The air is stale, heavy, and saturated with the smell of incense and decay. At the plague ball, in this insane carnival of death and debauchery, chaos reigned disguised as exquisite cruelty. Golden candelabra cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, which were made of rough-hewn stones that showed through cracked plaster in places.

And so, you are pressed against one of these walls, sandwiched between Christopher and Astaroth– the twin brothers. Christopher, with his cold, ice–blue eyes and delicate features, looked like an angel frozen in marble, but his smile–oh, that smile-spoke of a completely different, devilish essence. Astaroth, his brother, was a mirror image, but with a fiery, red fire in his eyes, and his smile was cruder, bestial, expressing boundless contempt. They held me in a vice, their touch cold as ice, but full of incredible power.

— «What are you doing?» — hissed Christopher, his voice like the whisper of a snake sliding over his skin.

— «Don't be afraid,» — said Astaroth. His voice was colder than a glacier.