The Marrow Estate loomed ahead, bathed in the soft golden glow of early morning. But as Alaric approached the grand entrance, he felt none of the old heaviness that used to weigh on him.
He was no longer walking through these halls as the tolerated outsider.
Today, he walked as a Vane.
The scent of fresh polish and imported roses filled the air. The butlers straightened nervously when they saw him. The maids lowered their gazes. Even the ever-judgmental aunts and cousins of the Marrow family, who had once whispered behind his back, fell strangely silent when he passed by.
Alaric caught the wary glances thrown his way—and inside, he smiled coldly.
They feel it, he thought.
Even if they don't understand it yet.
Inside the dining room, a large mahogany table stretched beneath a crystal chandelier. Garron Marrow, Celeste's father, sat at the head of the table, reading through reports with a deep frown. Across from him sat Mason Sterling—the same snake who had tried to manipulate Celeste only weeks ago.
Mason leaned back arrogantly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he spotted Alaric entering.
"Well, well," Mason said, just loud enough to fill the room. "The delivery boy returns. What is it today, Alaric? Looking for handouts from the real players?"
Chuckles bubbled from some of the Marrow cousins.
Celeste flinched, instinctively glancing toward Alaric.
But Alaric didn't flinch.
He didn't even blink.
He simply strode forward, each step deliberate, until he stood directly across from Mason.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm—dangerously so.
"Keep talking, Mason," Alaric said, his silver-flecked eyes gleaming under the chandelier's light. "You're digging your grave faster than I expected."
The smile slid from Mason's face.
A hush fell over the room.
Garron Marrow's eyes narrowed in confusion, as if seeing Alaric for the first time.
"Careful, boy," Garron said, voice low. "You're speaking to someone who could ruin you."
Alaric's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
Ruined?
There was nothing left in him that could be ruined.
He tapped two fingers lightly against the folder Mason had laid on the table—the details of an upcoming land acquisition tied to several black-market ventures.
Deals that Mason thought were hidden.
Deals that someone had already exposed to the right authorities overnight.
"I think," Alaric said quietly, "you'll find your empire is already crumbling, Mr. Sterling."
Mason's face paled as he reached for his phone—only to find it buzzing uncontrollably.
One call after another.
The auction had been halted. The investigation had begun.
The board of directors was demanding answers.
Alaric stepped back, hands clasped lightly behind his back, as Mason stumbled out of his chair, fumbling for the door.
Without a single raised voice, without lifting a finger in anger—Alaric had ended him.
The Marrow family stared in stunned silence.
For the first time, the power tables had flipped—and they had no idea how to respond.
Only Celeste looked at him with something like awe—and something deeper, something more uncertain.
Later that evening, Alaric stood alone by the courtyard garden, the crescent-moon pendant heavy under his shirt.
The first real move had been made.
One enemy crippled.
The others would follow.
But this was only the beginning.
A storm was gathering—one even Alaric could barely glimpse. The Hollow Society still lurked in the shadows, puppeteering from behind the city's glossy facade.
And now, with his first visible victory, they would start to notice him.
They would start to fear him.
As Alaric turned back toward the house, he caught a figure lingering by the edge of the driveway.
A man in a sharp suit, hair neatly combed, a silver cufflink glinting in the setting sun.
Not a Marrow. Not a guest.
An observer.
Alaric's eyes narrowed.
The first scout, he thought grimly. The first ripple.
The Hollow Society had seen the spark.
Now, they would come hunting for the flame.
And Alaric?
He was ready to burn.