The cold mist rolled over the hills of Mirefield like a living thing—dense, deliberate, and whispering secrets that only the forgotten could understand. Tucked in the far outskirts of the city, beyond roads frequented even by the underworld, this place had vanished from maps long ago. Only those who knew the old ways remembered where to look.
Alaric stood at the edge of a winding gravel path that led through the skeletal remains of long-dead trees. In his coat pocket, the pendant given to him by Riven Holt pulsed faintly with warmth. The map that had come in the sealed envelope had led him here, but it was instinct—blood and breath—that told him he was exactly where he needed to be.
Behind him, Vira emerged from the SUV, glancing around.
"This place looks like it crawled out of a ghost story," she murmured, hand resting near the small pistol holstered under her coat. "You sure this is it?"
"I'm not," Alaric said. "But my blood is."
The Forgotten Vane Estate
They walked in silence until they reached the remnants of an old manor—burned down, partially buried under ivy and moss. Stone gargoyles guarded the entrance like sleeping beasts, cracked by time but still grim in posture.
Inside the ruins, the scent of damp earth clung to the air. Charred beams and shattered stone made up what was once a great hall. But near the fireplace, hidden behind a warped beam, was a sigil—faint but unmistakable.
A crescent moon wrapped in flame.
Alaric pressed his palm to it.
Nothing happened.
Then he closed his eyes. Breathed.
Inhale through the spine. Hold behind the eyes. Release through the heart.
He followed the breath technique that had been awakening more with each passing day. The sigil glowed faintly beneath his hand, and stone gears deep beneath the floor shifted.
With a grinding sound, a staircase spiraled downward beneath the rubble.
Vira let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"I'll cover the entrance," she said. "You go."
The Chamber of Inheritance
Alaric descended the stone steps alone, the light from above quickly fading as darkness embraced him. Yet he was not afraid. He had walked through darker places.
At the bottom, the air changed—still and dry, like a tomb sealed by time itself. Torches along the walls flickered to life as he stepped forward, illuminating a grand chamber carved into stone. At its center sat a massive stone pedestal. Upon it: a blade. Black as obsidian, curved slightly like a scythe. Runes etched across its spine glowed with the same silver as Alaric's eyes.
Beside the blade, an ancient scroll lay bound in silk.
As he stepped forward, a voice echoed—not aloud, but in his chest.
"He who bears the blood must bear the burden. Speak your name."
Alaric did not hesitate.
"Alaric Vane. Son of the forgotten flame. Heir of the line that once watched the balance of power."
The room thrummed.
The blade pulsed.
And slowly, it lifted from the pedestal on its own, hovering in the air before him. When he grasped it, the runes along its edge surged with light, and a shockwave of energy burst outward, rippling through the stone chamber.
Far Away, in the City
Balen staggered as the tremor rolled through his spine. In the middle of a private briefing with Vey, he grabbed the edge of the desk.
"He's awakened something," Balen murmured.
Vey, calm as ever, raised a brow. "And?"
"We're not the only ones who felt it."
Back in Mirefield
Alaric's breath came shallow as the vision overtook him.
He saw fires—temples burning, warriors bearing the Vane crest falling in slow motion. A hand outstretched toward him—his mother's?—and a voice speaking in a dialect long dead: "When the time returns, the blood will bind again. Restore the breath. Restore the order."
Then darkness.
He collapsed to one knee, the blade humming in his grip.
When his eyes reopened, something had changed. His pupils burned silver, and the sigils along his arms—faint, ancient—had reawakened.
The Vane Inheritance had accepted him.
Return to the Surface
When Alaric emerged from the staircase, the air was crisper. Lighter. The forest had gone still.
Vira noticed the change in him instantly.
"What happened down there?"
He didn't answer immediately. He held up the blade, now silent but alive in his grip.
"This was never just about bloodlines," he said quietly. "It's about guardianship. Responsibility. Something was locked down there to keep the balance… and I think I've only opened the first door."
Vira narrowed her eyes. "Are we prepared for what comes next?"
"No," Alaric said, sliding the blade into the scabbard on his back. "But I won't let anyone else carry this burden. Not while I'm breathing."
In the Shadows of the City
At a luxurious underground manor lit by golden lanterns, Vincent Ashford stood before a council of veiled figures—the inner ring of the Hollow Society.
"He's entered Mirefield," he said. "The bloodline has awakened its heir."
The head of the council leaned forward, her voice brittle with age. "Then we move. We strike before the flame spreads."
Vincent's smile was cold.
"Let him rise," he said. "It only makes the fall more exquisite."
Closing
That night, as Alaric returned to the city with Vira, the blade resting in the trunk and the scroll wrapped in black silk on his lap, he didn't feel triumphant.
He felt responsible.
Celeste was waiting. Balen would have questions. And the Hollow Society would come.
But Alaric had taken the first step toward reclaiming the forgotten throne.
And the city had felt it.
Even if they didn't yet know why… they would soon enough.