Alaric stared up the stairwell.
The figure blocking the exit didn't move. The silver mask covered its entire face—smooth and polished, like it had never belonged to a person at all.
Just a shape.
A presence.
Its robes were white and gold, the colors of the Church's High Inquisitors, but the air around it was wrong. Too still. Too cold.
"Run," Alaric said softly.
Seraphine didn't argue.
She turned without hesitation and moved back into the underground vault. He waited until she was out of sight before taking a single step forward.
The masked figure tilted its head slightly.
"Your sister is not the one we came for," it said. The voice was strange—flat, and yet it echoed, like more than one person was speaking at once. "We seek the anomaly. The echo. The one who should not exist."
"You've found him," Alaric replied.
---
The masked figure lifted a hand.
Light shimmered in its palm—silver and blue, shaped like glass but moving like water.
Alaric felt his chest tighten.
Not magic.
Not quite.
It was something older. More refined. A pressure that touched not just the body—but the mind.
Divine Signal Casting.
The Church's most feared technique.
A spell that didn't cast at someone—it cast through them.
---
Alaric didn't give it time to finish.
He moved first.
Vector Burst
— Shot him up the stairs like a bolt of wind. His foot slammed against the edge of the wall. He twisted midair.
Vector Grip
— Snatched a loose stone from the ceiling and hurled it toward the mask.
The figure caught it without flinching.
The moment its hand closed, Alaric hit it.
Not physically.
Impulse Echo
— Reflected the strongest emotion the Inquisitor had at that moment.
Fear.
The masked figure staggered.
Its fingers twitched.
The light in its palm flickered out.
Alaric didn't wait.
He reached for its mind.
Thought Loop
— Forced the figure to mentally repeat a single phrase:
> "He is not supposed to exist. He is not supposed to exist. He is not—"
The Inquisitor dropped to one knee, clutching its head.
Alaric ran past.
---
Back inside the vault, Seraphine looked up as he slid back in.
"They're from the Church?"
"Yes."
"Did you kill it?"
"No," Alaric said, grabbing her wrist. "But I did something worse."
---
They climbed through a side passage he'd noticed earlier—a collapsed hall with a breach in the ceiling. It took effort, but the psychic echo had already shown him a safe path.
When they emerged in an abandoned chapel aboveground, the night was quiet again.
Too quiet.
---
They made it back to the Academy at dawn.
Alaric didn't go to the dorms. He went straight to the tower.
Kaelion was already there.
He raised one eyebrow when he saw them walk in.
"You're bleeding."
Alaric looked down. His sleeve was cut. He hadn't noticed.
"Church," he said simply.
Kaelion's expression shifted for the first time in days.
"Explain."
---
Alaric did.
Not everything. Not the Crown Protocol. Not the book. But enough.
The masked figure. The divine pressure. The signal casting.
Kaelion listened carefully.
When Alaric finished, Kaelion poured a glass of water and handed it to him.
"You're not a mage," he said. "You're not bound to the tower. You're not listed in the Church's sanctioned circle of protection."
"I know."
"That means they can come for you again."
Alaric drank the water.
"They already did."
---
An hour later, while Seraphine slept in a guarded room, Alaric returned to his quarters.
A letter was waiting for him.
Not royal. Not Church.
Family.
He broke the seal.
Inside, in delicate handwriting, it read:
> Alaric,
You've made your point.
The house is watching. The blood is ready.
Come home.
Come alone.
Dinner is being prepared.
—V.
---
He folded the paper slowly.
Then looked out the window toward the Veyron estate.
"I'm not hungry," he muttered.
> "But I think it's time I cleaned the table."
For most students at the Academy, the day moved on as usual.
Classes resumed. Announcements echoed through the halls. Lunch was served.
But behind the normal routines, the air was heavy. Everyone could feel it—even those who didn't know why.
Something was building.
The pressure wasn't magical.
It was something else.
Something quieter.
Older.
---
Alaric stood in his room, staring at the letter for the third time.
> Come home.
Come alone.
Dinner is being prepared.
It was signed with just the letter "V." Not Malrik. Not Vestra. Just V.
It could've meant anyone in the family still loyal to the house. Which meant, in a way, it meant all of them.
He folded it neatly and placed it inside his coat pocket.
Then opened the drawer beneath his bed.
Inside were no weapons. No charms. Just a small, palm-sized mirror—cracked along the top—and a single coin engraved with a spiral symbol.
He pocketed both.
---
Seraphine was already awake when he visited her chamber. She sat on the edge of the bed, hair damp from a rinse, a cup of untouched tea in her hands.
"You're going," she said. Not a question.
Alaric nodded.
"They want you dead."
"I know."
"They want you alone."
"I won't be."
She raised an eyebrow.
"You're not coming," he added.
"Didn't say I was. But I'm glad you thought about stopping me."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
---
She stood and stepped closer.
"There's something I need to say before you leave," she said quietly.
He waited.
"I used to think you were cold," she said. "Like nothing touched you. Like you were made to survive, not feel."
Alaric didn't speak.
"I was wrong," she continued. "You feel everything. You just don't show it. And now you're about to walk into a nest full of people who trained you to hide."
She touched his hand lightly.
"So whatever happens in there… don't hide from yourself."
He didn't answer with words.
Just closed his fingers around hers once.
Then turned and walked out the door.
---
Kaelion intercepted him at the Academy gate.
"Going somewhere quiet again?" he asked.
"I doubt there'll be much quiet."
