watched from shore as the other children swam further out across the lake. So Madark thought to just drift. To relax and give up the struggle. He was in the center now. All around him the shore was too far. The effort required would be too strenuous. A warm feeling blanketed Madark. A feeling to allow himself the pleasure of sinking beneath the water. The feeling persuaded him. A slow pull, as if threads were attached to his shoulders, as if his wings were being caressed and coerced, persuaded further down. He allowed this as he took one small breath before being submerged. Down he was pulled, further from the top of the water, further from the impossibly far shore. Down and down he went. The subtle light of what may have been the moon piercing the water and illuminating a sliver of a vast, empty void. Peace. Tranquility. The water was warm and then began to cool. Cold, dense pockets of water made Madark uncomfortable. He tried to swim upwards, away from the uncomfortable coldness, but his movements were hindered. He tried to tread water, his bandaged hands visible as long long thin strands of white in the encompassing darkness. The strands seemed to be getting caught around his ankles. He tried to kick free but his limbs refused to move. They felt weak and delayed. He could not punch, he could not thrash. He tried to call out for help. He opened his mouth to scream. What he thought was water rushed in, a thick odorless and tasteless smoke, filled his mouth. 'I'm drowning!' Madark thought in panic. 'No. I'm dreaming!'

Madark's eyes snapped open, his heart pounding like a trapped bird in his chest. The remnants of a chilling dream clung to him – a sensation of being dragged into the depths of a murky, endless lake. His breaths came in short, panicked gasps. Then the unease of being in a strange room enveloped him. The room around him was cloaked in shadows that seemed to breathe. In the darkest corners, malice lurked. The imperceptible presence lingered, its malevolence palpable. Madark felt the suffocating weight upon his chest once again as if being pulled backwards, an invisible force that seemed to tighten with every breath he struggled to take. He wanted to scream, to call for help, but fear had stolen his voice. His bandaged hands, raw and tender, ached with a pain that echoed the torment he had endured in the crypts.

With a surge of desperate courage, Madark pushed against the suffocating dread. He stumbled to his feet, his gaze fixated on a sliver of light peeking from beneath a door. The door loomed before him, his only salvation, its handle a tantalizing promise of escape.

He sprinted to the door, fumbling with the handle. The elegantly wrapped linens serving as bandages began to discolor, turning shades of red as he continued to fumble with the handle. A surge of panic overtook him as the shadows in the room seemed to creep inched closer with a silent, ominous intent. In a burst of raw fear and defiance, Madark turned and screamed. The scream pierced the heavy air and halted the encroaching darkness.

For a moment, he stood frozen, his heart racing. He scanned around the room and saw an indiscernible shape. It moved. The tide of terror overcame him again. He yanked the door open and stumbled into the corridor, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor. The corridor was brightly lit with a dense white fog filling the space. The walls were adorned with exquisite art that whispered tales of grandeur long past. Yet, Madark had no eyes for such wonders. His world had narrowed to the primal need for escape, for survival. He descended the seemingly endless spiral of stairs, stumbling, falling, but always clambering back to his feet, driven by an instinctive fear. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each step a throb of pain against the soles of his feet.

But the pain was more than mere exhaustion; it was different. As if he were stepping on the first growth of grass, yet these strands of grass felt razor-sharp. Madark arrived at a landing that stretched out to another corridor which branched off from the stairwell into a large room lined with chairs and an exquisite table. Upon the table was a silver platter and a highly ornate golden chalice, its craftsmanship speaking of mysteries and powers beyond his understanding.

He considered seeking help from beyond the door, yet the large, imposing doors intimidated Madark. He stood with shaky breath but heard a low, somber hymn that drifted from behind the doors. It was a sound he had heard before, a melody that spoke of solemn rituals and mournful voices. Madark walked towards the room, but halted. He saw that he was naked. Only his blood-stained bandages covered his hands. A chill ran along his body. The shadow was still coming. He turned and ran again, ignoring the growing pain in his feet, the low hum of the hymn followed him as well as the malevolent shade.

