The city was alive in the dead of night.
Neon lights flickered over rain-slick streets. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, swallowed by the thick mist curling between the buildings. It was a city that never slept, but tonight, a different kind of buzz rippled through its veins—one of fear, of uncertainty.
In the hidden places where deals were made and blood was spilled, a name had begun to surface.
Alaric Vane.
And the old whispers, long thought dead, stirred once again.
Inside a dimly lit private lounge on the 47th floor of the Caldrin Financial Tower, men and women of influence sat huddled around a circular table. The atmosphere was heavy with smoke and paranoia.
The Hollow Society had convened.
"Impossible," growled Victor Morn, a heavyset man whose fingers were heavy with rings. "The Vanes were wiped out years ago. We made sure of it."
"And yet..." said a woman in a crimson dress, her voice like velvet laced with steel. "We've received three separate reports—all pointing to the same man. Alaric Vane. The last heir."
She slid a photograph across the table: a candid image of Alaric, walking casually down a crowded street, head bowed against the wind.
Nothing about him screamed power.
Nothing about him seemed threatening.
And yet, the fear in the room was real.
"Maybe it's a coincidence," Victor said, but even he sounded uncertain.
"No," the woman whispered, her eyes gleaming. "Look at the eyes."
The photo caught it clearly.
Silver flecks amidst dark irises—a hallmark of the Vane bloodline.
An unmistakable mark of their lineage.
The man in the photo might appear humble, even forgettable.
But those who knew the truth understood:
The Vanes had never relied on appearances to dominate.
It was in their blood.
It was in their bones.
And if even a fraction of the old legends were true, the Hollow Society's entire empire was at risk.
Meanwhile, unaware of the meeting that had just sealed his place as a true threat, Alaric walked alone through the city's industrial district.
The night was cold, but he didn't feel it.
He was too busy thinking—calculating.
The confrontation with Mason Sterling had stirred the waters. He could already feel the shift in the air around him: the glances of strangers, the sudden silence when he entered a room.
They knew something had changed.
They just didn't know what it meant yet.
Alaric paused by an old warehouse overlooking the river. The pendant under his shirt pulsed faintly against his chest—a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
"You're awakening," he murmured to himself.
He could feel it now: his body growing stronger, more refined with every breath of the ancient techniques he had barely begun to unlock. His senses sharpened. His mind worked faster. His instincts no longer whispered—they roared.
And he knew one thing for certain:
The old world was starting to notice him.
Back at the Caldrin Tower, the meeting grew more heated.
"He must be eliminated before he awakens fully," Victor snapped. "Before he remembers what he's capable of."
The woman in crimson smiled thinly.
"It's too late for that. He's already moving."
Another photo was tossed onto the table—this one of Mason Sterling, leaving the Marrow estate in disgrace, his reputation in ruins.
One man.
One quiet move.
And Mason's empire had crumbled like sand between his fingers.
If Alaric could dismantle power so easily without even revealing himself, what would happen when he decided to act openly?
A heavy silence fell over the table.
Finally, an elder among them, a gaunt man with deep-set eyes, spoke:
"We must not act hastily. To confront a Vane directly...is to invite disaster."
"Then what do you propose?" Victor snapped.
The elder's lips curled into a thin smile.
"We isolate him. We turn the city against him. Whisper doubts. Sow fear. Make him a pariah. Starve him of resources before he can gather strength."
"And if that fails?" the woman asked quietly.
The elder's gaze turned distant, almost reverent.
"Then we pray," he said.
As Alaric turned back toward his modest apartment above the café, he sensed something—a presence.
Someone was watching.
He continued walking, casually, until he slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings. His footsteps silent, he waited.
Seconds later, a shadow peeled away from the darkness, following.
Wrong move.
In a blur of motion, Alaric was behind the figure, one arm wrapped around the man's throat in a chokehold, the other gripping his wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon hidden under his jacket.
"Who sent you?" Alaric asked quietly, his voice colder than the night air.
The man gasped, struggling. He wore no insignias, no tattoos—just a blank expression of terror.
"I—I'm just...paid...paid to watch!" the man choked out.
"By who?"
The man trembled. "I don't know! Just...orders! I swear!"
Alaric's eyes narrowed, his instincts sharp as a blade.
Lie.
But there was no point pressing further. This was only the first scout—the first test.
He let the man collapse to the ground, unconscious.
Standing over him, Alaric looked up at the black sky.
The Hollow Society had begun to move.
Good.
Because so had he.
And he was just getting started.