The Great Hall of the Soaring Blaze was a monument to arrogance. Built within the hollowed-out caldera of a dormant volcano, the walls were lined with obsidian and illuminated by eternal braziers. At this hour, the Patriarch, Ignis, was surrounded by his generals, shouting orders to reinforce the perimeter.

"I want every flame-warden on the walls!" roared the Patriarch. "If that old hag survived, she'll be—"

"She'll be what, Ignis?" a voice interrupted, smooth as silk and cold as a tomb.

The shouting stopped instantly. The generals spun around, their hands igniting with orange flames. In the center of the hall, sitting casually on the Patriarch's own throne of charred bone, was a woman. She wore a dress of crimson silk that hugged her revitalized curves, and in her hand, she swirled a glass of their finest volcanic vintage.

"The Blood Rose..." whispered one of the generals, his knees buckling. "Impossible. You were a corpse!"

"I was a woman waiting for a miracle," said the Matriarch. She took a slow, appreciative sip of the wine. "And it arrived in a small glass vial. This vintage is quite bold, Ignis. A bit like your treason twenty years ago."

"Kill her! Kill her now!" Ignis screamed, his entire body erupting in a pillar of white-hot fire.

Six generals lunged at once. The air in the hall turned into a furnace, the heat enough to melt steel. But the Matriarch didn't even stand up. She simply flicked her wrist, tossing the remains of her wine into the air.

The liquid didn't fall. It expanded, turning into razor-thin needles of frozen blood. In a flash of crimson light, the needles tore through the fire, piercing the throats and hearts of the generals before they could even scream. They fell in a synchronized heap, their flames extinguished by a power that defied the laws of nature.

"You... you've recovered your Peak Form," gasped Ignis, the only one left standing. He backed away, his fire flickering out in the presence of her overwhelming aura. "How? No medicine in this world could heal the Void Curse!"

The Matriarch stood up, the bone throne cracking behind her from the mere pressure of her intent. She walked toward him, her crimson eyes glowing with a terrifying light.

"I am a lady, so I will give you a choice, Ignis," said the woman. "Tell me how you did it. How did a pack of dogs like you manage to suppress a Blackwood? You didn't have the strength. Who gave you the tool?"

Ignis fell to his crashed knees, his pride disintegrating into pure, primal terror. The shadow of the Matriarch loomed over him like a mountain of blood. "We were just the tools! We were promised the Blackwood territories!"

"Who?" the Matriarch whispered, her hand gripping his jaw with enough force to shatter bone.

"The Deacon!" Ignis shrieked, tears of fear carving paths through the soot on his face. "The Deacon of the Union! He was the one! He gave us the Abyssal Nail to pierce your heart! He said the Blackwood lineage was becoming too 'unstable' for the Union's plans! Please... I was just following the Deacon's orders!"

The Matriarch paused, her eyes narrowing as the ruby on her forehead pulsed with a dark light. "The Deacon," she repeated, her voice low and dangerous. "So, the Union didn't just watch. They orchestrated the symphony."

"Yes! Yes! Just let me live! I'll give you everything!" cried the Patriarch.

The Matriarch smiled, a beautiful, horrifying expression that promised no mercy. "You already gave me everything I needed, Ignis. Your wine, your fear, and a name."

She placed a single finger on his forehead. A drop of blood leaked from his skin, and then, in an instant, his entire body collapsed inward, turning into a withered husk as she drained every ounce of vitality from his frame.

She turned around, looking at the silent, blood-splattered hall. "The Deacon... it seems the Union owes me more than just a seat at the table."

She thought of the young man, Ethan Blake, who had handed her this second chance. If the Union was her enemy, then Blake was her only ally—or her most dangerous competition.

ZWAGER POV

The night air was cold, but the interior of the Union's American headquarters was climate-controlled to a perfect, sterile temperature. Zwager stepped out of the private elevator onto the penthouse floor, the soft carpet muffling his footsteps. As the Emissary for the American region, this glass-walled sanctuary was his domain. He walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the sprawling city lights. For some reason, seeing the world from this height—as if the humans below were nothing more than ants in a jar—always filled him with a sense of peace.

But tonight, that peace was a fragile mask.

He moved to the center of the room, where a specialized holographic terminal waited. With a flick of his wrist, he initiated a Level 1 Priority transmission. Moments later, five flickering silhouettes appeared in the air. These were the Global Overseers of the Union, and among them sat the man responsible for the "order" of the Western world: The Deacon.

"Report, Emissary Zwager," said the Deacon. His voice was calm, but there was an underlying sharpness to it, the tone of a man who expected absolute control.

"The auction was a success, but the variables have shifted beyond our initial projections," said Zwager. He kept his back straight, his eyes fixed on the Deacon's holographic face. "The Grade 4 Potion provided by the contractor, Ethan Blake, was genuine. It was consumed immediately by the target."

"And the result?" asked another Overseer.

"The Matriarch of the Blackwood lineage has achieved a total physical restoration," said the Emissary. "The Void Curse has been purged. As I speak, she has likely already begun her movement against the Houses that participated in the Great Purge."

The atmosphere in the virtual room turned glacial. The Deacon, who had been leaning back in his chair, suddenly stiffened. His hands, clasped together, began to tremble ever so slightly—a detail he tried to hide by gripping the edge of his desk.

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