Madark's steps faltered as the pain intensified, each footfall sending sharp stabs of agony through his feet. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stop and examine the soles of his feet. Expecting to see wounds or blood, he was bewildered to find nothing amiss, no visible cuts or scrapes, yet the pain was unrelenting, as if his very nerves were alight with invisible flames.

Driven by desperation, he turned back, retracing his steps into the corridor that led to the large room lined with chairs. The pain in his feet also subsided as he climbed further up the stairs. As he entered the room, his gaze was drawn inexorably to the chalice he had noticed earlier. Now, however, it wasn't just an object of curiosity; it seemed to beckon him, its contents gleaming ominously in the dim light. The liquid inside was a deep, rich red, resembling blood more than any beverage. The sight of it sent a shiver down his spine, a mix of fear and an inexplicable pull. He felt a thirst, a desire to drink deeply, to savor every single drop. But his transfixation was broken as he felt the presence of the shadow behind him growing, moving closer, and growing stronger, its malevolent energy creeping, almost palpable in its intensity. It was as though the shadow fed on his fear, gaining substance and power from his terror. Madark knew he couldn't afford to remain still, but his body seemed unwilling to obey, frozen in place by a mixture of dread and fascination.

With a deep breath, Madark forced himself to move, tearing his gaze away from the chalice. He had to find a way out, to escape this waking nightmare that seemed to thicken with every passing moment. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drum urging him to flee."
As the hymn crescendoed into a resonant chant, Madark, fueled by a surge of adrenaline, burst through the imposing wooden doors. The once harmonious voices ceased abruptly, leaving an echoing silence in their wake.

He found himself in a large circular room, steeped in an atmosphere of solemn reverence. In the heart of the chamber, Aris Ascarian knelt at an altar's end, cradling the feet of a person lying motionless on their back, a smaller red blanket draped over the body, hinting at the finality of death.

The sudden intrusion caused the room to fall into a deep, awkward silence. Every eye turned toward Madark, who, in contrast to the solemn ritual, appeared disheveled, with bandaged hands and the marks of a recent, harrowing ordeal.

Aris's head snapped up, his face etched with confusion and concern. He rose slowly, his presence commanding yet wrapped in an enigmatic aura, as if he were a guardian of ancient secrets.

Madark's entry into the room was abrupt; he began with a frantic run, which gradually slowed to a light jog, then to hesitant steps. His breathing was the only sound in the otherwise silent chamber, heavy and uneven, punctuating the awkwardness of the moment.

The assembled group's gaze weighed heavily on him, a palpable pressure that seemed to accentuate the surreal and incongruous nature of his presence in this place of ritual and mourning.

The air hung thick with unvoiced questions and the palpable tension of a ritual interrupted. Madark's heart pounded in his chest, his mind a swirl of fear, confusion, and the strangeness of his own intrusion.

Aris's eyes met Madark's in a silent exchange, a moment of shared understanding amidst the chaos. There was a depth in Aris's gaze, an intensity that seemed to pierce through Madark, seeing into corners of his being he himself didn't fully understand.

Aris, with a careful and deliberate motion, folded the red cloth that had draped the body. The crowd watched in a hushed reverence, their eyes following his every move. Madark stood, his heart racing, as Aris approached him. As the man drew nearer, Madark couldn't help but feel intimidated by his towering stature.

Gently, Aris knelt before Madark. With meticulous care, he unfolded the red cloth and wrapped it around Madark’s shoulders. The fabric felt heavy, laden with a significance Madark couldn't comprehend. A collective gasp rippled through the assembled crowd, followed by a low murmur of whispers that ebbed and flowed like a tide of uncertainty.

