The Grandmaster laced his fingers together, his expression carved from stone—grave, unreadable, and charged with a creeping dread. The room held its breath, thick with silence, as we did the same, waiting for Talos to speak and unravel whatever darkness the Grand Lich had sent.

  "I'm sure you're aware of the rumors around Moonshade Hollow and necromancers roaming the area."

  "We have," I said. "But that changes nothing. Harold will be laid to rest tonight."

  Talos sighed as if he'd expected that exact answer. "I was afraid you'd say something reckless like that. But I won't make an effort to stop you. The dead deserve peace, and fools deserve their lessons," he said. "The Grand Lich sent a message. A spectral courier delivered it to me directly. And the message, Tobias... was a warning. Part of that message was addressed specifically to you. He believes—right or wrong—that every werewolf in Adams now answers to you. And because of that, he's requesting a formal audience."

  His fingers tapped against the wood—soft, rhythmic, like a distant funeral drum.

  "There have been a series of violent raids on the necromancer's domain. Werewolves have been attacking the Ossuary of Lost Souls," Talos said. "For decades, the Ashen Circle and the packs coexisted in that region. The balance was fragile... yet it held."

  He leaned forward; eyes shadowed with unease.

  "These new assaults have shattered that balance. And to me, they reek of something... orchestrated. Something deeper. There hadn't been a single act of aggression for decades—and then, without warning, the werewolves began targeting the guardians of the Ossuary. This isn't some petty blood feud. This smells of something else."

  Talos glanced at me. "But don't take my word for it. Hear it from Valdus Cornelian himself."

  Without warning, he placed a red crystal on the table. Then, he drove his palm into it—shattering it into a thousand splinters.

  From the shards, black smoke bled into the air, writhing like a living thing. It twisted, spun, then solidified into a figure—an ancient man donned in tattered black robes, his form wrapped in a poisonous green aura that pulsed like dying embers. His eyes flared with unholy fire, and his skin began to retract, slowly desiccating, stretching thin across his skull.

  What stood before us was not a ghost. It was something far worse—something that refused to die.

  "Grandmaster," the figure rasped, his voice like dry leaves scraping the ground. "It has been decades since our last discourse. I trust your health endures, as does your wisdom."

  He gave a shallow nod, a gesture that reflected respect towards the Grandmaster.

  "The Ashen Circle extends its greetings, and I hope this message reaches you promptly. The Ossuary of Lost Souls has come under relentless attack—raids by werewolves from the northern forests. This pattern is... abnormal."

  His eyes flared with that unnatural green light.

  "The Chant of Death whispers to me. It speaks of a new force—a primal blood rising from the ashes. A leader among the beasts. One who now commands their savagery."

  He paused, letting the words settle like fog over a grave.

  "I request a formal audience with this new Alpha. It is my hope that we might resolve this conflict with reason... and avoid unnecessary bloodshed. But until I receive the word, I am lifting the non-retaliatory order. My sexton guardians will now execute any werewolf who dares cross into our domain. I want to understand this sudden shift in behavior. For too long, we shared an uneasy but enduring peace. It should not be cast aside without cause."

  Valdus leaned forward. "And yet... this world's peace is rattled by the whispers of war. A greater conflict looms. And so, I offer something more: an alliance. I propose that you, Grandmaster, rise to claim leadership over Adams and let the Ashen Circle take its place as the fifth clan. If this offer stirs your interest, I wish to hear it from your own lips. In person. Soon."

  The figure began to dissipate, the green aura fading as the black smoke recoiled inward—and, with a whisper of magic, the shattered crystal pulled itself back together, whole once more.

  "I had no knowledge of these attacks, neither of the existence of the place he called the Ossuary of Lost Souls," I said.

  "The Ossuary lies beneath Moonshade Hollow. As Valdus mentioned, it's been shared ground for decades. There has not been a single incident until now. That kind of peace doesn't fracture on its own. I strongly advise you to answer the Grand Lich's summons—and fast. Lives are already being lost, and more will follow if we don't get ahead of this. You'll need every werewolf under your command if you want even a chance of surviving what roams beneath the sewers of Adams."

  "I understand," I said.

