The next night felt heavier.
London had turned inward—fog so thick it swallowed streetlights, turning every corner into a potential trap. The three women moved through it like ghosts: Lilith in black trench coat over lace, Seraphina in dark tactical layers, Irina wrapped in a long wool coat that hid the pistol at her hip.
They'd chosen a new hunting ground: The Obsidian Lounge, a members-only club buried beneath a Georgian townhouse in Belgravia. Invitation-only. The kind of place where billionaires and oligarchs came to forget their sins—or indulge them. Security was biometric, cameras everywhere, and the clientele guarded secrets like currency.
But secrets had a way of leaking when souls were involved.
The tip had come from Kuznetsov's echoes—faint, dying whispers in their shared mind-space: a name. Nadia Voss. German-born, thirty-one, former corporate fixer turned high-end madam. She supplied "entertainment" to the lounge's inner circle. And in the flashes, Irina had recognized her face from one of Crowe's parties—cold blue eyes, platinum bob, smile that never reached them.
More importantly: Nadia carried silver veins. Visible in a low-light photo one of Kuznetsov's contacts had snapped. She was like them. Or had been.
They arrived separately.
Irina went in first—using a forged invite card Seraphina had cloned from a low-level guest's phone the night before. She blended into the lounge crowd: elegant black gown, hair pinned up, eyes scanning.
Seraphina slipped through a service entrance—speed letting her ghost past cameras and guards.
Lilith waited outside in the fog, coat collar up, feeling the city's pulse through her veins. The silver lines had spread further overnight—now curling around her collarbones like delicate tattoos. They hummed when danger was near.
Inside, Irina found Nadia at the bar.
The woman was striking—tall, angular, dressed in midnight-blue velvet that clung like liquid shadow. She was speaking quietly to a man in his sixties: gray suit, Rolex, the kind of face that appeared on financial news until scandals made them vanish.
Irina approached. Ordered vodka neat. Let her coat slip off one shoulder, revealing the silver scar on her collarbone.
Nadia's eyes flicked to it. Widened fractionally. Then her smile turned sharp.
"You're new," Nadia said, voice low, accented. "And you're marked."
Irina met her gaze. "So are you."
Nadia glanced around—casual, but calculating. "Not here. Follow."
She led Irina through a side door, down a carpeted hallway, into a private salon: velvet chaise, low lighting, a single bottle of aged cognac on a marble table.
Nadia poured two glasses. Handed one over.
"You're not the first to come looking," she said. "But you're the first who isn't afraid."
Irina sipped. "We're building something. A sisterhood. We take from the corrupt. We fight what's coming after us."
Nadia laughed—soft, bitter. "Fight the Sovereign? You have no idea what you're up against."
Lilith and Seraphina slipped into the room behind them—silent, coordinated.
Nadia didn't startle. She simply turned, glass still in hand.
"Three of you," she said. "Impressive. Most lone wolves don't last a month."
Lilith stepped forward. "We're not alone anymore. And we're not asking for permission. We're offering a place."
Nadia studied them—eyes lingering on the silver veins, the faint glow in their irises.
"I already have a place," she said quietly.
The door behind them opened again.
Four women entered—each marked with silver, each radiating the same predatory calm.
One was tall, red-haired, freckles across her nose—wore a tailored suit like armor.
Another short, dark-skinned, dreads tied back—leather jacket, knuckles scarred.
The third: Asian features, bob cut, silk blouse—smile like a blade.
The fourth: older, silver-streaked hair, elegant black dress—eyes that had seen too much.
Nadia raised her glass in mock toast.
"Meet the Mirror Order."
Silence stretched—thick, electric.
Seraphina's hand drifted toward her knife.
Lilith raised a hand—stop.
"You do the same," Lilith said. Not a question.
Nadia nodded. "We've been doing it longer. Cleaner. We don't leave husks in penthouses or clubs. We don't make noise. We harvest, we grow, we survive."
Irina's voice was ice. "And the Sovereign? You just… survive him?"
The red-haired woman—Freya, Nadia introduced—spoke. "We don't fight gods. We outlast them. The Sovereign feeds on chaos. We minimize our footprint. Take only what we need. Stay hidden."
Seraphina snorted. "Cowards."
The older woman—Elena—stepped forward. "Pragmatists. You three lit a flare when you killed that demon on the roof. Every shadow in London felt it. You think you're hunters? You're bait."
Lilith felt the power in her veins stir—Kuznetsov's corruption mixing with demon ash, urging her to push, to dominate.
She pushed it down.
"We're not hiding," she said. "We're ending it. Join us or stay out of our way."
Nadia set her glass down. "We're not enemies. But we're not allies. Not yet."
Freya crossed her arms. "You're reckless. You'll bring his full attention. And when he comes, he won't send scouts. He'll send legions."
Irina laughed—cold. "Let him. We'll feed on them too."
Elena's eyes narrowed. "Bold words. But you don't know what he is."
She stepped closer—close enough that Lilith smelled jasmine and old blood.
"The Sovereign isn't a demon," Elena said quietly. "He's older. A devourer of souls long before humanity named them. He corrupted the first of us—thousands of years ago. Turned goddesses into monsters. We're the remnants. The ones who broke free."
Lilith felt the vision flash again—throne of bones, crowned figure turning.
Elena saw it in her eyes. "You've seen him."
Lilith nodded once.
"Then you know," Elena continued, "fighting him isn't a war. It's suicide."
Nadia spoke again. "We offer a truce. Stay out of our territories—Mayfair, Kensington, the City. We won't interfere with yours. And when the legions come… we won't help. But we won't hinder."
Seraphina's fingers twitched toward her knife.
Lilith placed a hand on her arm.
"We'll consider it," Lilith said.
Nadia smiled—thin, knowing. "Consider quickly. The Sovereign doesn't wait."
The Mirror Order left first—silent, coordinated, vanishing into the hallway like smoke.
The room felt colder.
Irina exhaled. "They're scared."
"They're smart," Seraphina muttered. "But they're wrong."
Lilith stared at the empty doorway.
"No," she said softly. "They're half-right. Hiding won't save them. But fighting blind won't save us either."
She turned to the others.
"We need more. More sisters. More knowledge. And we need to find out exactly what the Sovereign is—before he finds us."
Irina nodded. "Where do we start?"
Lilith's silver veins flared brighter.
"The visions," she said. "They're coming clearer. There's a place in them—an old library. Underground. Hidden in the city. Elena mentioned goddesses. There might be records. Something the Mirror Order never found."
Seraphina grinned—feral. "Then we go digging."
Outside, the fog thickened.
Inside, three women sharpened their resolve.
The Mirror Order watched from the shadows across the street—four pairs of silver-glowing eyes.
Nadia whispered to Elena.
"They'll burn bright. And they'll burn out."
Elena's voice was soft.
"Or they'll set the world on fire trying."
The fog swallowed them both.