The Marrow estate bloomed in the spring sun, a pristine sanctuary with trimmed hedges, white stone columns, and carefully manicured flowerbeds. It was the image of perfection — from a distance.
But within the walls, decay had begun to fester.
In the wake of Alaric's quiet ascension and his growing whispers of power, the Marrow family could feel something slipping beyond their control. Something they thought they had buried with Harold Marrow was clawing its way back to the surface.
And today, it began with a letter.
The Envelope
Garron Marrow sat in his study, sipping imported whiskey, his fingers tapping against the mahogany desk. Across from him, Vincent Ashford leaned back in a leather chair, dressed in a slate-gray suit that exuded elegance and menace alike.
They had just finished discussing an offshore account Alaric had disrupted—untraceably. Garron was trying to pretend it wasn't him.
Until the letter arrived.
The butler entered, pale, holding an envelope with no return address. On the wax seal: a crescent moon wrapped in flame.
Vincent took it before Garron could reach for it.
He examined it carefully. "You recognize this, Garron?"
Garron's eyes narrowed. "Where did you get that?"
"It was delivered to your gate. No one saw who brought it. No fingerprints, no cameras. Just this." Vincent tapped the seal. "It's not addressed to you, though. It's addressed to Celeste."
The Garden
Celeste sat by the pond in the back of the estate, her eyes trailing the movement of koi beneath the surface. She had always come here when the estate felt too heavy. When the judgment in her family's eyes became unbearable.
She didn't notice her father's approach until the envelope was tossed onto the stone bench beside her.
"What is this?" he asked, his tone too casual.
She glanced at it, frowning at the symbol. Her fingers hesitated above the seal. There was something about it… familiar.
"I haven't seen it before."
Garron's jaw clenched. "You're lying. You know who this came from."
"I don't," she said, now defensive. "Why are you treating me like a criminal?"
Vincent stepped out from the hedges.
"Because, Celeste," he said smoothly, "your husband isn't who he says he is. And we're not in the mood for more surprises."
Doubt Begins to Bloom
Inside the house, Garron slammed the study door behind him and paced furiously. Vincent placed the envelope on the desk and opened a dossier filled with surveillance photos—of Alaric.
Him entering the Astoria.
Him speaking with Balen Creed.
Him training in an abandoned gym in the industrial zone—moving with uncanny speed.
"We've been watching him for weeks," Vincent said. "The Vane bloodline isn't just a myth. It's real. And that boy's waking it up."
Garron poured another drink. "Harold. That damned old man knew."
"And he didn't just arrange a marriage," Vincent added. "He handed your daughter to the last Vane."
Garron's hands trembled.
Celeste's Confrontation
That night, Celeste found Alaric sitting on the rooftop of their apartment, staring at the stars.
He didn't look surprised when she joined him.
"I got a letter," she said.
Alaric didn't answer. He was calm. Still.
"I haven't opened it," she added. "But my father and Ashford know. They know something. They're watching you."
"I know," Alaric replied quietly. "They've always been watching."
"I'm scared," she admitted. "Not of you. But of what they'll do when they realize they can't control you."
He turned to her, and for a moment, she saw something ancient in his gaze. Not cruel. Not monstrous. Just… older. Wiser. Enduring.
"I've never wanted to hurt your family, Celeste. But I can't let them hurt us either."
She held out the envelope.
"I think this is yours more than mine."
Alaric took it gently, ran his thumb over the seal, and broke it.
Inside: a folded parchment. A map.
And a name.
Mirefield.
Vincent's Next Move
At a secluded lounge downtown, Vincent Ashford met with an emissary of the Hollow Society. A woman in red silk gloves, her eyes hidden behind jeweled glasses.
"He's resisting," Vincent said.
"He's awakening," she corrected.
"Then we strike."
She handed him a small box. Inside: a black ring etched with Vane runes and a single crimson gem.
"He will recognize this. Plant it where he'll find it. And make sure it breaks him."
Balen's Warning
Back at the Astoria, Balen Creed stood before the encrypted terminal in his private suite. The message he had decrypted chilled him.
The Hollow Society was preparing an execution—not of Alaric, but of someone close to him.
Celeste.
Balen's knuckles whitened.
"They're moving too soon."
He picked up the receiver.
"Vira. Tell Alaric: they're not coming for him. They're coming for her."
The Chapter Closes
As midnight approached, Alaric stood once again beneath the stars, the map to Mirefield clutched in his hand and the faint scent of danger on the wind.
Behind him, Celeste stirred in her sleep.
And Alaric knew—there was no more waiting.
Whatever awaited in Mirefield, it was tied to his past. To his blood. And perhaps… to the first secret his ancestors had died to protect.
The thorns were closing in.
And someone was about to bleed.