Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The study was crowded, the air taut with old grievances. Elijah sat at the table, turning brittle pages in a cracked leather tome, his voice calm and scholarly despite the storm around them.

“The Italians call them strega. The Yoruba of West Africa, ajé meaning mother. Where my own mother hailed from, häxa. And here, witch. Over the centuries, we have fought them, allied with them, bedded them, burned them. Whether adversary or ally, they have always been a force to be reckoned with. Their ancestral magic anchors this city.” He looked up briefly, the morning light catching in his eyes. “There has never been one all-powerful witch. Not until Davina.”

Klaus leaned back, voice low and sharp. “Who is now tucked safe and sound down the hall, under my protection. Your Celeste was quite beautiful, brother. Beautiful and, according to our volatile artist in residence. A portent of evil.”

“Perhaps Davina has mistaken what she calls evil for power,” Elijah replied evenly. “Celeste was powerful, yes, but she has been dead for over two hundred years. Why all these sketches now?”

Vasil, lounging against the mantel, smirked at the tension. “Why does any witch do anything?” His grin widened when he caught the sharp glares aimed his way, especially from Isaac and Isla. He lifted a hand, waving lazily toward Bonnie, Isaac, and Isla. “Wow. I sense a lot of aggression in that corner.”

Isaac snapped, eyes flashing. “Why do we need him? Honestly, what’s the point of him? Nobody trusts him. Nobody wants him here so can’t we just stake him and be done with it?”

Vasil only cocked his head, amused.

Elijah’s tone was clipped. “I would refrain from that currently. At least until he’s outlived his usefulness. The Strix have not yet been confirmed destroyed.”

Kol sat across the room, tossing a glass orb from hand to hand. His tone was flippant, though his eyes were restless. “Your pet project is the least of my problems, brother. I am more concerned about the fact that Father could be upon us at any moment? Hm?”

Klaus’s voice was cold enough to cut glass. “Last I checked, Kol, it was your recklessness that brought Father to our doorstep time and again. Cádiz, 1702? Or more recently New Orleans, 1917, when your witchy exploits lured him here not two years later?”

Elijah and Rebekah stiffened, exchanging a quick glance, Isaac and Isla caught onto this glance and quickly connected the dots.

Oh shit.

“How many times must I say it, Nik? I had nothing to do with Father finding us in 1919.” Kol’s jaw tightened, the orb flaring blue in his hand.

Klaus wasn’t listening, too wound up in his fury. “Lijah, Bekah, and I were careful. Always careful. It was only you who plotted to shove a dagger in my heart.”

Kol rose, voice shaking with anger. “After you daggered us countless times! How many centuries have you stolen from me, Nik? Do you even remember? Should I want to stay? Daggered. Should I want to go? Daggered. To what end?” His voice cracked. “I’ve done many evil things, but never once have I wished you dead. Punished, yes. But you, Nik, you can’t say the same for your motives against us!”

Klaus’s voice dropped to a hiss. “Then how did Mikael find us?”

Kol shot back, eyes blazing. “You tell me, Nik. You tell me.”

Upstairs, Marcel pushed open Davina’s door with a tray of food.

"GO AWAY!" She screamed, her power flaring. He slammed against the wall, pinned by invisible force.

“Come on, you’ve got to be starving. You haven’t eaten since—”

“Since your best friend killed my best friend?” she spat, tears burning in her eyes.

“Davina, I’m sorry about this kid Tim,” Marcel pleaded. 

“And I’m sorry you don’t hate him for it!” she yelled, voice breaking. “Sorry you don’t want him to pay!”

“Davina,” he tried, softer now. “He’ll pay one way or another. But right now, I just want to make peace with you.”

“Why? So we can be one big happy Frankenstein family?”

Rebekah arched a brow. ‘Bloody hell, that’s going well.”

Elijah didn’t look up from Davina’s sketches of Celeste, his mind racing at 1000 miles a second. “If Niklaus intended to win the girl’s trust, perhaps poisoning her one true love was not the most splendid idea.”

Klaus’s voice darkened. “Any more inopportune deaths you’d like to wave in my face, brother?”

