The night air was unnaturally still as Mary stood atop the moonlit ridge, the cold wind brushing past her like a whisper of forgotten spirits. Behind her, the remnants of the Order's battalion lay in silence, regrouping after their narrow escape from the ambush at Black Hollow. Before her, in the valley below, the crimson torches of the Crimson Accord flickered in rhythmic rows — a symbol of unity, of an alliance that should never have existed.
"They're waiting for you," Lela said as she approached, the dark leather of her armor barely making a sound. Her red-trimmed pauldrons shimmered under the moonlight, blood meeting shadow in every contour. "Are you sure this is the path?"
Mary didn't answer immediately. Her eyes were fixed on the center tent, larger than the others, bearing the sigil of a broken fang wrapped in chains. "There's no other choice," she replied. "Not if we want to stop what's coming."
Lela's brows furrowed. "You trust them? Vampires, warlocks, outcasts from the Arcanum… even werebeasts. The Accord isn't just unstable — it's volatile."
Mary turned, her eyes glowing faintly mist-blue in the darkness. "I don't trust them. I trust their fear."
That was the truth. Since reclaiming the Mist Blade and unlocking its second secret — Reversal of Worlds — Mary had seen glimpses of the future. Not prophecy. Not fate. Just shards, possibilities fractured by blood and betrayal. And in every vision, the same thing emerged: the Obsidian Sovereign.
No longer a myth, no longer a whisper in ancient tomes. The Sovereign had returned — or something worse had taken its name.
Together, Mary and Lela descended into the valley. They passed the Accord's sentries, grim warriors with clawed hands and eyes too ancient for their youthful bodies. They bowed low, not out of respect, but acknowledgment. Power recognized power.
Inside the central tent, the council was already waiting. Around the obsidian table stood the figures of nightmare and legend — Duskthorn, the last of the bloodshadow vampires; Krovax, High Alpha of the Ironhide; Malithra, sorceress exiled from the Arcanum; and Kael, the once-human hunter turned death-bound revenant.
Kael was the first to speak, his voice like metal dragged across stone. "We expected you earlier, Mistborn."
Mary ignored the title. "I had a war to survive."
Malithra chuckled, the sound soft and venomous. "And yet here you are. Intact."
Krovax snorted, rising from his chair. "Enough posturing. We're here to decide if we bleed together or die separately."
Duskthorn watched Mary silently, his pale fingers tapping the table rhythmically. "Tell us what you've seen."
So she did.
She spoke of the Sovereign's rise — an entity not born of bloodline, but ritual. A parasite that fed on the old blood, hollowing out hosts like dry husks. She spoke of cities crumbling overnight, not by war, but by silence. Entire legions turned into thralls without resistance. Magic failing in the presence of the Sovereign's breath. And worst of all — she spoke of the Shadow Crucible.
"The Crucible is a construct," she said. "It's not a place, it's a convergence. A ritual site where ley lines intersect across dimensions. He's building it. Piece by piece. Every skirmish, every cultist attack, every site desecrated — it's part of the map."
Kael's undead gaze narrowed. "And you know where the final piece lies?"
Mary nodded slowly. "It's in Elarith. Beneath the ruins of the Aether Vault."
The room fell silent.
That name hadn't been spoken in over a hundred years. The Aether Vault was said to be lost during the Great Collapse — buried under time, magic, and betrayal.
Duskthorn leaned forward, his voice now cold steel. "If you're right, then the Sovereign intends to open a gate."
"Not just any gate," Mary replied. "The first one. The origin of vampirism. He wants to rewrite the curse — turn it into a command."
Malithra stood, her robes whispering arcane runes. "Then we cannot delay. We march before the next lunar cycle."
Krovax growled. "And bring what? Half-trained hybrids and exiles?"
Mary unsheathed the Mist Blade, letting its triple-edge flicker in layers of mist and refracted time. "You bring fear. I'll bring war."
That silenced them.
For a long moment, the council simply stared. Then, one by one, they nodded.
The Accord was sealed.
That night, as the army began to mobilize under the shadowed stars, Mary retreated to her tent. Loosie was waiting for her — not as the child she once was, but as a young warrior now bearing her own training scars and resolve.
"Are we doing the right thing, Mom?" she asked.
Mary sat beside her, brushing strands of raven hair from Loosie's face. "There is no right thing. Just what we do to survive."
"But you're not just surviving," Loosie said. "You're fighting. You're leading."
Mary's gaze wandered to the horizon. "Then let's hope they follow."
Hours later, as the camp settled into restless dreams, a shadow peeled itself away from the trees. Eyes like burning cinders watched the valley below. In its hand, it held a blackened coin — the mark of the Sovereign's Herald.
The coin dissolved.
The Herald turned.
And a whisper echoed through the woods: "She remembers. Then she must forget."