The next morning arrived draped in mist—thick, clinging, almost deliberate in how it concealed the city from itself. Buildings blurred into shadowed outlines. Footsteps softened in the fog. It was a veil, as if the world had decided not to look too closely at what had nearly unraveled the night before.
In a quiet corner of the upper district, far from newsrooms and politicians, a small bakery cracked open its shutters. The scent of yeast and warmth tried to push back the cold. Faro, the elderly owner, moved with the steady ritual of someone who'd served bread long enough to know silence was often louder than words.
Then he saw it.
An envelope, tucked neatly into the mail slot. Black wax seal. The crescent moon wrapped in flame glinted faintly in the dim light.
His breath hitched.
He locked the front door before flipping the "Open" sign. No one would be getting croissants this morning.
Faro held the envelope as if it might burn him, then bowed his head—alone, quietly—because he knew.
The Vanes had returned.
—
At the Astoria's upper floor, where the air always smelled faintly of aged wood and memory, Alaric stood before a rain-streaked window. The pendant around his neck was still. But Balen could sense the storm brewing beneath his posture as he stepped in with a tablet and a steaming cup of tea.
"No reports yet," Balen said, setting the tea down. "Nothing from the Hollow Society. Media's silent. Last night's incident may as well have never happened."
Alaric didn't turn. "That's how it should be. Power doesn't need applause."
Vira entered a moment later, placing a file onto the table with more force than necessary. Her lips were pressed thin. Eyes focused.
"Three of the Hollow's inner circle have scattered," she said. "One's in hiding up north. One fled overseas. The third…"
She hesitated.
Alaric turned, slowly. "What?"
"He's calling for a summit. They're rallying. Desperate. But not stupid."
Balen exhaled. "They're scared. They've poked at something older than their bloodlines."
Alaric opened the file. His gaze swept over names and coordinates until it stopped.
One name pulled everything around it into silence.
Donovan Wraithe.
The name felt like a cold hand across the spine. A former tactician of the Hollow Society, long assumed dead—until now. A man who once orchestrated the collapse of three rival bloodlines in one night. One of those had been a Vane ally.
"He's resurfaced," Vira confirmed. "Off the grid. Building something. He's gathering mercenaries, historians, even fringe occultists. And he's not making noise."
"He's preparing for war," Alaric murmured.
"No," she said. "He's preparing for you."
—
That afternoon, Alaric walked the lower districts alone.
He didn't try to be seen.
And yet, he was.
A courier turned the corner and immediately stepped back, giving him room.
A florist arranging a morning display paused mid-motion and gave a quiet nod.
Even the stray dogs didn't bark. They simply watched.
He moved through the city like an echo returning home—one the people hadn't known they missed until it passed by.
Outside a crumbling old printing press, he stopped. The windows were blacked out. The sign said Condemned. But Alaric knocked once. Then twice, slower.
The door opened.
Inside, five elderly men sat at a weathered table, drinking tea from mismatched cups. None looked surprised.
One of them blinked, eyes misting. "Your grandfather's eyes."
Alaric stepped forward and placed a scroll on the table. Names. Sleeper cells. Traitors still pretending loyalty.
"I need them neutralized. Quiet. Clean. No public trail."
The oldest man took the scroll with shaking hands. "The ghosts of the old world rise for you, my lord."
Alaric nodded once and turned.
Outside, the mist coiled around him like a second skin. In a passing reflection on the shop's cracked window, the pendant at his chest glowed faintly—then faded, like a heartbeat stilled.
—
That evening, the apartment was silent.
A bowl of soup sat steaming beside him, untouched. The scent reminded him of simpler nights—ones that didn't carry blood and shadow.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Celeste.
"I know you're doing something important. But please… don't forget the man you used to be. Don't forget us."
The screen pulsed softly in the dark.
Alaric stared at the message. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. One reply. One word. It would be enough to anchor her. To say I remember.
But nothing came.
Not because he didn't care—but because he feared the man she was reaching for no longer existed.
He turned off the screen.
Outside, the fog had thickened again. As if the city was exhaling with him.
—
Near midnight, a convoy of armored vehicles rumbled into a private hangar on the city's southern airfield. The Hollow Society's agents moved like shadows—expecting weapons, intelligence drops, reinforcements.
What they received… was Alaric.
He stepped from the shadows with no fanfare, no warning.
And within seconds, chaos was made elegant.
One agent raised a rifle—Alaric was already in motion. The man crumpled before the trigger clicked. Another drew a blade; it shattered on contact with Alaric's arm as he countered with a strike so precise, the man didn't even cry out—he simply collapsed.
Balen coordinated from outside. "Surveillance loop active. Exit sealed."
Vin watched through the hangar doorway. His eyes tracked Alaric, and his hand twitched near his own weapon—not out of readiness.
Out of instinctual awe.
"I've fought monsters," he whispered. "But he's something else."
Beside him, Balen nodded. "He's becoming who the world tried to erase. And they don't even realize they should've been kneeling."
Inside, the final agent stumbled backward, alive only because Alaric allowed it.
"You're going to deliver a message," Alaric said, voice low, sharp as steel. "Tell Donovan Wraithe the time for games is over. If he wants to face the last of the Vanes… he won't have to wait long."
The man nodded quickly, eyes wide, lips trembling.
Alaric stepped into the dark once more, the pendant blazing faintly with each stride—casting silver across the floor like moonlight etched in blood.
—
On the return drive, the silence inside the vehicle was heavy.
Balen glanced at Alaric through the rearview mirror.
"You don't sleep anymore."
"Not when there's work to do."
"And when it's done?"
Alaric didn't answer.
He stared out at the sleeping city, the fog, the towers blinking in steady intervals like the breath of giants.
The pendant glowed again. Not bright. But steady.
A quiet fire. A legacy that didn't roar—because it didn't need to.
Outside, the streets bent gently around them.
And above, the night whispered a truth the world was still too blind to see:
The last of the Vanes was no longer rising.
He was already here.