The rain had subsided, but Alaric Vane still felt the weight of the wet city pressing down on him as he stepped onto the street. The amber glow of streetlamps flickered in the distance, reflecting off the wet pavement like a thousand half-formed dreams. The envelope from last night was still burning a hole in his pocket, its crimson seal still vivid in his mind. The crescent moon, wrapped in flame—like a warning, like a call.
The quiet life he had lived, the man he had pretended to be, felt like someone else's memory now.
Alaric adjusted his coat, the weight of it feeling heavier than usual. He could feel something shift beneath his skin—the strange energy he had been suppressing for so long was beginning to stir. The power that had been dormant in his veins was waking up, a slow, simmering force that no longer felt like a dream, but something far more real.
He paused at the entrance to the shop, a hand on the door. There was a slight hesitation in him, the kind he hadn't felt before. Part of him wanted to turn back. The world was shifting, and with it, his life. He wasn't just a nobody anymore. He was the last of the Vanes, and that meant something now.
A quiet knock echoed from the back of the shop.
Alaric didn't turn. He knew who it was. Balen Creed. The man had become more than an ally—he was the first true believer in Alaric's cause. The first to recognize the weight of his bloodline and the potential within him.
Alaric turned and opened the door to the back room, where Balen stood waiting. His usual composure was there, but today there was something different in his posture—something almost like concern.
"You're late," Balen said, his voice sharp but not unkind.
Alaric didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked to the counter, pulling out the envelope and laying it in front of Balen. The red wax still gleamed under the dim light, and Alaric could feel the pull of its power, like a magnet drawing him closer.
Balen's eyes narrowed as he picked up the envelope, his fingers brushing the seal. "The Hollow Society, then?"
Alaric nodded. "They know who I am."
There was a long pause. Balen didn't speak for a moment, but Alaric could feel the weight of his gaze—measuring him, as he always did. The silence between them was charged, like the air before a storm.
Finally, Balen spoke, his voice quiet but direct. "You're not ready."
Alaric's chest tightened at the words. He wasn't ready? The thought settled like a stone in his gut. But he knew there was truth in them. He had always felt like he was playing catch-up with his own destiny.
"I've always been ready," Alaric said, more to himself than to Balen. His voice was steady, though the words didn't feel as sure as they should have.
Balen watched him for a moment longer, before setting the envelope aside and meeting his eyes. "There's a war coming, Alaric. And it's not just Hollow. It's the world itself. The people who've ruled from the shadows will come for you."
Alaric could feel a shiver run through him at Balen's words, but his resolve only strengthened. He didn't have the luxury of doubt anymore. There was no more running.
"You don't have to fight this alone," Balen added, as if reading Alaric's mind. "There are others—people who've been waiting for the right moment. For you. This—" he motioned to the shop, to the world outside, "—isn't your fight anymore. It's bigger than that."
Alaric stood silent for a moment, processing the weight of Balen's words. There was something there—something that connected him to a past he didn't fully understand yet.
"I never wanted to be a king," Alaric muttered, almost to himself. "I just wanted to protect what's mine."
Balen smiled grimly. "That's why you'll succeed. It's not about the crown, Alaric. It's about loyalty, about protecting what matters. That's the Vane way."
A sudden thought struck Alaric. Erynd Hale—the boy he had rescued months ago—was still at the safehouse. He would need training. He would need guidance. But he was the future, and Alaric couldn't deny it. The boy had shown potential, power that had been locked away.
And, perhaps, there was something more to his connection with the boy—something that ran deeper than just blood.
Later that night:
As the shop settled into quiet, Alaric took a seat at the table, the envelope still lying unopened. He didn't feel like opening it just yet—not until he had gathered his thoughts, his resolve.
Something had shifted in him—he could feel it in his bones. The quiet of the city outside was in sharp contrast to the storm brewing inside him.
A knock sounded at the door again, breaking his thoughts. This time, it was Vira Dane, her usual calm demeanor unchanged despite the dangerous edge to her presence. She didn't waste time with pleasantries.
"Alaric, we need to move," she said, voice low but urgent. "Hollow has eyes on the shop. They know you're here."
Alaric's hand went to the pendant again, a faint heat spreading across his chest. His bloodline, his legacy—they were waking up, piece by piece. And this—this was just the beginning.