The Legacy Of The Virkir's

Chapter 06

Arthur stilled for a moment, trying to recall the name. "Chloe Everstone… why does that sound familiar?"

"She should be around eighteen or nineteen now," Alastor said. "Ten years ago, she lived with her mother in a small apartment near Eastbrook."

Arthur's eyes widened. "Eastbrook? That area burned down years ago."

Alastor's jaw tightened. "I know. That's where everything started."

Arthur didn't speak, waiting quietly. Alastor's gaze drifted toward the window, but he wasn't seeing the city — he was seeing the past.

"She and her mother saved my life," Alastor said. His voice was steady, but the words carried weight. "After the fire, I had nothing. Nowhere to go. I was… done. Ready to let fate finish me."

He'd been twelve years old and ready to die. That was what losing everything did to you.

Turned you into something hollow.

Arthur swallowed hard, his face darkening.

"They found me," Alastor continued. "Dragged me in. Treated me and fed me. They acted like I wasn't just some stranger who crawled out of a burning house."

He paused, remembering.

"Her mother… She was strict. But Chloe…" A faint breath escaped him, almost a laugh but not quite. "She was small, but she was fearless. I'd wake up to her shoving soup at me, telling me I smelled like smoke and needed to eat."

She'd called him her 'fire knight.' Said he must be magical because he survived flames.

Stupid kid logic. But it had been the first time someone looked at him without pity.

He'd loved her for that. In the way, broken twelve-year-olds love anyone who makes them feel human.

Arthur let out a soft sigh. "So she's the reason you're alive."

"One of them," Alastor said. "A year later, Mr. Orion found me and took me away. I left without even getting to say goodbye properly. And after that… things got messy. I couldn't go back."

Messy. What a word for ten years of blood.

Slavers. Warlords. Men who thought power made them gods.

Mr. Orion had turned him into something that killed gods.

Arthur nodded slowly. He knew what "messy" meant.

"I owe them," Alastor said simply. "More than I can ever repay. And now that I'm back… I'm going to find her."

Arthur didn't hesitate. "Then I'll locate her. I'll have my people sweep every Everstone record in the state. School registrations, hospital files, housing databases — anything."

"Good." Alastor stepped toward him. "And one more thing."

Arthur straightened.

"I want to enroll in the same university she's attending."

Arthur blinked. "You? In a university?"

"Yes."

A small, sudden laugh almost escaped Arthur — not mocking, just startled. "You've run black markets, toppled syndicates, negotiated arms trades… and you want to sit in a lecture hall with teenagers?"

He'd put bullets in men twice his age and walked away without flinching.

And now he was going to pretend to care about literature courses.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

Alastor shot him a flat look. "Arthur."

"Right, right," Arthur said immediately, clearing his throat. "University. Got it."

He moved behind his desk, already typing into his secure laptop. "Once I find her, I'll handle everything — enrollment, admission letters, ID, schedules. You'll be a student before the semester starts."

"Make it quick," Alastor said.

Arthur nodded. "I will. I promise."

Alastor turned to leave.

But Arthur called after him, quieter this time. "Alastor."

He stopped.

"I'm glad you're back," Arthur said softly. "Really."

Alastor didn't look back. "I didn't come back to stay."

He'd come back to find who killed his family.

And when he found them, there wouldn't be enough left to bury.

Arthur's expression tightened, but he didn't argue.

"I'll bring you her location within twenty–four hours," he said instead. "You have my word."

Alastor nodded once and walked out of the office, leaving Arthur staring after him — determined, worried, and already dialing his most trusted men.

The search for Chloe Everstone had begun.

Arthur had already begun making calls when something occurred to him.

He hesitated, then looked up at Alastor.

"…What's your relationship with this girl?" he asked carefully.

He wasn't prying for gossip — he was worried.

Alastor didn't answer. His expression revealed nothing.

What was Chloe to him?

The last good memory before the fire? The proof he'd been human once?

Or just another person he'd fail to protect when the time came?

Arthur lowered his eyes immediately. "Forget I asked."

He knew better.

The man standing in front of him had walked through fire, loss, and too many graves. If he cared about someone enough to search for her personally, that alone meant she mattered.

"Don't worry," Arthur said quietly. "I'll find her. Fast."

Alastor gave a short nod.

Arthur swallowed, then asked the question that had been clawing at him since the moment Alastor walked through the doors.

"Your return…" he said slowly. "Does it mean something big is about to happen?"

Alastor remained silent.

Always.

Something big was always about to happen. That was the nature of the world he lived in.

Fire followed him. He'd accepted that years ago.

Arthur tried again, softer this time. "Is Mr. Orion… doing well? I haven't seen him in years."

A breath escaped Alastor, the closest thing to a laugh he'd given all day.

"He's fine," Alastor said. "Probably on some remote island right now… drinking with a beautiful woman and lecturing fishermen about military strategy."

Arthur blinked. "That does sound like him."

"Old fox," Alastor muttered under his breath.

The man who'd saved him. Trained him and turned him into a weapon.

And never once told him why.

