The next morning came with a strange, unnatural stillness.
Alaric sat at the small kitchen table, the old Vane pendant tucked beneath his shirt where it rested against his heart like a silent drum. Across from him, the binder Balen had given him lay open, a spread of names and connections between the city's old shadows.
Today, he wasn't studying them.
Today, he was listening.
The world had changed overnight. He could feel it—not in anything he could see or touch, but in the undercurrent of the city itself. The way conversations shifted behind closed doors, the way powerful men hesitated before making bold moves. Somewhere out there, someone had felt the awakening inside him. And someone else had decided it was time to act.
The first crack in the dam.
A quiet knock broke the morning silence. Three firm taps at the door.
Alaric rose cautiously. His senses, still sharper from last night's awakening, flared. Whoever stood behind the door wasn't a threat—but they were carrying something dangerous.
He opened it to find a boy no older than fifteen, dripping wet from the rain. The kid thrust a manila envelope into his hands without a word, then turned and sprinted down the stairwell without looking back.
Alaric closed the door, locking it behind him, and opened the envelope carefully.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
At the top: a symbol drawn in black ink — a twisted version of the Vane sigil, the crescent moon cracked down the center, the flames choked by thorny vines.
Underneath it, a line written in an elegant, old-fashioned script:
"Heirs are hunted, not crowned."
No name. No demands. No threats.
Just a declaration.
Alaric folded the letter neatly and tucked it into his jacket. His mind was already working, pieces sliding into place.
Whoever sent this knew about the Vanes. They weren't amateurs. And they weren't trying to scare him into silence—they were marking him.
Claiming him as prey.
Good.
He welcomed it.
Later that afternoon, Alaric met Balen in a discreet underground garage attached to the Astoria. The low hum of generators and the smell of motor oil filled the cool air.
Balen stood by a sleek black sedan, arms crossed, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"You felt it, didn't you?" he asked.
Alaric handed him the letter.
Balen's smile vanished as he read the symbol. His jaw tightened.
"So it begins," Balen said grimly. "The Hollow Society."
Alaric frowned. "You know them?"
"I know of them," Balen said. "They are what rose from the ashes of the old betrayals. Those who profited when the Vane line fell. Parasites clinging to broken power." He folded the letter carefully. "They won't strike in the open, not yet. They'll test you first. Probe your defenses. Look for weakness."
"They'll find none," Alaric said simply.
Balen chuckled under his breath. "That's what I like about you, my lord. You don't talk big. You just make it happen."
He reached into the car and pulled out a tablet, unlocking it with a thumbprint.
"Your first move should be gathering those still loyal in the city," Balen said. "Start with the smaller ones. Build quietly. Piece by piece. Let them think you're still asleep. Let them think you're still the boy they can mock."
Alaric studied the list appearing on the screen—names, locations, hidden allies waiting for a leader to awaken them.
His path was clear.
He would not march through the front gates with fire and fanfare.He would build an empire of loyalty, of strength, of unshakable bonds.And when the enemies came—when they tried to rip away everything he loved—They would realize too late:
They weren't hunting him.
They were summoning something far worse.