  "It's in your best interest to bring the northern packs under control," Talos said. "Unite them. Bend them to your will, if you must. The culling of Adams is closer than you think—and with our numbers this thin, we won't survive the vampire's ghoul legions unless we stand as one."

  "We?" I echoed. "If what Utica said is true, warlocks usually stay out of these kinds of conflicts. Isn't that right?"

  The Grandmaster's chair scraped back sharply as he rose, eyes narrowing with offense and something deeper—regret, perhaps, or guilt.

  "I've made mistakes," he said. "But history will not repeat itself."

  His voice grew thunderous.

  "This time, the Trade Clan will not remain on the sidelines. Every warlock we have will rise—including necromancers, shadowmancers, and dark-energy wielders like Vantos. We will stop the vampires from seizing control of this realm."

  He paused as if reliving something long buried.

  "During the last war, our numbers were few. Most of us were young, and untested. I wasn't going to let the vampires slaughter them. So, I created a temporary realm. A refuge. And when the dust settled, I cast a vote of surrender... and handed victory to the last one standing."

  He stared into the distance as he was reliving the moment.

  "That won't happen again."

  Suddenly, the door creaked open. Antolio and Derrick stepped inside, followed closely by Andrea and Gerald. The air shifted with their arrival as if something unseen had been stirred.

  "I apologize for the interruption, young master," Derrick said with a respectful nod, "but you should know—most of the injured have made a full recovery."

  He approached, extending a small, dark box toward me. "This arrived this morning. It was left on the front door, no sender."

  A strange feeling ran down my gut as I took the box. Inside was a small, round tin. Innocuous—until I cracked it open. A vile, sharp odor burst into the air, sickly and unnatural. My limbs weakened instantly, knees buckling under me. My vision swam as the scent wrapped around my senses like a choking fog. In a flash, Vantos was at my side. He snapped the lid shut and snatched the tin from my trembling hands.

  "I didn't mean to be rude, young master," Vantos said. "But there's a fair amount of concentrated Wolfsbane inside this container. Lethal to lesser werewolves in even small doses. You should not touch it. I assume this is related to the funeral?"

  "Correct," Gerald answered, stepping forward. "The young master is the only werewolf strong enough to endure brief exposure to the Wolfsbane's paste. According to the old rites, Harold's body must be pierced with wolfsbane at several points throughout his corpse to prevent the spirit of the wolf from rising again. This practice has become a common ritual among other packs to prevent werewolves from being raised back to life. Unfortunately, not every werewolf that dies gets to have a formal funeral."

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  Tradition or protection? Either way, the ritual was not merely symbolic. It was a warning. A safeguard against something dark enough to return from death. Vantos tightened the lid on the container and handed it back to me.

  "I wish you luck," Vantos said, his tone unusually solemn. "You'll be in considerable pain once the ritual is complete. But don't worry my friend—I'll be there with the antidote, ready to ease the poison's grip when the time comes."

  "So... you're coming to the funeral?" I asked.

  "We both are," the Grandmaster added. "The Grand Lich has summoned us. We must answer."

  "Don't think you're leaving me behind," Mel said, stepping forward. "I'm coming to the funeral too."

  I exhaled a long, tired breath. "Then let's not keep the dead waiting."

  I turned to Derrick. "Has Harold's body been transported to Moonshade Hollow?"

  "Alphonse and a few others are already handling it, young master. They should be arriving at the Hollow shortly."

  "Good. Gather everyone who wishes to attend and make your way there. I'll be following closely."

  Derrick nodded and turned toward the door—but I stopped him.

  "One more thing, Derrick."

  He paused. "Yes, sir?"

  "When you reach the area, send Antolio to scout the perimeter. No one is to engage—no one—until I arrive. I won't have another tragedy unfold under our watch."

  Derrick nodded. "We will be cautious, my lord."

  As the others filtered out of the chamber, I reached for Mel's hand, halting her just before she could leave.

  "I need to speak with you," I said. "Before we go."

  She turned to me, head tilted in curiosity. "What is it, Tobias?"

  Without answering, I crossed the room to my mother's portrait. The frame creaked faintly as I lifted it from the wall, revealing the black box tucked behind it. I opened it slowly, revealing a dagger in its holster. I gently grabbed her hand and placed the dagger on it.

  "This dagger has been hidden away for a long time. Warlocks once called it..."

