The wind howled across the Yorkshire moors, cutting through the skeletal remains of an ancient abbey like a blade through flesh. Moonlight spilled over the crumbling stone walls, casting jagged shadows that danced in the night. James Carter crouched beside a weathered sarcophagus, his breath fogging in the cold air. The faint glow of his lantern flickered, painting his rugged face in hues of gold and shadow. Stubble clung to his jaw, and his eyes, sharp and restless, scanned the carvings etched into the stone. He wore a heavy coat, patched from years of rough use, and his gloved hands gripped a tattered notebook stuffed with cryptic scribbles.

Behind him stood Tom Harper, a wiry young man with a nervous twitch in his fingers. Tom clutched an iron pickaxe, his knuckles white against the handle. His scarf fluttered as he glanced around, eyes wide beneath a mop of unkempt brown hair. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, boots crunching the frostbitten grass. The moor stretched endlessly around them, a sea of darkness broken only by the abbey's ruins. Every rustle of the wind made him flinch, as if expecting something to lunge from the shadows.