Elijah’s lips curved into a thin, biting smile. “Give me a month. I’ll get you a list.”

Kol muttered, dry as bone, “A month? How big do you want this list to be?”

Klaus let out an empty chuckle and rose, glaring at Kol. Kol met his eyes without flinching. Bonnie tensed ready to intervene, Klaus’s sharp gaze flicking between both of them in an explicit warning to Kol. Kol’s expression faltered for a moment before Klaus smirked knowingly.

“Young, old, dead, or alive,” Klaus said, his tone playfully acidic as he moved for the stairs, “witches are a pain in the ass.”

Marcel’s voice rose in panic upstairs. “Davina! Davina!”

Klaus burst through the door just as Davina doubled over, retching violently. Soil poured from her mouth, choking her bed in thick black clumps.

“Bloody hell,” Klaus whispered, stopping cold.

Down in the living room, Katherine slipped in, guilt written across her face. She caught Elijah’s eye.

“Elijah,” she said softly. “There’s something you need to know—”

The house shook violently, cutting her off. Glass rattled, the floorboards shivered. Everyone surged for the balcony.

Above, Caroline stood pale and trembling, Liz at her side, Henrik clutching the railing with wide eyes.

“What’s going on?” Henrik shouted over the noise.

Klaus stepped out beside them, grim and cold as stone. “Davina,” he said.

The bar stank of spilled bourbon, blood, and bleach. Damon nursed a half-empty glass while Samara drifted in and out of her trance, her eyes sliding from black to normal as she crushed herbs with steady hands. He had long since stopped questioning the theatrics.

The morning crew shuffled around like ghosts or rather they were walking blood bags under compulsion, sweeping up broken glass, dragging corpses out the back, scrubbing at bloodstains that would never quite come out. In the kitchen, more of them worked silently over sizzling pans, frying eggs and pressing burgers. The sound of bacon popping in grease was absurdly domestic given the carnage. Damon was over all of it.

Somewhere in the back, Silas lingered. Damon hadn’t asked what he was doing. He didn’t care.

Finally, Samara slipped into the seat beside him, her red long dress pooling over Damon slightly and her onyx serpentine pendant glinting against the bar light. Damon tossed back the rest of his bourbon.

“So Silas is awake,” he muttered. “The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and I’m no closer to getting Elena back.”

Samara tilted her head and rolled her eyes as she replied back to Damon, her voice calm and smooth. “You are very persistent.”

“And you are getting on my last nerve.” Damon set the glass down hard. “What’s the plan on getting Elena back?”

Before she could answer, the back door creaked open. Silas strolled in, damp hair dripping onto his shirt, a tea towel in his hands as he roughly dried his hair.

“Good morning, frenemies!” he sang, flicking his fingers. The curtains snapped open, flooding the bar with golden light. Every vampire in the room flinched instinctively. Silas only grinned, snatching a burger and a milkshake from the tray of food waiting on the counter.

“Oh my god,” he groaned around a mouthful, chewing greedily. “Best burger since I was turned to stone two thousand years ago. Actually, first burger in two thousand years. Pig tastes so much better than lamb.” He moaned again, still talking through the food. “God, that’s so good.”

Damon rolled his eyes. Samara ignored him.

“Ah,” Silas said, standing at the window, sunlight pouring over his face. “Only a few hours back as a witch, and somehow the sun feels warmer. Probably because I’m not cursed to outlive it anymore.”

“You seem happy,” Damon muttered.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Silas smiled, almost serene. “After two thousand years of misery, I finally get to die.”

Tessa’s Cabin

Stefan sat hunched on the couch, guilt gnawing at him until he thought he might choke on it. What had he done? Oh my god. What had he done?! How many lives had he destroyed? Snuffed out in an instant? For what reason other than hunger and boredom?

The thrill of the kill.

Every heartbeat in Tessa’s body pulled at him like a siren song. Her carotid artery throbbed, a steady drumbeat against his hunger. He dug his fingers into the couch cushions to resist.

“Tessa…” His voice was raw.

