Allen's hand froze on the edge of the coffin lid. He didn't push. Instead, he took two measured steps back, his eyes darting around the sterile grey room once more. Caution was a trait he had cultivated with more care than any spell, and walking into the lair of a Tremere Duke with nothing but a wand and a prayer was a lapse in judgment he couldn't afford.
With a focused thought, he reached into the void of the System's storage space. To Daisy's bewildered eyes, it looked as though he was pulling solid objects out of thin air, his arm disappearing into an invisible ripple before emerging with a heavy, shimmering weight.
"Here," Allen said, his voice echoing in the small chamber. He handed her a silver sword and a matching shield. "Take these."
Daisy nearly dropped the shield as its weight hit her. "Allen? Where did this come from? You don't have a mokeskin pouch or an extension charm on your robes—I would have noticed."
"I picked them up during that stint in the States," Allen lied smoothly, not wanting to explain the intricacies of a trans-dimensional inventory system. "The shield is enchanted silver—it's designed specifically to eat curses and reflect dark hexes. The sword... well, you know the basics. Silver is poison to the children of the night. If he gets past me, don't try to be a hero. Just keep that shield between you and him."
Daisy ran her fingers over the shield. It was a work of art—etched with layers of blooming roses, the silver petals so lifelike they seemed to tremble. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "But Allen, you're the one going to the coffin. You should have the protection."
"I have something else," Allen replied, his eyes narrowing as he turned back to the dark wood. He showed her how to trigger the shield's mechanism. With a sharp click, two of the silver roses merged, and the entire apparatus expanded, wrapping around Daisy's forearm in a seamless, protective gauntlet.
Daisy gripped the sword, her knuckles white. She looked like a Valkyrie standing at the mouth of a tomb, her fear replaced by a fierce, protective focus. "Don't die, little brother. I haven't forgiven you for hiding all this gear from me yet."
Allen gave her a short, grim nod and turned back. He moved with the silence of a ghost, his wand held in a low, ready position. He was only five feet from the coffin when the room decided it had seen enough of his intrusion.
There was no sound—only a sudden, violent blur of movement from the floor.
The heavy rug beneath Allen's feet didn't just slide; it buckled and leaped like a living thing. Before he could utter a syllable, the thick, coarse fabric wrapped around his legs and torso, whipping upward to cover his face. It was impossibly strong, the fibers tightening with a hydraulic force that aimed to crush his ribs and suffocate him in one go.
"Allen!" Daisy screamed, her silver sword flashing as she lunged forward.
"Stay back!" Allen's voice was muffled, but the authority in it was absolute.
Within the constricting darkness of the carpet, Allen didn't panic. He could feel the magic weaving through the fabric—an animation charm fueled by blood. Diffindo! He didn't even need to move his arm; the silent casting of the severing charm erupted from the tip of his wand like a localized explosion.
The carpet didn't just tear; it disintegrated. Shreds of enchanted wool rained down like black snow. Allen stepped out of the ruins, his breathing slightly elevated but his expression as cold as ice. He signaled Daisy to stay at the door with a sharp gesture of his free hand.
The room was silent again, but the atmosphere had shifted. The trap had been sprung, and the hunter knew the prey was inside.
Allen reached the coffin again. He placed his hands on the glossy wood, feeling the unnatural chill. "Wingardium Leviosa," he muttered, testing the weight. The lid didn't even vibrate. The levitation charm slid off the surface like water off a duck's back.
"Warded," Allen observed. "Classic Tremere. They don't trust magic they didn't create themselves."
He tucked his wand into his belt, making sure it was positioned for a quick-draw, and gripped the heavy lid with both hands. He planted his feet and hauled. For a second, nothing happened. The lid felt as though it were part of the earth's crust. Then, a groan of stressed wood echoed through the chamber. A sliver of darkness appeared as the seal broke.
A sudden, icy prickle ran down Allen's spine. It was the feeling of being watched—not by Daisy, but by something that didn't use eyes. He spun around, wand already in hand, but the room was empty. Daisy stood at the door, her shield raised, her eyes wide with worry.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered.