  "Luminara," Mel whispered as she slid the blade free of its holster. The metal shimmered faintly as if responding to her touch. "One of the twin daggers forged by the Master Smith of the Azamara realm. This one was made to destroy vampires, demons, and other corrupted creatures that wander between worlds."

  She glanced up at me, eyes wide.

  "The other—Elipsion—draws dark energy from its victims, purges it completely. I've only read about these in ancient texts... I never thought I'd hold one."

  "I didn't either," I said. "Until recently."

  Her gaze sharpened. "Where did you get it?"

  "This is the weapon Curtis stole from the Scarlet Enclave nearly twenty years ago. I want you to keep it."

  Mel blinked, surprised. Then a slow smile broke across her face. "Absolutely. Though... I have to ask. Why me?"

  "Because I trust you, Mel. More than anyone. I didn't know what this dagger was until I saw a vampire wielding its twin—Elipsion. They're nearly identical, except for the crystal on the guard. That one was purple. This... this one holds a blue Ethran crystal."

  I looked down at the blade in her hands, its crystal pulsated faintly—like a sleeping heart.

  "I watched Elipsion pierce a vampire ghoul, clean through the chest. It drained the creature's dark energy in seconds until there was nothing left but ash. If Luminara holds even a fraction of that power, it could save your life and everyone around you. But Luminara's Ethran crystal is dormant. I don't know how to awaken it or how long it will stay asleep. Without that power... it's just a blade."

  "We'll look for a way to infuse the crystal," Mel said, her gaze fixed on the dull stone embedded in the dagger's guard. "Maybe Vantos can help us. He might know how to awaken it."

  I sighed, knowing I had kept the weapon hidden from everyone's knowledge, even him. "He doesn't know I... "

  Suddenly, a shadow moved at the edge of the doorway. A voice followed—calm, curious, unaware.

  "Know what?"

  Vantos stepped into the room—and then stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes glanced at the weapon in Mel's hand. For a heartbeat, he didn't breathe.

  "By the gods..." he whispered. "Luminara..."

  He moved closer, his eyes fixed on the weapon. "Is that— Is that truly the Luminara?"

  I nodded slowly. "I'm sorry I kept it from you, Vantos. I wasn't certain if it was the weapon we spoke of... not until now."

  Vantos stood before Mel, gently taking the dagger from her hands, his fingers trembling as they closed around the hilt. The way he held it spoke of more than caution—it was reverence like he was cradling a fragment of a forgotten legend. A slow breath slipped from his lips as his eyes filled with awe, taking in the beautifully carved symbols on the blade.

  He turned the blade slowly, letting the dim light catch the faint glimmer of the dormant Ethran crystal nestled in its guard. His thumb brushed across it with the delicacy of someone handling a sacred relic.

  "It is indeed," he murmured. "There's no mistaking it."

  His voice took on a distant edge as if memory had pulled him somewhere far away. "It's been years since I last saw it—before the Trade Clan forged its uneasy pact with the vampires. I was there when these daggers were first forged and enchanted. After the werewolf raid on the Scarlet Enclave, Luminara vanished without a trace. Many believed it was destroyed during the attack." He tilted the blade toward the light, studying the faint glow within the crystal. "But there's still a spark left in it. Faint... but alive. Enough to be awakened again."

  He glanced at Mel and slowly placed Luminara back into her hands.

  "You understand the power this blade holds once the crystal is recharged?"

  "I've only read about it in books. The enchantments require a specific type of life force, or they fail."

  "Correct," Vantos said. "The Ethran core is highly selective. Feed it the wrong energy, and the blade becomes inert—or worse, unstable." He paused, then turned to me. "I know where we must go to reignite its power. But I must warn you—if we take this path, we will not receive a warm welcome."

  "Speak, Vantos," I said. "What must we do to infuse the Ethran crystal?"

  He lowered his gaze to the blade once more, then slowly looked up.

  "Like light balances darkness, Luminara's power can only be rekindled by the purest form of energy. The crystal must be restored by an Archon—a being of light, born of purity, found only in the Realm of the dead... Azamara."

  "An Archon?"

