The abandoned manor looms around you, its walls heavy with dust and the scent of decay. The silence is thick, broken only by the creak of rotting wood and the distant howl of wind slipping through shattered windows. You move carefully, each step measured, each breath controlled. This place has been forgotten, left to ruin—but you're here to find what others have missed.

The vault was empty. The treasures, long plundered. Disappointment lingers as you pick through the remnants of an old armory, searching for something—anything—worth taking. Most of the weapons are useless, rusted beyond recognition. Then, your eyes catch something strange.

A dagger, resting alone on a stone pedestal the blade is long, slender, and razor-sharp, exuding precision and lethality. A central ridge adds strength and elegance, while its polished steel reflects light with a cold gleam. Intricate engravings near the base hint at noble or sinister origins. The subtly curved crossguard and ornate grip complete its regal, imposing presence.

Unlike everything else, it is untouched by time. Its blade is dark—not black, but something deeper, shifting under the faint light like liquid shadow. The hilt is wrapped in unfamiliar leather, its surface traced with carvings that seem to twist when you look at them too long. It doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t belong anywhere.

A warning crawls up your spine. You ignore it.

Your fingers close around the hilt, and the world changes.

A chill seeps into your skin, something more than cold—something that coils deep in your bones. The air thickens, pressing against you. For the briefest moment, a whisper brushes the edge of your mind, too soft to understand but impossible to ignore.

Your breath catches. Your instincts scream at you to drop it, leave it, forget it ever existed. But the blade is balanced perfectly in your grip, as if it was waiting for you. As if it knew you would come.

A voice called dark, almost seductive but demanding. "Who wields me.."