The fog never lifted that morning.
It slithered between towers and alleys like a living thing, thick enough to blur headlights and blot out entire streets. The city, unnerved by something it couldn't name, moved slower than usual. Beneath that heavy gray shroud, a war none could see was sharpening its edge.
Inside the Astoria's high-security basement lounge, Balen stood over a war table etched with routes, names, and blood-red markers. Vin sat across from him, restless, tapping a dagger against the metal tabletop.
Vira entered without a word, dropping a file between them.
"Three informants dead," she said coldly. "Same mark burned into each location. The Man with No Face is tightening the noose."
Vin cursed under his breath.
Balen didn't flinch. "He's pushing us to react emotionally. He wants Alaric off-balance."
Vira nodded. "But Alaric's not flinching. That's what terrifies them."
Alaric stood atop a half-demolished skyscraper in South District—one of many forgotten bones of the city. The wind howled, biting and cold, but he stood still as stone.
He was meditating.
Not in the fragile, performative way others did.
But with focus so deep, the very structure beneath him vibrated from the power he pulled into himself.
The Breath of Thousand Gates—a forbidden technique in the Vane archives—allowed his soul to split, sense, and predict. It blurred time, let him feel the intentions of men before they acted. No one had mastered it in generations.
Until now.
His pendant glowed faintly at his chest.
From the rooftop, he could feel the city's heartbeat—and the sharp, foreign cold of the Man with No Face.
He was close.
Back at the Astoria, Celeste walked through the hallways alone.
Everyone avoided her now—not out of rudeness, but out of reverence. Her presence was tied too closely to Alaric. To the mystery. To the fear.
She entered Alaric's study, eyes drifting across maps, artifacts, scrolls, and weapons. His world had grown so vast, so strange. She didn't recognize any of it.
At his desk sat a letter.
Unopened. Her handwriting.
She picked it up, crumpled it slightly, then placed it back.
"He doesn't need me anymore," she whispered.
But what she feared more than being left behind… was that maybe he did, and simply chose not to show it.
That night, a warning came.
One of Balen's hidden agents—a girl named Mira who operated out of a black market pharmacy—dragged herself into the Astoria bleeding from the mouth. Her body was scorched. Something had burned her from the inside out.
Alaric arrived moments later, eyes glowing faintly from the storm he'd just left above the rooftops.
Mira choked out the words: "He… he's coming for you. Not to kill you… but to unmake you."
Alaric knelt beside her.
"What did he look like?" he asked softly.
She shivered. "No face. No heat. Like he never existed. Like he was the gap between thoughts."
And then, she died.
Vira stood stunned.
"No man could've done that."
Alaric rose slowly.
"He's not a man. He's a shadow turned loyal. Bound by symbols. Erased by oath."
Vin looked up, unnerved. "How do you fight something like that?"
Alaric turned toward the hallway.
"You remind him what shadows are afraid of."
Later, deep beneath the Astoria, Alaric entered a vault older than the building itself.
Balen followed him in silence. The walls here were inscribed with Vane sigils—wards of protection and invocation.
"This chamber was once used by your grandfather," Balen said. "To test forbidden forms. To break the rules of breath and body."
Alaric removed his shirt. The Crest of Echoes pulsed faintly on his back.
"Then it's time I learned them all."
He dropped into a stance—unlike anything Balen had seen.
Flowing, sharp, circular and still.
Not Vane. Not Hollow. Something new.
The room filled with pressure. The pendant glowed white.
And Balen whispered, awed: "He's not becoming a leader. He's becoming a force."
In the days that followed, the city felt the change.
Rival enforcers defected to Alaric's side without being asked.
A corrupt banker left a confession on his desk—then disappeared.
Even high-ranking Hollow agents began to shift loyalties, terrified by what they didn't understand.
And somewhere in a hidden chamber, the Man with No Face carved one word onto the wall with his bare fingers.
"Soon."