The Hollow Society had made the first move.
Now, it was Alaric's turn.
He sat in the small, dim-lit office inside Vin Drake's security firm, the hum of surveillance monitors buzzing in the background. A map of the city sprawled across the table before him, pins marking strategic points—safe houses, underground routes, allied businesses, and places the Hollow Society was known to frequent.
Vin leaned over the map, arms crossed, his brow furrowed.
"They're spread thin," Vin said. "Smart. Keeps any one hit from crippling them."
Alaric nodded thoughtfully. "Then we hit them where it hurts most."
Vin smirked. "Subtle?"
Alaric didn't smile. "Surgical."
There was no place for fireworks or bloodbaths yet. Alaric wasn't ready to reveal himself openly. His war would be won in shadows, every strike deliberate and precise.
He tapped a pin on the map.
"The East Warehouse District," Alaric said. "They're funneling money through illegal cargo shipments—arms, dirty contracts. It's their backbone."
Vin followed his finger. "Heavy security. Probably armed to the teeth."
"I won't attack it head-on," Alaric said. "We'll cut the line. Seize the shipments before they move. Quietly."
Vin grinned, the scar across his cheek pulling slightly. "Now you're talking like a Vane."
That night, under the cover of mist and flickering streetlamps, Alaric led a small group — Vin, two of Vin's best men, and a silent woman named Vira who had once worked as a smuggler for the old Vane network.
The East Warehouse loomed ahead, half-forgotten by the city, buzzing with illegal life under the surface.
From their hidden vantage point on a rooftop, Alaric studied the layout. Four guards at the main entrance. Two more patrolling the alley behind. A small cargo truck idling near the loading dock.
Vira pointed toward the back. "The truck's the key. That's where they stash the real cargo. Files, tech, not just weapons."
Alaric nodded. "We take it. No unnecessary noise."
Vin and his men moved like wolves in the dark, disabling the outside guards with quick, silent takedowns. Vira slipped through the shadows to disable the truck's alarm.
Alaric moved in last, his breath slowed to a perfect, steady rhythm. Every step he took made no more sound than a falling leaf.
He reached the loading dock just as two more guards emerged from inside, laughing about something Alaric didn't care to hear.
He struck before they even realized he was there.
A pressure point strike dropped the first. A sweep of his leg took down the second, who hit the concrete with a muffled grunt.
Alaric didn't waste time.
He climbed into the truck's cab and hotwired the ignition with Vira's quick guidance. The truck roared to life, the faint smell of oil and steel filling the air.
"Go!" Vin hissed over the comms.
Alaric hit the gas, the truck lurching forward out of the loading dock as his team melted back into the night.
By the time the Hollow Society's reinforcements scrambled outside, the truck—and everything they had hidden inside it—was already vanishing down the misty streets.
Back at one of Vin's secured safehouses, they unloaded the cargo.
Inside, they found exactly what Alaric had hoped for.
Ledgers. Shipment logs. Blackmail files.
Proof that the Hollow Society's power was built on far more than whispered alliances—it was built on crimes hidden under mountains of paperwork and blood money.
Alaric flipped through one of the ledgers, a slow satisfaction burning in his chest.
He didn't need to fight them head-on.
He would bleed them slowly, piece by piece, until their empire crumbled under the weight of their own corruption.
Vin stood beside him, a low whistle escaping his lips.
"This... this is going to burn half the rats out of their holes."
Alaric closed the ledger and tucked it under his arm.
"Good," he said quietly. "Let them scurry."
He turned toward the window, the distant city lights flickering like dying stars beyond the mist.
"Because next time," Alaric said, voice steady and full of promise, "I won't just strike from the shadows."
"I'll own them."
And for the first time in years, the forgotten heir of the Vane line began his march—not as a beggar asking for respect—
But as a king taking back his throne.