The Hollow Society moved quickly—but not quietly.
Within forty-eight hours of the warehouse heist, rumors swirled through the city's underground. Whispers of missing shipments, frozen accounts, and disappearing allies. For a group that thrived in shadows, the sudden exposure left them raw, defensive… and angry.
Their silence cracked like glass under pressure.
In a smoke-filled conference room deep beneath a private estate on the edge of the city, five core members of the Hollow Society gathered again. This time, their voices were low, urgent.
"He's not hiding anymore," muttered the one with the glass eye.
"He's baiting us," said another. "He wants us to act rashly."
"And we will," snapped the woman in the red silk blazer, her fingers coiled around a long cigarette. "But on our terms."
She reached into a leather folder and produced a photograph.
Alaric.
Calm-eyed, captured by a street camera near the Astoria, hands in his pockets, posture unthreatening—but to those who knew how to read power, he was a fault line beneath the city's skin.
"We draw him out. Not by chasing him," she said, eyes gleaming, "but by threatening what ties him here."
That evening, Alaric returned to the Marrow estate for dinner—a rare occurrence now, but one he still honored when Celeste asked him to. She was waiting at the steps when he arrived, arms folded, hair braided neatly over one shoulder.
"Another mission complete?" she asked, watching him with a mix of curiosity and quiet concern.
"Something like that," he said, offering the smallest of smiles.
She looked like she wanted to ask more—but didn't. Not yet. Instead, she took his arm and guided him inside.
Dinner was its usual theater.
Garron droned on about quarterly losses. Edra made another snide remark about Alaric not working a "real job." Torren tried to provoke him with empty smugness. None of it landed.
Celeste's hand found Alaric's under the table.
She squeezed gently. Silent support.
But the performance ended early when a knock came at the front door.
A servant answered it and returned with a sealed envelope addressed to Garron.
Garron opened it slowly, frowning at the paper inside.
Then his expression paled.
"What is it?" Marcella asked, concerned.
Garron said nothing. He passed the letter to Alaric.
Alaric read it once.
Then again.
No signature. Just a message scrawled in block print:
"You've sheltered the last of the bloodline. We'll be coming for what's his. And anyone who stands in our way."
Attached was a photo of Celeste walking alone to her car earlier that morning.
Every muscle in Alaric's body tensed.
It wasn't just a threat—it was a message. The Hollow Society didn't know where to hit him yet, so they struck where they thought he was vulnerable.
They'd made a mistake.
He folded the letter slowly and handed it back to Garron, whose hands were shaking.
"I'll handle this," Alaric said, his voice like steel under velvet.
Garron looked like he wanted to argue, but one glance at Alaric silenced him.
Later, when Alaric and Celeste stood alone by the window in the library, she asked, "Is this about who you are?"
He didn't lie. Not anymore.
"Yes."
"Will it stop?"
"No."
She studied him, her eyes searching his face.
Finally, she said, "Then tell me how to help."
The answer caught in his throat. He hadn't expected her to ask. Not like that. Not after everything.
"You already are," he said quietly. "By trusting me."
She stepped closer and placed her hand on his chest, over the pendant beneath his shirt.
"Then you better show them," she said, "why they should have stayed afraid of the name Vane."
He did not promise her safety.
He didn't have to.
Because now?
It wasn't just Alaric the Hollow Society had to face.
It was Alaric with something to protect.
And that made him far more dangerous than any legacy could ever be.