The room, charged with a mix of awe and confusion, watched as Aris gazed intently into Madark's eyes. There was a depth of scrutiny in his look, as if he were searching for something hidden deep within the boy. Madark, under the weight of that gaze, felt an unsettling vulnerability.

Aris’s brows furrowed, a shadow of concern crossing his features. He attempted a reassuring smile, but it was tinged with a sadness that spoke volumes of the complexities lying beneath his exterior. Just as the moment between them deepened, a new presence entered the room, shifting the atmosphere once again.

Kara Kazarian, her aura as commanding as it was enigmatic, stepped into the chamber. In her hands, she held the platter with the ornate golden chalice, its craftsmanship gleaming even in the dim light. Her entrance drew all eyes to her, her presence undeniable, a force unto itself.

The whispers in the room grew louder, a rustling of fabrics and hushed voices as the crowd reacted to her arrival. Kara moved with a grace that belied the weight of the chalice she carried, her eyes scanning the room, taking in the scene before her.

Aris's attention shifted to Kara, a subtle change in his demeanor, as if the balance of the room had been altered with her arrival. The connection between Aris and Madark, for a moment so intense, was momentarily broken, leaving Madark wrapped in the red cloth, a solitary figure amidst the shifting dynamics of the room.

The tension in the air was palpable, a silent clash of unseen forces, as two powerful presences occupied the same space. Madark, caught in the middle, felt like a pawn in a game whose rules he did not understand, yet he was acutely aware that the stakes were high, and that he was somehow central to the unfolding drama.To Madark's amazement, the striking Kara Kazarian bowed gracefully to Aris, her gesture eloquent with unspoken respect and complex undertones. Aris, acknowledging her reverence, took the chalice from the platter with a solemnity that bespoke of deep-rooted tradition. He turned slowly, ceremonially facing each quadrant of the circular room, as if honoring the pillars which held up the domed ceiling. The crowd watched in silence, a reverence in their eyes that spoke of the significance of this act. Aris then brought the chalice to his lips, taking a measured sip, his eyes closing briefly in what seemed like a moment of silent prayer or contemplation.

After returning the chalice to the platter, he leaned down to whisper something to Kara. Madark, straining his ears, caught the words, “take him. Get him some food and put him..." Aris paused for a moment, "somewhere safe. Wherever.” spoken with a tone of concerned authority, yet unheard by anyone else in the room.

Kara remained still for a moment, her expression unchanged, serene and perfect with the slightest of smiles that seemed frozen in time, as if painted on a mask, her bright, emerald-like eyes inviting and warm. Madark tracked her as she moved towards the corpse. The face of the body was now visible, the red shroud having been removed to temporarily cloth Madark. He appeared old. The back of his head being the only spot that had long gray hair, the front, smooth bald skin with dark blemishes. Madark then looked around the room, a sea of unfamiliar faces, many of which seemed to track Kara. She was wearing a striking green lace dress with golden embroidery that elegantly accentuated her form. For the moment, Madark felt invisible. He wasn't the strange, bandaged child that barged into a funeral service. At that moment, he, like everyone else, were just guests.

She then placed the platter on a separate altar, the soft metal on stone being the only audible noise. She then looked at the crowd in front of her, bowing slightly and performing the same act to the assembled crowd behind her. Approaching Madark, Kara leaned down, her hand softly brushing over his sweat-matted hair in a gesture meant for comfort. Yet, instead of comfort, a wave of unease swept over Madark, he flinched and shut his eyes, peeking in fear.

Despite his discomfort, Madark found himself being escorted out of the room by Kara, a small trail of blood dripped from Madark's blood-soaked bandages onto the polished stone floor. Her touch was gentle, almost maternal, but the unease within him only grew. The room, still thick with the air of ritual and unspoken questions, watched as he was led out, the whispers growing fainter as they moved away. Before exiting, Madark cast a lingering glance back at Aris Ascarian. Aris paused and stared. Madark was unable to understand his expression as the doors slowly shut.