The air inside the mansion hung thick with tension. The ashes of the slain doppelganger still clung to the marble floor like a curse unspoken, their presence heavy, lingering—a cruel reminder of how close they had come to losing her.
Oregon stood motionless at the centre of the room, one hand pressed over the faintly glowing mark etched into his wrist.
His breathing was shallow, his gaze distant and unfocused.
"She's alive," he murmured, his voice strained with effort.
"But her energy… it's fading."
All eyes turned to him at once.
"I can feel her," he went on, barely louder than a whisper.
"She's bound. Restrained. And something dark is pressing down on her—like a veil smothering her spirit. She's slipping, fast."
Vlad's expression turned grim, his jaw tightening.
"Then I'll tear that veil apart."
Without another word, he closed his eyes, summoning the ancient stillness born from centuries of arcane mastery.
Through the blood-bond he shared with Leighton, he reached for her essence—delicate and dim, yet undeniably hers—tracing it like a silver thread pulled through shadows.
Fragments of imagery flickered through his mind: cold stone walls, a red sigil pulsing against obsidian rock, a ritual circle drawn in ash and bone, and the low thrum of old magic humming beneath it all like a war drum.
When Vlad opened his eyes, they gleamed with unnatural clarity.
"I've seen the place."
Dylan stepped forward without hesitation, his claws halfway drawn, muscles tensed.
The Alpha in him was wide awake.
"Give me something," he growled.
"A scent. A trace. I'll find her."
Vlad nodded and produced a small vial from the folds of his coat.
Inside it was a torn fragment of dark fabric—a piece of Leighton's real cloak, preserved and hidden away for protection.
He handed it over solemnly.
"Start with the valley west of here. The trees curve unnaturally there. I saw it too—twisted paths and buried stone."
Dylan snatched the vial and took off without another word, a blur of movement vanishing into the night like a shadow chasing blood.
Jade stepped forward next.
He hadn't been with them long, but there was a rare steadiness in him—calm and methodical, even in the eye of chaos.
He rolled his sleeves up with purpose.
"Vlad," he said, "describe everything you saw—colors, structure, terrain."
Vlad obliged, recounting each detail with cold precision.
Jade listened in complete silence, his eyes glowing faintly with calculation.
Then he closed his own. His aura began to shimmer—threads of golden light weaving outward from his chest like tendrils of a living spell.
"I can project illusions into those locations," Jade said calmly.
Xander turned to him, eyebrows raised. "You can do that?"
Jade offered a faint smirk.
"Live long enough as a human immortal, and you learn anything you desire. Illusion magic just happens to be my favorite."
Xander narrowed his eyes.
"Then tell me—how exactly are you going to help?"
"I'll scan every region that matches Vlad's vision," Jade replied.
"Every site that even slightly resembles what he saw, I'll cloak in subtle illusions—beacons only visible to us. And I'll use my power to quietly evacuate any civilians from those areas. No innocents will be caught in what's coming."
Oregon turned sharply toward Xander.
"We need boots on the ground. Now."
Xander didn't hesitate.
"Give me five minutes. I won't need more."
With the speed of lightning, he vanished from the room, reappearing moments later in the hidden war chamber deep beneath the manor.
His voice rang like thunder as he summoned his followers—loyal vampires cloaked in enchanted black armor, every one of them battle-hardened and sworn to his command.
Shortly after, the mansion erupted into organized chaos.
Xander's soldiers fanned across the countryside, their eyes sharp.
Jade ascended to the tallest balcony, arms spread as he let his magic flow freely.
Invisible to the human eye, golden flares appeared high above every site matching Vlad's vision—soft pulses of light floating in the sky like watchful sentinels, marking each possible location.
Meanwhile, Dylan tore through those zones one by one.
He moved with raw precision—leaping over ruins, diving into valleys, chasing her scent through illusion and misdirection.
He dismissed every false lead with practiced instinct, his growls low and urgent as he narrowed their options.
Oregon remained rooted in place, standing silent in the centre of the room, his hand still pressed to the mark on his wrist. He didn't move—but his breathing shifted.
The bond tugged harder.
He winced suddenly and opened his eyes, the pain flashing through him.
"There," he rasped.
"She's near the cliffs. West—where the earth splits open."
Xander was already moving.
"That's where we strike."
Vlad vanished, reappearing with his followers.
He stood beside Oregon in a blur of crimson shadow.
And just like that, they all moved—together. Vampires, werewolf, elf, and immortal.
Bound by their connection to her. By loyalty, by something deeper than blood or prophecy.
Despite their differences, they fought as one now.
For Leighton.
The Prime Apex would not fall.
Never.