The photograph haunted Alaric all night.
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, the city lights outside painting his face in fractured amber. The picture—crisp, recent—lay on the table beside him. Erynd.
The boy stood stiffly in front of a weather-worn garage in the southern end of the city, wiping grease from his hands with a torn rag. Nothing about him screamed power. He looked ordinary. Overlooked. Forgotten.
Just like Alaric once had.
But the eyes… those silver-flecked eyes told a different story.
Erynd Hale, though he didn't yet know it.
Alaric reached into his shirt and pressed his fingers to the pendant against his chest. It pulsed—just once—when he thought of the name. That was all the confirmation he needed.
He wasn't the last.
And that changed everything.
The next morning, Alaric stood at the edge of a cracked concrete lot in the city's industrial south. A neon sign above the garage flickered, reading "Rex & Son Auto Repair." It was a dying corner of the city—too far from downtown for new investment, too old for developers to bother. The air smelled of oil and heat. Engines rumbled from inside the open bay.
Alaric waited.
He didn't barge in. He didn't announce himself.
Instead, he leaned against the wall across the street, watching.
Erynd eventually emerged, wiping sweat from his brow. He was lean, wiry, with sleeves rolled up and oil smudged across one cheek. He moved like a man used to working hard with little thanks—cautious but quick, glancing over his shoulder more often than most.
Survival was baked into him.
Good.
Alaric watched for another twenty minutes before stepping off the curb and crossing the street.
Erynd spotted him immediately. His hand moved toward a wrench on the workbench. Alaric raised his hands slightly—non-threatening.
"Not here to hurt you," he said.
Erynd's brows furrowed. "Then why are you standing in my shadow?"
"Because I'm not the only one looking for you."
Erynd paused. "Who are you?"
Alaric didn't answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer and pulled the pendant from under his shirt, letting the light catch the etched crescent moon and flame.
Erynd's eyes locked onto it.
Something shifted in his expression. Not understanding—just instinct. A pulse of familiarity.
"What is that?" he asked.
Alaric lowered his voice. "A symbol of a name you don't know you carry."
Erynd scoffed. "You got the wrong guy. My name's Erynd Vance."
"Your blood says otherwise."
Erynd stiffened. "What the hell does that mean?"
Alaric reached into his pocket and retrieved the scroll Selene had given him. He held it out.
"This is your family. The name Vance is a cover. Your real name—your true name—is Hale."
Erynd didn't take the scroll. He stared at Alaric like he was crazy.
"Hale? That's some noble house thing? From what—centuries ago?"
"From a legacy wiped off the map by the same people trying to erase you."
Erynd hesitated.
"I don't know who you are, man, but I've survived by not trusting people who show up with weird symbols and history lectures."
Alaric nodded slowly. "I was you, once."
That stopped Erynd cold.
"I was the forgotten one. Raised with nothing. Mocked by the family I married into. Treated like I didn't belong. But I carried the same fire. The same blood."
Erynd's fingers tightened around the rag in his hand.
"You're saying I'm part of… whatever this is?"
"I'm saying you're not alone," Alaric said. "And the people who want you erased are already moving."
As if on cue, a sharp pop cracked through the air.
Gunfire.
Alaric's body moved before thought. He slammed into Erynd, knocking them both behind a rusted workbench as two more shots tore through the garage's front window.
"Back entrance!" Erynd shouted.
They ran.
Alaric covered the rear, dispatching the first masked attacker with two swift strikes—Crane technique flowing through him like instinct. Erynd gawked at the fluid motion, breath ragged, fear and adrenaline lacing his voice.
"Who are you?!"
"Your last chance," Alaric muttered.
They burst into the alley and disappeared into the mist, footsteps echoing behind them.
Twenty minutes later, they sat inside a safehouse Alaric had prepared in advance—a quiet apartment above an old print shop in the East District.
Erynd's hand shook slightly as he drank from a cracked mug.
"They were going to kill me," he whispered.
Alaric sat across from him. "They were going to erase you."
"Because of this Hale blood?"
"Yes."
Erynd looked up at him. "So what now?"
Alaric leaned forward. "Now? You decide. You can walk away, pretend this never happened, and go back to being forgotten…"
He paused.
"Or you can remember who you are—and take back what was stolen from us all."
Erynd didn't answer.
But the fire in his eyes… it had begun to burn.