The envelope sat untouched on the kitchen table for hours.
Alaric stared at it from across the room while the kettle hissed behind him. He didn't need to open it to know what it meant. The weight in his chest, the stir of heat in his blood, the way the symbol seemed to whisper to him—it all said the same thing:
His past wasn't done with him.
He poured himself a cup of tea and sat across from the envelope like it was a person. For a long while, he said nothing. He just watched the candlelight flicker against the wax seal. Crescent moon. Wrapped in flame.
The same symbol that had appeared in his dreams for years.
He opened it just after midnight.
Inside was a letter—handwritten, careful, with no signature. The ink was a deep red, like dried blood. The letter spoke of "a breach," "lineage protections fading," and "the Vane heir being the only one left to answer." Beneath it was a list of three names—none familiar—and a single line at the bottom:
You have not been forgotten. You have been watched. Chosen. Rise or be buried.
Alaric folded the letter in silence and slid it into the back of a drawer.
He didn't need anyone to tell him that his life was about to change.
The next morning at the Marrow estate was colder than usual. The house was always quiet in the worst way—like a museum where even the furniture judged you. Alaric arrived just in time to see Aunt Edra whispering in Marcella's ear as they passed through the front hall.
"He's still around?" Edra said, not even trying to lower her voice. "Celeste deserves more."
"Much more," Marcella replied, sipping her tea. "But she's always been... stubborn."
Alaric ignored them. He took off his jacket and headed toward the back garden, where the pipes had frozen again. No one else in the family would fix it, of course. That kind of work was beneath them.
He was halfway through the repair when a voice stopped him.
"You're not a servant, you know."
Celeste stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
He looked up at her. "Someone has to fix it."
"I could've called someone."
"You could've," he agreed.
She stepped closer, studying him like she always did when she wasn't sure if she was impressed or annoyed. There was a softness behind her eyes now. A kind of curiosity that hadn't been there in the beginning. She still didn't understand him, but she had stopped trying to push him away.
"You didn't come to dinner last night," she said.
"I didn't feel like listening to Torren compare himself to royalty again."
That drew a small laugh from her—surprised and involuntary. Alaric didn't smile, but something in his eyes softened. It was the closest they came to comfort these days.
She glanced down at his hands—cracked knuckles, calloused palms, scars that no one in the family had ever asked about. "You don't have to prove anything," she said.
"I'm not trying to."
She paused. "Then why stay?"
Alaric met her gaze. "Because your grandfather asked me to. Because I made a promise. And because... whether they see it or not, I don't turn away from what's mine to protect."
Celeste looked like she wanted to ask more. But she didn't. Instead, she turned and walked back toward the house, leaving Alaric in the cold with nothing but his tools and the weight of a past pressing harder against his shoulders.
He finished the repairs, cleaned up, and slipped back into his coat. As he walked away, he reached into his pocket and ran his thumb over the wax seal he had pried off the envelope the night before.
A promise buried in fire.
And now, beginning to rise again.