CHAPTER 21: SALVAGE AND SACRIFICE
POV: Alen
Morning light filtered through Hope's dormitory window as Alen balanced two cups of coffee and an apology he'd rehearsed a dozen times. The hallway felt longer than usual, each step weighted with three days of cold silence that had stretched between them like scar tissue.
Hope answered his knock with eyes that carried exhaustion and hurt in equal measure. She studied the coffee offering, then his face, searching for something that might rebuild the trust his secrecy had damaged.
"I brought a peace offering," he said quietly. "And something that might count as honesty."
"Might count?" Her voice held the careful neutrality of someone protecting themselves from further disappointment.
"I'm sorry." The words came out harsher than intended, raw with frustration he'd been carrying for days. "You're right—I've been unfairly suspicious of Landon. I'll try harder."
Hope stepped aside to let him enter, accepting the coffee with hands that trembled slightly. The Hollow remained dormant in his presence, but tension filled the space between them like atmospheric pressure before storms.
"What's really going on?" she asked, settling on her bed with careful distance between them. "You've been distant since New Orleans. More than distant—isolated. Like you're carrying something too heavy to share."
"Because I am. Because I know cosmic secrets that would terrify you and planning soul hunts that would horrify you and carrying transmigration knowledge that could destroy our relationship entirely."
"I almost lost you," Alen said instead, offering partial truth wrapped in vulnerable admission. "Your mom almost died. I'm terrified of missing threats, of being too slow or too weak when something matters."
Something in Hope's expression softened, defensive walls lowering fractionally. "You can't protect everyone from everything. No one can."
"I can try."
"Not by shutting people out. Not by carrying everything alone." Hope leaned forward, close enough that he could see golden flecks in her blue eyes. "Let people in. Let me in."
The proximity made the Hollow settle deeper into dormancy, ancient whispers fading to barely audible murmur. Alen felt the familiar calm that came with Hope's presence, the sense that chaos could be managed if they faced it together.
Their foreheads touched—simple contact that carried weight beyond physical proximity. Trust rebuilding through shared breath and synchronized heartbeats, the promise that partnership could survive strain if both people chose to fight for it.
But underneath reconciliation lay deepening guilt. Every moment of honest vulnerability made his larger deceptions feel heavier, more corrosive. Hope was choosing to trust him while he planned solo missions that could get him killed or worse.
"I'm still lying," he thought, even as relief flooded through him. "About transmigration, about soul hunting, about the cosmic responsibilities that keep me awake at night. She's rebuilding faith in someone who doesn't deserve it."
POV: Alen
"I have a research assignment for you," Alaric announced that afternoon, spreading documents across his office desk like tactical intelligence. "Magical artifact cataloging. Professor Vardemus left gaps in our inventory system before his... departure."
Alen studied the project materials with growing excitement that felt dangerous to display too openly. Artifact analysis would provide perfect cover for resurrection research, legitimate academic excuse for studying soul magic and ancient texts that normally drew suspicious attention.
"I'd be happy to help," he said, careful to match his enthusiasm to expected levels.
"Good. Start with the restricted collection—items too dangerous for student access but still requiring academic documentation." Alaric's expression carried the weight of administrative burden. "Most have incomplete provenance records and minimal research notes."
"Perfect. Access to dangerous artifacts without surveillance, academic justification for studying forbidden magic, and hours of unsupervised research time."
Alen dove into the work with focus that impressed even his academically-minded father. Ancient grimoires revealed references to "soul anchoring" and "essence binding" that predated modern magical theory by millennia. The resurrection coin's power wasn't unprecedented—it was part of older traditions that contemporary supernatural society had forgotten or forbidden.
"Glad you're passionate about research, son," Alaric observed, finding Alen surrounded by stacked texts and careful notes three hours later.
"It's fascinating work," Alen replied, hiding the most relevant grimoires beneath standard catalog documentation. "These artifacts represent magical traditions we barely understand."
"Including the tradition of harvesting villain souls to power resurrection magic. The Entity didn't invent these abilities—it restored access to power that already existed in cosmic law."
But each revelation deepened his isolation. Knowledge he couldn't share, abilities he couldn't explain, moral complexities that would horrify people he loved. The lies accumulated like debts, interest compounding with every passing day.
POV: Alen
That evening, Alen spread intelligence across his dormitory desk like a war council planning assault. Marcus Veld—vampire cultist, documented murderer, twelve confirmed kills across three states. Police files painted a picture of systematic brutality, innocent victims tortured for pleasure before being drained dry.
"He operates alone tonight. Abandoned factory outside Mystic Falls, hunting ground for homeless victims no one will miss."
The moral calculus felt clean for once. Veld was unambiguously evil, his continued existence guaranteeing future suffering for people who didn't deserve it. Eliminating him would save lives while providing the soul necessary for a second resurrection coin.
"For Stefan. For future emergencies. For the people I love who might die while I hesitate."
Alen prepared methodically—siphoning energy from school wards and storing it in improvised battery rings, studying ritual steps until muscle memory could execute them unconsciously, crafting spells that would ensure swift victory over centuries-old vampire.
He told no one. Not Hope, despite their renewed closeness. Not his sisters, despite their proven competence in supernatural warfare. This burden was his alone, cosmic responsibility that couldn't be shared without revealing powers that would terrify or corrupt anyone who learned their true scope.
"They deserve protection from what I'm becoming," he thought, watching Virginia night gather beyond his window. "Hope sees the hero I'm trying to be. She doesn't need to witness the executioner I'm becoming."
"But if I can harvest Veld's soul, if I can forge a second coin, if I can prove this power works for saving people who matter—then the moral complexity becomes worthwhile. Stefan will live again. Future tragedies become preventable. The math is simple, even if the execution is messy."
"Besides, someone has to make the hard choices. Someone has to cross lines that heroes won't cross. If that someone is me, if that burden is mine to carry—then I'll carry it. But I don't have to make others complicit in necessary darkness."
The factory waited in the distance, and with it, the first real test of his cosmic abilities. Midnight would bring confrontation with evil that deserved destruction, and hopefully, the soul necessary to power salvation for someone who deserved life.
At 11:45 PM, Alen slipped from his dormitory room, leaving a note on his pillow that spoke of insomnia and late-night walks. Half-truths felt easier than outright lies, though the distinction seemed increasingly meaningless.
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