The lantern flickered in the dark, throwing unsteady light against the stone walls, every flame tremor revealing the faded chalk lines of a ritual circle long since dried and cracked. A faint tang of iron hung in the air — blood, though how long it had been there was impossible to say. The smell of burnt incense and sulfur mingled with damp earth, clinging stubbornly to the stale air of the chamber.

A lone figure stepped carefully across the threshold, boots crunching softly over the remnants of shattered glass and brittle candle wax. His coat brushed against the air thick with residue — not just from smoke, but from something unseen, something watching. He knelt beside the sigil carved into the floor, fingertips hovering just above its edge without touching. The motion was slow, deliberate. Reverent.

“…Still warm,” he murmured to himself, voice low and thoughtful. “Not from heat… from power.”

He adjusted the strap of his satchel and drew a small leather-bound journal from within, flipping through pages filled with occult notes and inked sketches of sigils. The lanternlight caught his eyes — sharp, intelligent, but wary.

“This wasn’t the work of amateurs. Whoever performed this had knowledge far beyond mere invocation. There’s residue of invocation and… containment.” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “But nothing contained.”

The lantern dimmed briefly, as though the shadows themselves had breathed in.

The demonologist, Dr. Elias Verrin, exhaled slowly, steadying his hand as he traced the air above a blackened rune. “Something answered this call,” he said softly, tone shifting from curiosity to grim understanding. “And it’s still here.”

Elias stood, closing his journal with a quiet snap. “Let’s see what you left behind, then.”

The faint echo of his boots filled the silence again as he began his inspection — unaware that the one who had been summoned was already in the room, silent, and watching.