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"Callum, place Lightsbane in the center," Rowen instructed, gesturing to a raised dais in the middle of the platform.

I approached the dais, drawing Lightsbane from its sheath. The blade caught the orange light of the forge, the runes along its length now glowing so brightly they were almost painful to look at.

With reverence, I laid the sword on the dais, feeling a strange sense of loss as my fingers released the hilt. For a moment, I could have sworn I heard whispers. The voices of my ancestors who had wielded this blade before me, who had imbued it with their power and purpose.

I couldn't make out the words, but I knew I had their approval.

This is what the fates meant to happen.

"Now what?" I asked, stepping back from the dais.

"Now Archer adds his blood," Rowen replied, turning to our third mate. "The vessel of dual blood, as the prophecy states."

Archer nodded, rolling up his sleeve to expose his forearm. One of his daggers appeared in his hand, the blade gleaming wickedly in the forge's light.

"Wait."

Sierra's voice cut through the heavy air, stopping Archer mid-motion. We all turned to look at her, and what I saw in her face made my heart stutter in my chest.

Determination. Resignation. And a sorrow so profound it seemed to age her beyond her years.

"It's not Archer." Her voice was steady despite the emotion in her eyes. "It's me. I'm the vessel the ritual requires."

"What are you talking about?" Rowen demanded, his tail materializing and lashing behind him in agitation. "The text clearly states 'one of dual blood'—"

"It means a hybrid," Sierra interrupted. "Someone who carries multiple bloodlines, multiple essences. Archer is half-angel, half-demon, yes. But I'm quarter-angel, part witch, and now bonded to all three of you—demon, fae, and angel-demon. I'm the true hybrid the prophecy speaks of."

Ice formed in my veins despite the overwhelming heat. "No," I said, the word coming out harsher than I intended. "That can't be right."

But even as I denied it, I could see the truth in her eyes. She'd known. She'd known all along, or at least since her conversation with Azrael. This was what she'd been hiding from us.

"Sierra," Archer said, his voice tight with barely controlled panic. "What exactly did Azrael tell you about your role in this ritual?"

She looked at each of us in turn, her silver eyes filled with a love so fierce it was almost painful to witness. "The ritual requires a conduit," she explained quietly. "Someone who can channel the combined powers of angel, demon, and fae into the weapon. That's me."

"And the sacrifice?" I asked, dreading the answer. "What sacrifice does the ritual demand?"

Sierra's gaze dropped to the glowing sword on the dais. "Everything," she whispered. "My memories, my connection to you all, perhaps even my powers. The Sierra who emerges from the ritual may not be the same Sierra who enters it."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Losing her, not to death, but to a transformation that would strip away everything that made herourSierra, was almost worse than death itself.

"No," Rowen growled, moving to stand between Sierra and the dais. "We'll find another way."

"There is no other way," Sierra said, her voice gentle but firm. "Azrael confirmed it. The Shadow Beast grows stronger every day. Soon it will break through completely, and nothing will stop it from consuming everything in its path."

"I don't care," I snarled, shadows gathering around me in response to my rising emotions. "We'll find another solution. We always do."

Sierra's smile was sad, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Not this time, Callum. This is the only way to save the realms. To save you."

"We're not worth it." Archer's wings spread wide behind him, his body vibrating with his fury. "Not if it means losing you."

"You are to me," Sierra replied simply. "All of you are. And it's not just about us. It's about everyone, everywhere. All the realms, all the lives that would be destroyed if the Shadow Beast breaks through completely."

She stepped forward, reaching out to touch Rowen's chest. After a moment's hesitation, he moved aside, unable to deny her even in this.

"It has to be me," she continued, moving to stand beside the dais. "And it has to be now, at the exact moment of my birth. 4:17 a.m."

I glanced at the ancient timepiece Rowen had brought with us. We had less than ten minutes.