The storm rolled over Beacon Hills like a living thing. Rain slammed against roofs, pooled in gutters, and bent trees sideways under the wind's wrath. Lightning slashed the sky, illuminating empty streets for the briefest of heartbeats, and thunder followed with the weight of judgment. Hunters checked locks, double-checked alarms, and whispered prayers to gods who had long stopped listening—but no lock, no bolt, no charm could bar the progenitor from the night.
Alaric Vlad moved with the silence of shadow. Rain slicked streets reflected his pale form in fractured light, and yet the drops parted around him as though the storm itself recognized him. Hunger—and something darker, older than appetite—pulled him toward the first target.
The backroom of Video 2*C reeked of fear. A young clerk trembled over a cash drawer, unaware of the crimson eyes that had already claimed him. Fangs slid into his neck, and memories erupted in Alaric's mind—memories that did not belong to him. Gasoline. Maps. Kate Argent's name scrawled in frantic ink across paper, the Hale House circled in scarlet. Faces. Voices. The scent of fire waiting to devour the innocent.
When the boy slumped, lifeless, Alaric did not feel satisfaction. He felt fury—a low, rolling thunder in his chest.
"Two nights," he murmured to the shadows. "Two nights, and they meant to burn her alive."
Talia. His Talia. He had left her once to protect her, and now this—a storm of human cruelty and arrogance creeping toward her doorstep. Not tonight. Not ever.
The First Hunt – Reddick and Unger
Reddick and Unger fancied themselves invisible. Leather jackets, hidden weapons under tarps in a rusted truck—they were professionals in the only sense that mattered: they believed themselves untouchable.
They never noticed the fog first, thick and crawling like living smoke. Then Alaric emerged at the edge of the lot, a blur, a shadow, until his presence crystallized in their senses. One footstep, and Reddick's hand twitched for his gun.
"Your fire dies tonight," Alaric said, voice silk dipped in venom.
Time stretched. Reddick froze, the gun slipping from his fingers, clattering across wet asphalt. Unger raised his rifle, but Alaric's hand found it, twisting the metal until the scream of the barrel split the rain.
"Please—" Unger stammered.
Alaric's smile revealed teeth too sharp for humanity. "No."
A snap, a scream cut short, and two lives ended in seconds. Their plans, their loyalty, their bravado—all dissolved into silence under the storm's roar.
The Second Hunt – Garrison Myers
Myers fancied cleverness a shield. A city electrician by day, a pyromaniac by night. He scribbled notes in the cab of his truck, confident that faulty wiring could frame the Hale House fire as accident, not murder.
Then the shadow fell.
Crimson eyes met his, and the glass that separated him from death offered no protection. His mind froze, limbs heavy, thoughts dragged into the cold depths of Alaric's will.
"Tell me," the progenitor whispered, breath like winter frost. "How were you going to burn them?"
Words spilled, confession like molten lead: accelerant, cut wiring, precise timing. Alaric listened, nodding once, slowly, a predator savoring the terror of prey too confident in its own cleverness.
"You thought yourself clever," Alaric said, leaning close to the glass. "The only thing clever about you… is how quickly you will die."
Glass shattered. Myers' scream was swallowed by thunder.
The Third Hunt – Adrian Harris
Harris was smaller, weaker, a coward masquerading as teacher. His role in the conspiracy was minor, but he knew enough to be dangerous. Papers clutched in trembling hands, he muttered of "new beginnings" as he moved through a powerless school, emergency lights casting sickly yellow over peeling paint.
The air went cold.
Harris froze. Hallways lengthened unnaturally. And then Alaric was there, leaning against a locker, the rain dripping from his coat unnoticed, as though the night itself bowed to him.
"Mr. Harris," Alaric said, tone both mocking and aristocratic. "A teacher of chemistry, yet plotting arson."
Harris' knees buckled. Papers slipped. Words stammered out like apologies, confessions of chemicals, timing, and intent. Alaric leaned close, brushing a breath along his ear.
"I should end you," he said softly. "But you will serve a purpose."
Harris fell into unconsciousness as Alaric's will wound tight around his mind, binding him without chains.
The Fourth Hunt – Kate Argent
Kate Argent, the spider at the center of the web, strode through the night confident in control. Secrets whispered, plans hatched, manipulations laid as trapdoors for young wolves. Until the shadows themselves shifted.
"Kate."
She spun, pistol raised, but it was too late. Presence froze her body. Alaric stepped into the streetlamp's thin glow, rain streaking his sharp features. Calm, terrifying, eternal.
"Planning to burn children alive?" His voice carried disdain and amusement. "How… mundane."
Her mask of bravado cracked. "You don't scare me, vampire."
One step, and he was before her. His hand on her throat, not to choke but to remind her of fragility. Breath brushed her ear.
"Then you are the first human in centuries to say that—and live."
Her gun fell. Eyes glazed. Will bent. Feet moved, obeying the command, dragging her unwilling body toward the forest where the Hale pack waited.
The Gathering at the Hale House
By dawn, rain softened to drizzle. The Hale House rose, ignorant of how close it had come to ruin. Mud clung to boots, blood streaked faces, and the storm lingered like a witness.
From the trees came the sound of dragging. Kate Argent and Adrian Harris stumbled forward, bound not by rope but by Alaric's irresistible command. Behind them walked the progenitor—regal, merciless, eyes faintly crimson as though the storm itself had crowned him.
The Hale pack emerged. Derek froze. Horror and disbelief collided in his young eyes. Laura stepped forward protectively. Peter bared his teeth.
Then Talia appeared, Alpha mask firm but momentarily slipping at the impossible sight. Recognition, shock, a memory old as fire—her chest tightened, a blade drawn from an ancient wound.
"…Alaric?" she whispered.
He inclined his head. His voice rolled across the yard like thunder.
"These are your enemies. They plotted to burn you all in two nights. I hunted the rest. These two I leave to you."
Silence. The kneeling captives. The impossibly tall, pale figure before them. The storm's dying breath.
Alaric Vlad. Progenitor. Monster. Lover. Protector.