The air in the northern reaches of Elserath grew colder as Mary and her companions ascended the jagged cliffs of Blackspire Ridge. The land itself recoiled from their presence, as though the soil remembered blood spilled long ago and bristled at the memory. Lela walked a step behind her sister, her spear strapped across her back, while Loosie scouted ahead in silent wolf form. The sky overhead was an ominous gray, veiled with low-hanging clouds that promised neither sun nor storm—just the slow, unrelenting pressure of something ancient awakening.
"Are you sure this is the place?" Lela asked, her voice subdued by the weight of the moment.
Mary didn't answer immediately. Her eyes, a deeper crimson than usual, surveyed the path that wound into the mountain's shadow. "The dreams keep leading me here. Every time I close my eyes, I see the same image—an obsidian cradle beneath a bleeding moon."
Loosie barked once in confirmation as she returned to them, her fur bristling. She shifted back into human form and pointed up toward a cleft in the mountain. "There's an entrance up there. It smells…wrong. Like rot and fire. Something's breathing inside."
"Then it's waiting for us," Mary said. Her voice was calm, but her fingers tightened around the hilt of her saber.
The trio moved forward.
As they entered the narrow pass, a sound rose from the cliffs—a low chant, carried on a wind that shouldn't exist. It was not sung in any known tongue, but Mary felt the words scrape at her bones. The heaven crystal embedded in her blade pulsed once, as if recognizing a song it hated.
They came to a door carved into the mountainside. It was circular, blackened, and sealed with blood runes that pulsed with a faint red glow. Carvings of dragons intertwined with roses framed its edges, and in its center was a hollow indent the exact shape of Mary's hand.
She hesitated.
"You don't have to," Lela said quickly. "We can find another way."
"No," Mary replied. "This… this is part of what I am now." She stepped forward and placed her hand into the hollow. The blood runes flared. The door groaned as if exhaling a final breath and slid open, revealing a passage chiseled into obsidian.
Torchlight burst into being along the walls without touch or flame, igniting a path that led them deeper into the mountain.
"This is older than the Dominion," Lela whispered.
"This is older than time," Mary answered.
Inside, the path descended steeply. The walls bore symbols from a forgotten age—glyphs of celestial battles, vampire gods locked in eternal conflict, and a single sigil repeated over and over: a black cradle holding a fang dripping blood.
They came to a cavern where the floor dropped away into an abyss. A narrow bridge of stone spanned the chasm, and at the far end stood a throne made of bone and shadow. Upon it sat a figure—silent, unmoving.
It was not human. It was not dead. It was something in between.
"Welcome, Bloodborn," it spoke. Its voice echoed from every surface, layered with whispers of a thousand dead souls.
Mary stood tall. "Who are you?"
"I am the First Sleep," it said. "The Cradle. The Womb of the Night. And you, Mary of the Sunless Blade, are the heir."
"I didn't come to inherit," she replied. "I came to destroy what made me."
"You cannot destroy yourself."
"I'm not alone."
Lela stepped beside her, spear in hand. Loosie shifted again, fur bristling. Together, they faced the throne.
The figure laughed—a sound like a grave cracking open. "Then come, and claim the truth of your blood."
The ground trembled. From the walls, creatures slithered—spectral beasts with no eyes, fangs of bone, and bodies that flickered in and out of the material realm. They circled the throne, guardians of the Cradle.
Mary's saber flared to life, light spiraling from its misted blade. Lela spun her spear and crouched, lightning dancing down its shaft. Loosie snarled, her form warping into something larger—half-wolf, half-shadow.
The battle was instant.
The guardians lunged, and time fractured.
Mary moved with supernatural grace, her blade cleaving through air and spirit alike. One guardian exploded in mist as her saber severed its spine. Lela danced through them like wind made flesh, her strikes precise and deadly. Each thrust of her spear turned into a storm, spearing creatures that dared get close.
Loosie tore through another, her jaws crushing what no mortal beast could harm.
Amid the chaos, Mary saw it.
The throne.
Empty.
The Cradle was no longer seated.
From behind came a whisper: "You cannot run from what you are."
She turned, and there it stood—towering, eyes of black flame, its form a mirror of her own save for its hollow chest where a heart should be.
Mary raised her blade. "I don't run."
She charged.
The clash of their blades shattered the cavern. Magic screamed in the air. The Cradle moved with the strength of the void, but Mary was faster—smarter. She wasn't just a vampire.
She was human.
She was a mother.
She was a warrior.
Their duel raged across the stone bridge, each blow illuminating the darkness. The Cradle used forgotten spells, bending reality, but Mary countered with her Noble Phantasm: Mist Blade. Three slashes converged from impossible directions, piercing its defenses.
It howled in rage as mist carved into its shadowed flesh.
"You are a mistake!" it screamed.
"I'm a choice!" she shouted back.
With a final cry, she drove her saber through the hollow in its chest.
Light exploded.
The Cradle dissolved into dust.
The throne cracked.
And silence returned.
Lela limped to Mary's side. "Is it over?"
Mary looked to the empty abyss. "No. That was just the first gate."
They turned to leave—but not before Mary took one last look at the throne. She knew the truth now.
The Cradle hadn't been guarding the gate.
It had been guarding her.