The One Who Still Remembers

The city dripped with cold mist the next morning, shrouding the streets in a grey, almost ethereal gloom. Alaric pulled the collar of his jacket higher as he made his way through the back alleys of the industrial district, the sharp scent of wet concrete and iron filling his lungs.

He wasn't headed anywhere special—at least, not at first.

A part of him simply needed the space to think, to walk away the growing tension inside him. The events of the night before still replayed in his mind: the look of shock on Celeste's face, the silence of Garron, the way the Marrows had recoiled from him as if he had become something they could no longer control.

It was a start.

It had to be.

He rounded a corner and nearly collided with a man standing at the mouth of a narrow alley.

The man was older—late sixties, perhaps—broad-shouldered despite his age, with a weathered face and sharp, calculating eyes. His coat was worn but clean, his boots polished to a shine that seemed almost military.

Alaric instinctively shifted his stance, his body tensing slightly. Something about the man felt... familiar. Dangerous, but not threatening.

The man smiled faintly, as if recognizing Alaric's reaction.

"You're cautious," the stranger said in a gravelly voice. "Good. Your ancestors would expect no less."

Alaric's brow furrowed. "Do I know you?"

The man reached into his coat slowly, deliberately, and withdrew a small black pouch. From it, he pulled a simple pendant—silver, tarnished with age, shaped into a crescent moon wrapped in flame.

The sight of it hit Alaric like a punch to the chest.

The symbol from the letter.

The same symbol that had haunted the edges of his dreams lately.

"My name is Riven Holt," the man said quietly. "I served the Vane bloodline for most of my life. As did my father. And his father before him."

Alaric stared at him, the alley fading around him as the weight of those words settled.

"You're mistaken," Alaric said carefully. "The Vanes... they're gone. Wiped out decades ago."

"Not all," Riven said, stepping closer. He offered the pendant on his open palm. "You survived. Hidden in plain sight. Kept alive through sacrifice and silence."

Alaric didn't move.

"Harold Marrow knew," Riven continued. "He knew exactly who you were. Why do you think he arranged your marriage to his granddaughter? It wasn't chance, boy. It was protection. A last tether to keep you alive long enough for this moment."

Alaric's throat tightened. It was too much. Too sudden.

"I'm just... a man," Alaric said, almost to himself. "I fix broken shelves. I live in a shoebox apartment."

"And so did your ancestors once," Riven said sharply. "Before they rose. Before they shaped kingdoms in secret and held the power others could only dream of."

The older man's voice softened.

"You feel it, don't you? The restlessness. The way the world seems to push against you. The way the weak mock you, because they sense what lies beneath and fear it without understanding it."

Alaric's fists clenched at his sides.

Riven pressed the pendant into Alaric's palm.

"You don't have to believe me. Not yet. But soon, the Hollow Society will come. They've been hunting your bloodline for generations. They erased your family's name from history books, drove your ancestors underground."

He paused.

"But they didn't finish the job. You're the last living Vane. And whether you accept it or not, they will come for you."

Alaric looked down at the pendant. It was heavier than it should have been, thrumming with a subtle warmth against his skin.

"And if I refuse?" Alaric asked quietly.

Riven smiled, sadness flickering across his face.

"You can't refuse blood, boy. It's in you. It calls you. It will awaken whether you want it to or not."

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Finally, Alaric slipped the pendant over his neck. It felt... right. Like putting on armor he hadn't realized he needed.

Riven nodded approvingly.

"I'll be in the shadows," the old man said. "Watching. When you're ready to claim your birthright, you'll find me."

Without another word, Riven turned and disappeared into the mist.

Leaving Alaric alone in the alley, the pendant resting against his chest, and the weight of a forgotten legacy pressing down on his shoulders.

As he walked back through the city streets, Alaric couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted.

He was no longer a ghost tolerated by the Marrows.

He was a storm waiting to break.

And somewhere deep inside, buried beneath layers of humility and survival instinct, the blood of kings and warriors stirred.

The Vane heir had begun to awaken.

And the world would never be ready for what came next.