The Accord Reforged
The hall beneath Ridgefall Keep had not been used in centuries. Dust coated the frescoes of forgotten kings and wolves long passed into legend. But now, torchlight danced along the ancient stones as Alaric and Mira stood at the center, surrounded by emissaries, chieftains, and outlaws—figures from across the fractured lands who had once warred with each other in blood and silence.
The scent of tension hung thick—steel, fur, incense, and old magic.
At Mira's right stood Athela, high seer of the Wyrmkin Nomads, her scaled face cloaked in silver veils. To her left, the Greybrood Packlord paced, twitching with war-hunger, eyes golden and teeth bared. From the north came the windborn riders, lean and pale, led by a girl barely old enough to speak in council but already bearing scars that spoke louder than age.
This was no mere gathering.
This was the rebirth of something sacred and feared.
Alaric stepped forward. "The Accord once stood to bind the bloods of old. Werewolves, wyrmspawn, seers, fey. Before the Council. Before the fall. But they shattered it, piece by piece, turning us on one another. Now they release what even they cannot control. The First Failed rise—and if we remain separate, we fall."
"Words," growled the Greybrood. "We are tired of words."
Alaric's gaze was ice. "Then I offer a truth instead."
He drew his blade, not to threaten—but to cut his own hand, letting the blood fall in a line across the stone. As it hit, the ground shivered. Mira stepped beside him and did the same, her blood mingling with his.
"This is pact," she said. "Dreamwalker and Alpha. Past and future."
Others hesitated—but slowly, one by one, blood was spilled across the same mark. Scaled, clawed, or callused, each hand joined until the stone pulsed with a slow thrum.
The Accord was born again.
But it came at a cost.
Even as they stood united, word reached them: the east had fallen. Emberholt had become a crater of silence. The creature that broke from the vault had not lingered.
It had moved on.
And behind it, the Council moved as well—not just through shadows and politics now, but through open declarations. A broadcast echoed across crystal relays, a voice from Hollowspire.
"The Accord is a lie reborn. It threatens the Balance. Those who join it will be marked enemies of the Crown and of peace. Lay down your pacts—or be unmade."
Mira met Alaric's eyes.
"They're afraid," she said.
He nodded. "And afraid enemies strike hardest."
"But we're ready," she whispered.
"We will be," he promised.
The drums of war began to beat—not in rage, but in resolve. The fire had returned to the blood of the broken.
And in the deepest chamber of Hollowspire, a second Vault creaked.