The heavy doors slammed shut behind Noah, sealing off the corridor with a muted thud. Arcane locks clicked into place, glowing faintly before vanishing into the old stone.
Cordelia exhaled sharply through her nose. "Great," she muttered. "He gets to play the hero while I babysit the undead fan club."
The floor beneath her boots trembled. Distant murmurs of incantations echoed from deeper within the estate—low, guttural, ancient. Then came the scent of rot and magic, thick in the air like oil on water.
From the opposite side of the hallway, shadows stirred. Figures emerged—twenty of them—cloaked in deep gray and black, their faces hidden behind bone-white masks etched with flickering runes. Some held grimoires, others walked barehanded, their fingers twitching with malignant anticipation.
Cordelia planted her boots firmly and raised her right hand. A rune flared to life on her glove.
"Not today."