"Just the house settled," Allen lied, though he knew better. He turned back to the coffin, his heart thudding a steady, rhythmic warning. With one final, violent shove, he pried the lid open a few inches. Then, he stepped back, drew his wand, and delivered a brutal kick to the side of the lid.
The heavy wood spun off, crashing onto the stone floor with a deafening boom.
Allen leaned forward, his wand tip glowing with a harsh, white light. He expected a monster. He expected a bat-like creature or a pale aristocrat. What he found was far more disturbing.
Inside the purple silk lining lay a man who looked like he had been dragged through the fires of hell and left to dry. He was entirely bald, his scalp a landscape of mottled black scars and translucent, paper-thin skin. His face was a ruin—disfigured, noseless, with lips that had withered away to reveal glimpses of yellowed teeth. He wore robes of deep, royal purple, embroidered with silver thread that seemed to pulse in the light.
"He looks... dead," Daisy whispered from the doorway, her voice trembling. "Like, actually dead."
"He's a vampire, Daisy. He's been dead for a long time," Allen replied. He didn't take any chances. He gathered a burst of positive energy—a spell designed to burn the undead—and hurled it at the body.
Clang!
A shimmering violet barrier erupted from the coffin's edges, catching the spell and refracting it into the ceiling. The old man's eyes snapped open.
They weren't red. They were a piercing, unnatural silver, swirling like mercury in a storm. He didn't hiss; he groaned, a sound like grinding stones. Slowly, with agonizing deliberation, the creature sat up. He rubbed his eyes with a claw-like hand, blinking against the light of Allen's wand as if he were merely an old man waking from a nap.
Then, the speed changed.
One moment he was sitting; the next, he was a blur of purple fabric. He landed on the far wall, his body adhering to the vertical stone like an insect. He unfurled his cloak, and for a second, it looked like a pair of leathery wings stretching across the room.
"Intruders," the creature rasped. His voice was like dry leaves skittering across a grave. He squinted at Allen, those mercury eyes narrowing. "A child? No... a spark. A very bright, very noisy spark."
"The Duke of Night, I presume," Allen said, his wand tracking the creature's every twitch. "You've made a mess of this house, Duke. And Clark wants her blood back."
The Duke's disfigured face twisted into what might have been a smile. "Clark... the little bird. She always did chirp too much." He turned his gaze toward the door, spotting Daisy. He licked his withered lips with a grey, swollen tongue. "So thirsty. The slumber was long, and the hunger... it gnaws."
Daisy let out a small, choked gasp, her shield shaking.
"Stay back, Daisy," Allen warned, his voice a low growl.
The Duke ignored him, staring intently at Allen. "You... you are special. I can taste the magic coming off you from here. It's dense. Ancient. It would be like drinking liquid starlight." He began to descend the wall, his movements jerky and unnatural. "I am so thirsty, little spark. I am practically dying of it."
As the Duke spoke, Allen felt a sudden, heavy pressure against the front of his skull. It was a psychic intrusion—a jagged, oily probe trying to slip behind his eyes. The Duke wasn't just talking; he was weaving a hypnotic web, trying to lock Allen's muscles and cloud his mind.
Allen felt the urge to lower his wand. He felt the phantom sensation of peace, of a need to simply stand still and let the old man approach.
Amateur, Allen thought. He had faced mental pressures that would have turned the Duke's mind to ash.
He decided to play the part. He let his eyes glaze over, his wand dipping slightly toward the floor. He felt Daisy start to move forward in a panic, and he quickly made a subtle 'stop' gesture with his fingers behind his back, hidden from the Duke's view.
"Yes..." the Duke hissed, his silver eyes glowing with triumph. "That's it. Be a good vessel. Give the Duke what he requires."
The vampire spread his arms, his purple cloak billowing behind him like the shadow of a giant bird. He coiled his legs and launched himself from the wall, a predatory strike aimed directly at Allen's exposed throat.