Just then, his phone buzzed.

Alastor glanced at the screen and raised a brow. Speak of the devil.

Mr. Orion.

He answered. "What?"

A lazy, unbothered voice came through immediately. "Ah, good. You picked up. I thought you might be ignoring me again."

Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose. "What do you want?"

"Well…" Orion cleared his throat, sounding suspiciously guilty. "I may have forgotten to tell you something."

Alastor froze. "Forgot what?"

No response

"Sir….."

"Fine, fine." The old man sighed dramatically. "Seven years ago, I might have… arranged a marriage contract for you."

Alastor stared at the phone. "…You what?"

Of course. Of course he did.

Nothing in Alastor's life could be simple.

On the other end, Mr. Orion let out a small cough, the guilty kind.

The old man clearly sensed the incoming explosion and immediately moved to hang up.

"Welp! I've said my piece, good luck—"

"Don't you dare hang up!" Alastor snapped.

He'd survived ten years of Orion's 'training.' Assassins. Warlords. Psychological torture disguised as lessons.

But this? This might actually kill him.

On the phone, Orion froze.

"…Fine," the old man muttered weakly.

Alastor dragged a hand through his hair, forcing himself not to throw the phone out the window.

"Name," he said tightly. "Tell me the girl's name. Her full name. Her address. Anything."

A long, awkward silence.

Then Orion said, in a very tiny voice:

"…I forgot."

Alastor closed his eyes.

Deep breath.

The old man had taught him to kill in seventeen different ways.

He was choosing which one to use.

"You forgot."

"Boy, it's been seven years!" Orion protested. "I can't even remember what I ate yesterday!"

Alastor inhaled sharply, praying for strength.

"Tell me what you do remember, then."

"Well…" Orion hummed thoughtfully. "Her surname was Belmond."

"Belmond—?" Alastor's eyes flew open. "Orion, there could be thousands of Belmonds in New York City."

"Oh, nonsense. Can't be that many."

"There are three pages of Belmonds just in Manhattan."

"…Ah…. Well the family is rich if that helps"

Rich. Great. Narrow it down to half the city.

Alastor stared at the wall. "That helps so much."

"And the girl," Orion continued proudly, "was said to be the most beautiful woman in all of New York City!"

Of course she was.

Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose so hard Arthur winced in sympathy.

Suddenly, a woman's voice floated through the speaker.

"Darling? The wine's getting warm! Come back to bed!"

Alastor's eye twitched.

Orion panicked.

"Aiya—wait, give me a minute—"

"ORION."

"Gotta go!"

This time, he hung up.

Alastor slowly lowered the phone, staring at nothing with an expression of pure suffering.

Ten years of training. Ten years of discipline.

And his master was still a disaster wrapped in expensive wine and bad decisions.

Arthur stood there silently, trying very hard not to laugh.

Alastor exhaled. "I am going to kill him."

Arthur cleared his throat. "Should I… help?"

"No."

He slid the phone into his pocket with the dead-eyed calm of someone who had accepted his fate.

"Just find Chloe Everstone," he said.

Arthur nodded instantly. "Yes. Right away."

He went silent for a few seconds, brows furrowed in thought. Then, as if struck by lightning, his eyes widened.

Alastor recognized it. "What is it?"

"In New York City," he says slowly, "if we're talking about that level of wealth and beauty… there's only one possibility."

Alastor looked up, expression flat but attentive.

Arthur tapped his fingers on the desk, thinking hard.

"In New York City… wealth, influence, beauty—at the very top?" He paused, then snapped his fingers. "The Belmonds. It has to be them."

Alastor lifted his eyes, silent.

Arthur continued, warming up,

"Their daughter—she's… how do people put it—'the face of the city.' Long dark hair with sharp eyes and this intimidating elegance about her. Everywhere she goes, cameras follow. Men lose their minds and women want her life. That kind of girl."

Beautiful. Rich. Powerful.

Everything Alastor had learned to distrust.

Alastor's expression flickered.

Arthur kept going.

"And she has this way of looking at people…. You'd know her instantly. Oh, and rumor says she's a little stubborn. Proud as hell too."

Stubborn. Proud.

The kind of person who'd throw a business card in the trash because the man offering help looked dirty.

Alastor went completely still.

Arthur stopped mid-sentence. "What? Do you know her?"

Alastor's jaw clenched.

"…Describe her eyes."

Arthur blinked, confused, then answered,

"Light brown. Like soft chocolate."

Alastor's exhale felt like a punch.

The girl from the alley.

The one he'd saved from three men who would've destroyed her.

The one who'd looked at him like he was trash.

Of course. Of course it was her.

"That's her," he muttered.

"Her?" Arthur repeated.

Alastor leaned back, incredulous.

"A girl I saved a few hours ago in an alley." His tone deepened. "Your Belmond heiress almost got assaulted."

Arthur stared at him, stunned.

While Alastor silently wondered what kind of twisted joke fate—or his insane mentor—was trying to pull on him now.

The universe had a sense of humor.

And Alastor was the punchline.

Again.