  Vantos nodded. "They are warlocks who died and, during their lifetime, refused the pull of dark energy— rejected corruption and embraced the light. In Azamara, they are revered as guardians. Their life force is the purest energy known, untouched by decay or malice. They act as soul wardens—channelers of the realm's spirits. They guide the dead to their proper tombs and hold them there until fate calls them to walk the land of the living again."

  "And how do we reach them?" Mel asked.

  "That's the problem. Azamara is a sealed realm. Its gates do not open unless one of two things occurs—either a warlock dies or a soul is ready to be reincarnated. Which means... if we want to reach an Archon to infuse Luminara's crystal, a warlock must die."

  I frowned. "That's like waiting for a carriage that may never come—especially considering how long warlocks tend to live."

  Vantos gave a grim chuckle. "An unfortunate truth, young master. A warlock can live for nine centuries or more... and most only contemplate death once they grow bored with immortality."

  He glanced toward the door. "We should depart. The Grandmaster won't wait forever, and if we linger too long, he'll start to suspect something. And one more thing—hide the blade. If a vampire sees you holding that, your name will be etched on every bounty list across the realm. You'll be hunted until the day you draw your last breath."

  "I've got just the place for it."

  Mel slid the dagger back into its holster, then swept her cloak aside. With a flick of her wrist and a shimmer of light, the weapon vanished from sight.

  "Now you see it," she said with a wink. "Now you don't."

  Vantos smirked. "Clever trick. But don't let your confidence blind you, Mel. Manipulating dimensional pockets isn't as precise as you think. If you miscalculate—if even a thread of your focus slips—you could lose Luminara forever."

  "No worries, I'll find it," Mel said confidently, and with a flick of her wrist, Luminara shimmered back into her hand. "I was taught well."

  Vantos laughed. "I see. You're crafty with magic. Ever consider becoming a warlock?"

  "I promised my mother I wouldn't follow the same path my father did. She made me swear it on her deathbed. But after she was gone, I realized how limited I was. Illusions, infusions—I only scratched the surface."

  Vantos nodded thoughtfully, then slowly raised his hands. A faint pulse of magic rippled through the air as he conjured a glowing arrow between his fingers. Its tip pulsed with swirling hues—red, blue, gold—elemental energy flowing through it like a living current.

  "This," he said, "is an elemental arrow. Pure energy, shaped through intention and bound by focus."

  He twirled it once in his hand, then held it out toward her.

  "If you can create a stable dimensional pocket and place this inside, you'll never run out of ammunition. Ever. It will replicate itself endlessly—as long as you have life force left. Without it, you won't be able to open the dimensional pocket to retrieve the elemental arrows."

  Mel's eyes sparkled with interest. "That's... brilliant."

  "It's dangerous," Vantos said. "Misjudge your focus, and you won't just fail—you'll tear a hole in the veil. A rupture that doesn't ask permission to open. Once that happens, it will swallow you whole. The creator of that arrow was a man named Vincent. I'm sure that name rings a bell."

  "It does," Mel said. "That's my father's name."

  Vantos nodded. "His research was well known within the Trade Clan. Visionary but dangerously ambitious. Brilliant, yes—but reckless to the core. I'm surprised the Grandmaster never uncovered your connection to him—or how effortlessly his daughter bends dimensional space as if she were born for it."

  He folded his arms, his gaze lingering on her for a moment too long. There was something behind his eyes—something unspoken. A subtle shift in his tone betrayed the truth: he knew more about Mel's past than he was willing to admit.

  But he said nothing.

  "The combination of the elemental arrow and dimensional pocket quickly became known as the Endless Quiver among the hunter clan. A revolutionary concept. But Vincent's research was shut down after too many... losses. Hunters under Chief Harrow attempted the technique. Most failed. They couldn't control the channeling, couldn't balance the life force. Some vanished mid-battle—swallowed whole by unstable pockets they had created."

  "I'll manage," Mel said. "I'm sure I can figure it out. Besides—quivers get heavy when they're full of arrows."

  A faint smirk tugged at Vantos's lips. "Spoken like your father. One more little detail about the elemental arrow. When you draw a copy of the arrow from the pocket, it will infuse itself with elemental magic—randomly. Fire. Ice. Lightning. Sometimes, something rarer. Until you can control how much life force you channel through it, start small. A fraction too much, and you might pull something extremely volatile. It'll be difficult. But if anyone can master it... it's you."