The rain had returned by nightfall, coating the city in sheets of silver. Streetlights blurred into golden halos, and tires hissed along slick asphalt like serpents moving through water. Alaric stood in the corner of the Astoria lounge, his frame still and composed, watching the storm ripple against the floor-to-ceiling glass.
He wasn't alone.
Balen stood nearby, fingers drumming a slow rhythm against his coffee cup, eyes fixed on the elevator.
"She said her name is Selene Ardyn," he said quietly. "Walked in like she owned the building. Used a phrase that hasn't been spoken since your family's fall."
Alaric didn't react, but something behind his eyes flickered. "Which phrase?"
Balen met his gaze. "The heir is not always born to lead—but to awaken what was forgotten."
Silence passed between them.
That line had been a secret mantra, something whispered only by the innermost circle of Vane loyalists. It had been scrawled into old journals, etched into pendants like the one Alaric wore, and used as a code among those who had kept the family's memory alive.
No outsider could've known it.
Before Alaric could speak, the elevator chimed.
Selene Ardyn stepped out as if walking into a room she had been born to conquer.
She was tall, draped in a black coat trimmed with silk, her boots clicking softly on the marble floor. Her hair, midnight black and wet from the rain, was pinned in a low braid that ran along her back. She carried no weapon. Her hands were bare. But her presence—elegant, composed, and controlled—sent a ripple through the air.
Alaric turned to face her fully.
"You shouldn't know that phrase," he said.
Selene smiled faintly. "And yet I do."
She stepped closer, unafraid. "I watched your family fall, Alaric. I saw the smoke rise from the last Vane estate. I was only a girl, but I remember."
Alaric studied her. "Then you were too young to understand what you saw."
"Perhaps," she said, stopping just a few feet from him. "But I've spent the last two decades learning what it meant."
Balen stepped between them cautiously. "What's your allegiance?"
Selene raised an eyebrow. "Careful, gatekeeper. I've stepped over bodies with sharper tongues than yours."
Alaric raised a hand, and Balen fell back, eyes still wary.
"You came here for a reason," Alaric said.
Selene reached into her coat slowly and pulled out a small scroll wrapped in deep crimson ribbon.
"I came to deliver this."
Alaric hesitated. The scroll was ancient—he could feel it even before he touched it. The air around it hummed faintly, the way steel does before it sings.
He took it, broke the seal, and unrolled the parchment with care.
The ink was faded, but legible. His eyes moved down the page slowly, his expression darkening with each line.
Balen leaned in slightly, catching the words Line of Exiles and Severed Blood Pact.
When Alaric reached the bottom, he stopped reading. A long silence passed.
Selene spoke softly.
"It's a ledger of survivors, Alaric. Vanes that were scattered before the fall—children smuggled out, warriors who vanished into hiding. Most are gone. Hunted. Broken."
"And the rest?" Alaric asked.
"They're waiting. In silence. Most of them have no idea what they are anymore. Their names were erased. Their bloodlines forgotten. But they're yours to reclaim."
Alaric let out a slow breath.
It changed everything.
He had always believed he was the last.
A living echo of a dead name.
But this scroll said otherwise.
"You were supposed to deliver this to someone else?" he asked.
Selene's expression shifted just slightly. "I was holding it for the one who proved worthy."
"And now you think I am?"
"I know you are."
Alaric folded the scroll and handed it to Balen.
Selene met his eyes.
"You can rebuild the house of Vane. But a house is not enough. What your enemies fear isn't your name. It's the idea of you uniting what they worked so hard to break."
"What do you want from me?" he asked.
Selene's voice was quiet but firm. "I want to help you bring them home."
The room fell silent again, tension crackling just beneath the surface. Balen watched her closely, unconvinced. Kastiel, who had entered unnoticed and leaned in the doorway, said nothing—but his arms were crossed tightly across his chest.
Alaric finally nodded.
"Then we begin with a name," he said. "Someone still out there. Someone who remembers."
Selene reached into her coat one last time and produced a photograph. A young man, perhaps in his early twenties, standing outside a run-down mechanic's garage. His eyes held something familiar—silver-flecked, cautious, like Alaric's own reflection in a cracked mirror.
"His name is Erynd," she said. "He doesn't know what he is. But he's yours."
Alaric took the photo, his eyes never leaving the boy's face.
And for the first time since the pendant had pulsed in his hand, he felt it again—Not power.Not fury.But hope.