The grand chandelier above the Marrow estate's dining hall glittered with cold elegance, casting sharp light over the long mahogany table. Polished silverware gleamed beside bone-white plates. It was a room built to impress, to remind anyone seated at that table of the Marrow family's self-proclaimed superiority.
And tonight, like every Sunday evening, Alaric Vane sat at the far end, silent, patient—an outsider at his own family's table.
The meal began the way it always did: with condescending smiles, empty pleasantries, and the occasional jab disguised as polite conversation.
Garron Marrow, Celeste's father, presided over the gathering like a stern emperor. His gaze barely acknowledged Alaric. On his right sat Marcia Marrow, Celeste's aunt, a woman whose tongue was sharper than any blade. Beside her, Garron's favored nephew, Damian, a young man bloated by inherited wealth and arrogance, smirked every time his eyes flicked toward Alaric.
Across the table, Celeste sat quietly, her posture stiff, gaze locked on her plate. She was trying to endure it, but even she could feel the noose tightening.
"So, Alaric," Marcia said sweetly, swirling the wine in her glass, "how's the hardware store business treating you these days? Fixed any leaky faucets lately?"
Damian snickered under his breath. Garron didn't bother to hide his disdainful smirk.
Alaric placed his fork down neatly beside his plate and leaned back slightly. His silver-flecked eyes—so often overlooked—now gleamed under the chandelier's cruel light.
"It's honest work," he said calmly, voice low and steady. "Something some of us might not appreciate, accustomed as we are to inheriting everything without lifting a finger."
The words slid across the table like a blade. The subtle atmosphere shifted. Marcia's smile faltered. Damian flushed red, then scowled.
Garron's knuckles whitened around his wine glass.
Celeste's head lifted sharply, her eyes wide with surprise—and something else. Something like pride.
Marcia recovered first, laughing lightly as though Alaric's words amused her. "Touché. You've developed a little bite, haven't you, dear?"
"I've simply grown tired of pretending," Alaric said, his tone still civil but unshakably firm. "Tired of sitting quietly while cowards disguise envy as superiority."
Another silence stretched, this one heavier. It was as if the grand chandelier itself bore witness to the small earthquake Alaric had triggered.
Garron set his glass down carefully, the clink loud in the quiet room. His voice, when it came, was low and dangerous.
"Mind your place, Vane."
Alaric's silver-flecked gaze locked onto Garron's, steady and unflinching.
"I know my place," he said, voice carrying across the table without needing to rise. "And soon enough, so will all of you."
It wasn't a threat.
It was a prophecy.
Celeste inhaled sharply, feeling something stir deep within her—a memory of her grandfather's last words to her, words she had never truly understood until now.
"Trust the one who stands when the world kneels. Trust the one who does not bow to gilded crowns."
The meal broke apart after that, the carefully manicured facade of the Marrow family crumbling under the weight of Alaric's quiet defiance.
Guests and family members found excuses to leave early. Garron retreated to his study without a word. Marcia muttered something about an urgent call. Even Damian, usually so quick to jeer, avoided Alaric's gaze as he slipped from the room.
Celeste remained.
When Alaric rose to leave the dining hall, she followed him silently through the winding corridors of the estate. Out onto the side garden where the night air was cool and sharp with the scent of jasmine.
He stood there, looking up at the bruised sky, hands deep in his jacket pockets. She hesitated a few paces behind him.
"Why do you stay?" she asked finally, voice barely above a whisper.
Alaric turned slightly, the faintest hint of sadness—and something more—etched into his features.
"Because your grandfather asked me to," he said simply.
Celeste's chest tightened painfully.
For so long, she had struggled to understand why a man like Alaric—so clearly at odds with everything her family valued—had tolerated their cruelty, their disdain. But now, the pieces began to fall into place.
Alaric wasn't here for status. He wasn't here for money. He was here because of a promise. Because of loyalty. Because of something none of them could ever truly understand.
Celeste stepped closer, close enough to see the subtle tension in his jaw, the quiet steel in his posture.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Alaric blinked, clearly surprised.
"For what?" he asked.
"For not leaving," Celeste said. "Even when you had every reason to."
He looked at her then, really looked, and for a moment the walls between them thinned—just slightly.
"I'm not done yet," he said, voice low and resolute.
And in that moment, Celeste realized something that shook her to her core:
Alaric Vane was no ordinary man.
And whatever was coming... he would face it without fear.
The Marrows didn't know it yet.
The city didn't know it yet.
But a storm was brewing—and Alaric was its gathering force.