Kaelion handed him a sealed scroll. "From Ravel. He's filing the Veyron case with the crown this week. He wanted you to have the report."
"I already know the facts."
"That's not what it contains."
Alaric broke the seal and read one line.
His eyebrows twitched.
Kaelion smirked. "See? Sometimes paper hits harder than spells."
"What is this?"
"A contract," Kaelion said. "If you survive this visit, the crown is prepared to recognize you as a neutral claimant to the Veyron estate."
"No longer a fugitive?"
"No longer their son," Kaelion corrected. "You'll be something new. Something worse."
He paused.
"Something they can't ignore."
---
Alaric left at dusk.
He didn't take the main road this time.
He didn't sneak either.
He walked right through the noble district, cloak over his shoulders, coin in his hand, and no hesitation in his steps.
People turned to watch.
Some whispered.
Some bowed.
A few looked away.
He didn't stop for any of them.
---
The estate gates stood open.
No guards.
Just two lanterns burning red on each side of the archway.
An old family custom: invitation of thorns.
It meant the table was set. The guest was chosen. The knives were ready.
Alaric passed through the gates.
Didn't break stride.
Didn't flinch.
---
Inside the manor, the air was still.
Too still.
He followed the familiar path—past the garden, the hall, the room where he once trained in silence.
At the end of the corridor stood a long, black door.
He pushed it open.
And entered the dining hall.
---
Every chair was filled.
Vestra.
Two uncles.
Three cousins.
Even a few faces he hadn't seen in years—nobles who'd once claimed to be distant kin, now seated like royalty.
At the head of the table sat Malrik Veyron.
Dressed in noble black, rings on every finger.
Smiling.
"Alaric," he said warmly. "Welcome home."
Alaric stood just inside the dining hall.
He didn't move.
Didn't bow. Didn't blink.
His eyes scanned the table slowly, taking in every face. Some he recognized from old memories—cold mornings, cruel lessons, names whispered in the dark.
Others he didn't recognize at all.
Strangers in the skin of family.
Every chair was filled.
Except one.
The one directly opposite Malrik.
Reserved.
Waiting.
Malrik leaned back in his chair and gestured toward it.
"Sit," he said. "You're among your own."
Alaric didn't move.
"I have no own."
Vestra smiled gently, folding her gloved hands in her lap.
"That's not what the blood says."
Another cousin chuckled. "He's always been dramatic."
Another added, "He's always needed a stage."
Malrik raised one finger and the room fell quiet again.
"This isn't a stage," he said softly. "It's a table. A place for decisions. For family. For truth."
Alaric stepped forward.
Only once.
Then again.
And again.
Until he stood behind the empty chair.
He didn't sit.
Just placed one hand on the backrest.
Malrik didn't seem offended.
If anything, he looked pleased.
"I know why you came," the old man said. "You think this is a trap. You think we're going to poison your cup or send a knife into your ribs the moment you sit."
Alaric stayed silent.
"But I didn't ask you here to kill you."
"Then why?"
Malrik's eyes gleamed. "Because it's time to hand the house to someone worthy."
---
That pulled a reaction.
Whispers.
Gasps.
Vestra's eyes narrowed.
One cousin laughed too loud—then stopped when no one joined in.
Malrik continued, calm and slow.
"The Empire is watching," he said. "The Church is moving. The Academy is hiding behind politics. We don't have time to play safe."
He nodded at Alaric.
"You've made waves. You've shown power. The nobles talk about you now. Even the priests whisper."
Alaric didn't flinch.
"I'm not interested in the family."
"You are the family," Malrik said. "Whether you like it or not."
---
Alaric stepped around the chair and placed both hands on the table.
"Then why did you send men to kill me?"
Vestra interrupted with a sweet smile. "We didn't want to kill you, dear. We wanted to test your instincts. And you passed."
Another uncle added, "Any of us would've done the same."
"I didn't," Alaric replied coldly.
The table went still.
Malrik tapped a single ring on his hand against the wood.
"I offer you leadership," he said. "No tricks. No blood. You take the name. You speak for us. You become the face of House Veyron."
"And what happens to you?"
"I retire," Malrik said. "Peacefully."
Another lie.
Too clean.
Too easy.
Alaric stared down at the silverware set before him. Each knife was placed perfectly. The wine in the goblet had already been poured.
He reached for it.
Lifted it slowly.
Sniffed it.
Tasted nothing unusual.
But that meant nothing.
He looked back at Malrik.
"Why now?"
"Because the demons were only the beginning," the old man said quietly. "We thought we were summoning power. But something else came through. Something even I can't control."
Alaric's eyes narrowed.
"What did you let in?"
Malrik smiled wider.
"I was hoping you'd ask."
---
The wall behind him moved.
No—peeled back.
Not physically.
Psychically.
The reality in the space shimmered and twisted.
A rift opened—just a few inches wide. But wide enough.
Enough for something to look through.
Not a face.
Not a body.
Just an eye.
Huge.
Unblinking.
Older than any magic.
Older than any god.
Alaric's breath caught in his throat.
Because what looked back at him wasn't alive.
> It was aware.
---
He turned to run.
But the floor shifted.
Not literally—psychically.
A field snapped around the room.
Familiar.
Tuned to him.
Dominion Field.
His own technique—used against him.
Twisted.
Perverted.
The family had learned how to copy him.
Or worse…
Feed him back into himself.
---
Malrik's voice echoed.
"Take the seat, Alaric."
Alaric's fingers clenched.
"Why?"
"Because if you don't," Malrik said,
> "it'll take your sister instead."