She stopped pacing long enough to shoot him a sharp glance. “If you’re thinking of turning off your humanity, don’t. I’ll just turn it back on again.”

“You’re pacing,” Stefan said instead, brow furrowing. “Something’s happened.”

“There’s been a shift.” Her eyes narrowed. “Silas has been cured.”

Stefan leaned back, expression hardening. “You must be thrilled. He can die. He’ll be stuck in limbo. You’ll get your revenge.”

“Not exactly.” Her tone turned grave. “There’s been… a development.”

The Bar

Silas set his burger down, licking grease from his fingers. “We all know Tessa was a vengeful bitch. Your dead love’s doppelgänger, Amara? Yeah, she died at her hands. But today, after two thousand years, Amara and I will finally reunite.”

Damon pushed up from his stool. “Alright. Skip the mushy parts. I don’t care about your love story. I care about mine. You made promises to me, about Elena. What’s the plan?”

Silas raised a brow. “You don’t think I keep my promises?”

“You said that now you’re a witch again, you’d bring Elena back. That was the deal. I help you, you bring her back.”

Silas shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Damon’s voice sharpened. “Because what I’m seeing on my end is me doing all the heavy lifting, and you handing me a bag full of nothing in return. So tell me why I should believe one of your last acts in the world is gonna be bringing back the love of my life.”

“Did you want me to pinky swear?” Silas extended his hand, his little finger crooked mockingly.

Damon’s expression darkened; for a moment it looked like he might strangle him.

“Enough,” Samara snapped. Her tone cut through the tension like a blade. “We haven’t the time. Placate the toddler, Silas, and let us get on with it.”

Silas sighed theatrically. “Fine. Look, Damon. I just want to destroy the Other Side so I don’t rot in that pit of purgatory when I finally end things. Before I do, I’ll bring Elena back. And because I’m amazing and incredible and all-powerful, I can do both. I just need the Anchor.”

Damon frowned. “The anchor?”

Tessa’s Cabin

“Silas’s first action would be to look for the anchor. It’s the object I used to bind the spell when I created the Other Side,” Tessa explained, eyes dark. “Destroy it and the spell is broken. No more supernatural limbo and Silas can die and find peace. I would rather his lying, cheating ass not have that.

“Great. Fine. I approve,” Stefan said flatly. “So where is it? And how does this help my brother or Elena?”

The Bar

“Mystic Falls?” Damon barked, slamming his glass down. “The Other Side’s tether is in Mystic Falls? Of course it is. Why is it always fucking Mystic Falls?”

“I could tell you why,” Silas said with a sly grin, “but that would ruin the fun.”

Samara’s expression didn’t waver. “The fun, as you call it, is a two-thousand-year-old witch and an army of Travelers who want to see the world burn.”

“Oh,” Silas said, chuckling as he bit into his burger again. “You would know something about that, wouldn’t you?” His eyes glittered with amusement.

Damon caught the flicker of panic in Samara’s face before she masked it. That piqued his interest.

“Travelers aren’t the issue,” she said briskly. “Qetsiyah is. We need to take her out, or at least delay her, before we secure the Anchor.”

“Okay. We just kill her, get the Anchor, destroy it,” Damon summarised, “then you do your spell, bring Elena back, and Silas offs himself. Right?”

“Not exactly.” Silas smirked. “She’s crafty. Kill her and she'll bring herself back. The best we can do is trap her. Lucky for you, I know how.”

“And when the sun sets?” Samara pressed.

“Hopefully I’ll be dead by then,” Silas said lightly.

“Uh, hello?” Damon snapped. “Dead by sundown? I think you are forgetting the part where you’re supposed to bring back Elena?”

“You’re really pissing me off, Damon.”

“Enough.” Samara’s voice cracked like thunder. Damon was having none of it. If Silas wasn’t going to bring back Elena, he would be damned if he would have his happily ever after. Damon reached for a pairing knife used to cut lemon and lime wedges and threw it with deadly accuracy and speed toward Silas. It would surely have killed Silas but the blade stopped short, clattering to the ground as Samara’s spell intervened.

