Alaric didn't sleep that night.
He stood in the darkened living room of his apartment, the city lights outside casting streaks of white and gold across the floor. The photo of Celeste—taken without her knowledge, printed and delivered as a threat—rested on the coffee table, its edges slightly curled.
A warning.
But Alaric didn't fear warnings.
He studied it the way a hunter studies tracks. Calm. Detached. Every detail mattered. The angle of the lens. The timing. The message behind the message.
They weren't just coming for him—they were testing how far he'd go.
Now it was his turn to answer.
He called Balen at dawn.
"The Hollow made their move," Alaric said.
"I assumed as much," Balen replied. "How direct?"
"They followed Celeste. Photographed her. Sent a message."
Silence crackled across the line.
"I want their eyes off her," Alaric continued. "Find out who they sent."
"I already have," Balen said. "He arrived two nights ago. Goes by the name Kastiel. No surname. Ex-special operations—allegedly died six years ago in a controlled detonation overseas. But the body never surfaced."
"Cleaned records?" Alaric asked.
"Scrubbed. But he's real. He's also dangerous."
Alaric didn't hesitate. "Where is he now?"
"He's staying at an abandoned gym near Waltham Street. Hollow has him lying low while they wait for our reaction."
Alaric's voice dropped. "Then they'll get one."
Waltham Street had once been a thriving stretch of local business and community gyms. Now, it was a row of cracked brick facades and boarded windows, left behind in the city's relentless march toward steel and skyline. The old gym stood at the corner like a dead memory—caved-in roof, graffiti scars, and busted chain-link fences curling inward like dying vines.
Alaric arrived just after sunset.
No backup.
No noise.
Just him and the cold clarity that always came before a confrontation.
He didn't kick the door in. He walked through it.
Inside, the gym was dust-choked and dark, old weights rusting on broken racks, the scent of mildew and rot thick in the air. But it wasn't empty.
Kastiel stood near the center ring.
Tall. Lean. Dressed in a fitted black shirt and tactical pants. His hair was buzzed short, his jaw marked with a scar that ran from his chin to just under his right eye. His arms were folded, body relaxed—but his eyes were alert. Focused.
"You're early," Kastiel said, his voice dry but steady. "I was told you'd take longer to find me."
Alaric stepped closer, his steps silent.
"You were told wrong."
Kastiel's lips twitched into something like a smirk. "You don't look like a Vane."
"You don't look dead," Alaric replied.
That made Kastiel laugh—brief and sharp. "Fair."
They circled each other slowly, like wolves feeling out the kill.
"You came alone?" Kastiel asked.
Alaric nodded once.
"No backup? No speech? No vengeance monologue?"
"I came to see if you were as dangerous as they said."
Kastiel paused. "And if I am?"
Alaric stepped forward, eyes cold. "Then I bury you here."
Without another word, Kastiel moved.
Fast.
Alaric barely dodged the first strike—a high kick aimed at his head, followed immediately by a flurry of jabs designed to overwhelm. Kastiel was good. Controlled. Precise. Not a street brawler, but a trained killer.
But Alaric had something more.
He let his breath slow, let his Vane instincts guide him. His body flowed between attacks, responding to pressure with grace, redirecting every blow like water against stone.
They clashed for minutes that felt like hours—dust rising around them, floorboards creaking beneath every movement. Then Alaric caught Kastiel's wrist, twisted, and drove his palm into the man's chest, sending him crashing into a wall.
Kastiel coughed, then slowly chuckled, wiping blood from his lip.
"Well," he said, pushing himself to his feet, "now I believe you."
He didn't attack again.
Instead, he knelt—slowly, deliberately.
"You win. I've worked for monsters before. But if you're really a Vane, and you fight like that to protect your people… then I'd rather serve than stand in your way."
Alaric didn't speak. He simply extended a hand.
Kastiel took it.
A new bond formed.
Not out of fear. Not out of tradition.
But respect.
And in the world Alaric was building—respect was worth more than gold.