Rain slicked the cobblestone alleyways of Eldermire just before dawn, pooling in fractured mirrors beneath neon signs and the occasional sweep of early commuter lights. The world above bustled, unaware of what stirred below. In the basement of a forgotten tea warehouse—one of Balen's lesser-known safehouses—Alaric stood barefoot and shirtless, his chest rising and falling with deliberate rhythm.
Each breath he drew spiraled inward, coiling energy through his limbs in sacred sequence.
Each exhale sharpened it—channeling the force without waste, like fire drawn through the barrel of a cannon.
The air around him shimmered faintly. Not from heat, but from pressure. Invisible rings of power rolled outward with each breath, disturbing the dust on the floor, making the hanging lightbulbs sway in silent cadence. His skin glistened with sweat, but his eyes were calm.
At his chest, the crescent-and-flame pendant pulsed with a deep, slow light.
Not bright.
Alive.
It glowed like a memory remembering itself.
In a sudden movement, Alaric stepped forward and struck.
The force of the blow didn't just move air—it cracked it. A silent shockwave erupted from his palm, rattling the ceiling and sending a wooden beam groaning across the far wall. One of the lights snapped free and crashed onto the floor, glass scattering at the edge of the training mat.
From the shadows, Vira observed, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"That pressure wave knocked the door off its hinge," she said, stepping forward slowly.
Alaric exhaled. "I'm controlling it better now."
Vira narrowed her eyes, watching the way the air still danced subtly around his shoulders. "It's more than control. You're not just training anymore—you're remembering. Refining something none of us understand. Something that doesn't belong to this age."
The pendant pulsed once more, as if in answer.
She hesitated, then drew a data drive from her coat. "I found something. Buried deep in one of the Hollow Society's corrupted libraries. It referenced a legend—The Breathing King."
Alaric raised a brow. "What did it say?"
"A man who walked through storms. Who tore down citadels with breath alone. Said to carry fire in his blood and silence in his shadow. A destroyer of tyrants. A phantom of lineage."
He stared at her, thoughtful. "And you think that's connected to the Vanes?"
Vira nodded slowly. "I think it's connected to you."
Before more could be said, the warehouse door creaked open with urgency. Balen entered, coat soaked through, boots muddy. He carried a folder that dripped with rain and tension.
"They've crossed a line," he said, tossing the folder on the table.
Inside were surveillance stills—grainy but clear.
Agents in black, faces covered, slipping into a city hospital under nightfall. A place long under quiet Vane protection. Not just any hospital.
A children's hospital.
"They're testing you," Balen said. "Seeing if you'll flinch. If you'll protect even your weakest allies. They think you'll hesitate."
Alaric stared at the images.
"They're wrong."
—
By mid-afternoon, the hospital's top floors were discreetly cleared under a pretense of emergency repairs. Children had been relocated. Nurses given "temporary leave." And no one questioned the sudden stillness of the upper wards.
Alaric, Balen, and Vira slipped into the building through the rear maintenance tunnel. The scent of disinfectant lingered in the air, but so did something else—something wrong.
Hollow Society agents were already inside.
They moved like professionals. Their weapons were silenced. Their radios spoke of "bait" and "the heir."
They didn't see Alaric coming.
He emerged into the central hallway without a sound. A phantom wearing flesh.
Three agents turned.
Three bodies hit the floor before they could speak.
His strikes were not violent—they were absolute. One blow shattered a man's balance. Another unhooked the body's will from its muscles. A third crumpled to the ground without visible injury, unconscious from a strike too precise for this world.
"Contact! We've got—"
The shout was cut short as Alaric swept through the hallway. A grenade was thrown—desperation, not strategy.
Alaric raised his palm.
The air itself folded—rippling like glass. The grenade imploded within a sphere of pressure, its force absorbed into a shimmering dome of compressed breath.
Balen, from behind, whispered, "What the hell is that?"
Vira's voice trembled. "You're bending physics... Alaric, what are you becoming?"
He didn't answer.
He just kept walking.
—
Room by room, the agents were silenced.
Some were struck. Others dropped their weapons and ran without even seeing his face. By the time Alaric reached the upper floor, the pendant at his chest was glowing like molten silver.
Only one man remained.
Older. Thin. With sunken eyes and trembling hands, standing beside a locked medication vault.
He didn't raise his weapon.
"You don't understand what you're unraveling," he said breathlessly. "The Hollow Society wasn't just created to suppress your family. It was created by those who feared it. They believed the Vanes would remake the world."
Alaric stared, silent.
"They were right to be afraid."
With a flick of the wrist, he struck the man across the forehead—not with violence, but with technique. The agent collapsed, not injured, but broken. His memories scrambled, his purpose shattered.
The pendant dimmed slightly as Alaric turned away.
—
Outside, rain fell steadily.
Alaric walked down the hospital steps, water splashing at his boots.
Behind him, the agents groaned or lay still. None dead. But none willing to return.
Vira and Balen followed, quiet.
The entire operation had taken just under twelve minutes.
No Vane allies were harmed.
No civilians had seen his face.
But every agent inside would speak of that night for years—if they could find the words. And even then, none would dare name what they saw.
"I knew you'd be dangerous," Balen said, almost reverently. "But this… you're not climbing the mountain, Alaric. You're breaking it apart and remaking it."
Vira didn't speak. She stared at Alaric like one might study a fault line—beautiful, powerful, and terrifying because of what it held beneath.
He said nothing. His gaze remained forward.
Behind him, the pendant shimmered like fire caught in moonlight.
—
Later that night, the apartment was silent.
Alaric sat by the window, shirt loose, pendant resting against his bare chest. It pulsed faintly, as if catching its breath after the storm. The only sound in the room was the distant echo of tires on wet asphalt.
His phone vibrated once on the table.
A single message glowed on the screen.
I don't know what to say anymore. Just tell me you're okay. – Celeste
Alaric stared at it for a long time.
His hand moved toward the device. Hovered.
There were things he could say. That he was winning. That the Hollow Society was falling, piece by piece. That he still thought of her. Still held onto her memory like a hand in the dark.
But in truth?
He didn't know if he was okay.
He didn't know what okay meant anymore.
He turned the screen off.
Not tonight.
Outside, the storm had passed, but the world hadn't changed. Not yet.
Alaric sat in the dark, the faint glow of the pendant pulsing against his skin like a promise. Or a curse. Or both.
He would finish this.
Not as a hero.
Not as a name.
But as a ghost in the storm—felt only when it was far too late.