A Coincidental Meeting

Rain pattered lightly on the concrete as Alaric stepped off the bus and onto the sidewalk. His breath fogged in the early evening chill. The city glittered like a steel leviathan beneath a charcoal sky—restless, uncaring.

He wasn't here for glamour. Just a delivery.

The box in his arms was packed with high-end fittings for the Astoria Hotel's underground maintenance department—a job routed to him through a friend at the hardware store. Nothing fancy. Nothing important.

But tonight was different.

The Astoria tower loomed above him, its façade of silver glass and black marble stretching into the heavens. The building wasn't just famous for its luxury—it was whispered about in underworld circles for who really ran it.

Alaric had no clue about that.

He adjusted the box in his arms and climbed the marble steps toward the side entrance.

That's when he heard it.

"Look at this guy," a nasal voice sneered. "Bringing packages to the front door like it's a delivery shack."

Alaric paused.

Three young men, not older than twenty-five, stood near the revolving entrance in tailored suits and overly confident postures. They leaned against luxury cars like set props—clearly sons of influence, but not inheritors of anything real. Just the kind of people who assumed everyone else was beneath them.

"You lost, pal?" one of them chuckled. "This isn't the employee entrance."

Alaric didn't respond.

Another stepped forward. "Wait... I know you. You're the guy who married Celeste Marrow, right? That Celeste?" He whistled. "Damn, she really downgraded."

Laughter.

Alaric simply stood still, box in hand, gaze calm, unreadable. He didn't move. Didn't flinch. But the air around him began to shift, like a pressure building beneath the ground.

"I asked you something," the first one snapped, stepping close. "You think you're too good to talk to me?"

The lobby's glass doors hissed open behind them.

A silence followed.

Footsteps—measured, slow, deliberate.

A man in a tailored black suit emerged, radiating control. He walked like someone used to commanding silence, and he got it. Staff froze. Bellhops turned their gaze to the floor.

Balen Creed.

His name carried weight. Among the city's elites, he was a powerful executive. In the underworld, a ghost of authority. But few knew his bloodline had served one house for generations: the Vanes.

And Balen, more than anyone alive, could recognize those eyes.

Silver-flecked. Ancient. Sovereign.

His sharp gaze found Alaric. The air around them seemed to freeze.

He stared. Disbelief passed through him. Then understanding.

Then reverence.

Balen stepped forward, cutting through the crowd like a knife.

The brats fell quiet, unsure whether to keep sneering or start sweating.

"Sir Vane," Balen said, voice low, full of awe. He dipped his head—not a casual nod, but a bow, subtle and respectful.

The boys blinked.

"Excuse me?" one of them scoffed. "You're talking to him?"

Balen didn't acknowledge the interruption.

Instead, he turned his head with surgical precision toward the one who'd spoken. His face didn't shift—but his eyes had grown cold.

"Who dares insult a Vane heir in my house?" he asked, voice as soft as silk and sharp as a blade.

The laughter died. The swagger dissolved.

"I—I didn't mean anything by it—" one stammered.

But Balen stepped forward, a hand raised not to strike, but to halt.

"You mocked a bloodline older than your entire existence," he said, each word hitting like a gavel. "And in the house protected by that name's legacy."

The boys backed away. One muttered an apology. Another nearly tripped over the curb.

And just like that, they scattered, shamed and confused.

Balen turned back to Alaric. His expression softened.

"It has been too long," he murmured. "Forgive the foolishness of the blind. They do not yet know who walks among them."

Alaric tilted his head. He said nothing for a long beat.

Then: "We should talk."

Balen nodded. "Your world awaits."

He led Alaric through the lobby, past onlookers now murmuring with shocked confusion.

As they disappeared into the golden elevator, silence returned to the entrance—thick, uneasy.

The staff stared after them.

Who was that man?

Why did Balen bow?

And why, for the first time in memory, did the Astoria feel like it had just received a king?