“ENOUGH!” she bellowed, power rattling the walls.

Silas only smiled, lifting a hand. Fire danced from his fingers. “You know, Damon, I’m feeling really attacked right now, K? I’d hate to lose my temper and do something… crazy.”

The flames flared, licking the ceiling. Damon didn’t flinch or look scared. His eyes filled only with rage and calculation as his mind raced with another way to kill Silas before Silas could kill him with his magic. Silas laughed softly and extinguished the fire with a snap.

“Ah,” he said, eyes glittering. “I love being a witch again. I feel like I’m reinventing myself. Like a supernatural Madonna, don’t you think?”

Tessa’s Cabin

“Silas read your mind and knows where the Anchor is,” Stefan said flatly. “Again? What does that have to do with me or my friends?”

“The Travelers,” Tessa said, pouring bourbon into two glasses. “They’ve had the Anchor for two thousand years. Give or take. To keep it away from witches who uses traditional or spiritual magic, they’ve had to keep it moving from nexus point to nexus point . They won’t let Silas near it until they have him exactly where they want him.”

“And if they fail? If he finds it first?”

“He won’t destroy it,” Tessa said darkly. “He won’t be able to.”

“Why not?”

“I’m gonna file that under not gonna answer it catagory.”

Stefan drank straight from the bottle.

The Bar

A storm was gathering inside the cramped space. The air shifted, unnaturally thick, rattling the old glasses on their shelves.

Samara and Silas stood at the center, hands outstretched, faces cold with focus. No chants, no theatrics — just raw power filling the room. The wind whipped around them, carrying with it a pressure that clawed at Damon’s chest. Every candle in the place flared alight at once, their flames burning too steady, too bright.

Damon stood to the side, jaw tight, fists clenched. He could feel it in his bones — the sheer magnitude of what they were doing. And he hated it.

If this is how strong they are, he thought bitterly, How the hell am I going to get Elena back?

The spell ended abruptly, leaving the room shivering in silence. Damon exhaled slowly, realisation hardening in his gut. He needed leverage. And he needed it fast.

Tessa’s Cabin

“Okay, quick question,” Stefan said, breaking the uneasy silence. “How does any of this help me save my brother and bring Elena back?”

Tessa rose to her feet, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “As I said, it’s a long story. But simply put—”

She reached for the door, pulled it open—only to be slammed back by an invisible wall of force. She staggered, gasped, and struck her palm against the frame. The air hummed with unseen power.

“No, no, no.” Her voice cracked as she shoved harder, then screamed in frustration.

Stefan jumped up from the couch. “What’s wrong?”

Tessa slammed the door shut, her face dark. “Silas and Samara put a spell on this cabin. We are stuck here until sundown.”

Stefan frowned. “How do you know that?”

“Because,” she snapped, “I taught them both the damn spell.”

He exhaled, already weary. “So what do we do now?”

Tessa’s shoulders dropped, her voice quieter now but laced with iron. “We can’t do anything.” She turned to him, eyes sharp. “We have to outsource.”

Rebekah slipped quickly into Davina’s room, her face tight with worry. The girl lay pale and wilted against the sheets, eyes barely open. Rebekah sat down on the edge of the bed, trying for stern but unable to hide the fear edging her voice.

“Hey. What kind of game do you think you’re playing? I said disrupt the household, not destroy the whole city.”

Davina’s lips trembled. “I didn’t do it. Not on purpose. I—” She swallowed hard, voice breaking. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Downstairs, the atmosphere was tense, the living room thick with arguments. Klaus paced like a caged wolf, his gaze snapping between Marcel, Kol, Liz, and Bonnie.

“This is madness,” he spat. “How can a sixteen-year-old girl shake the entire French Quarter?”

Marcel’s arms were folded, his own face lined with worry. “I’ve seen her rock the church walls, but never this. You were a witch of the Nine, Sheriff. Tell me you know something.”

Liz shook her head with a grim smile. “A poor example of one. I’m afraid I’m no help—not without magic. But even I know this much: that kind of power requires control of a magnitude nobody can possess.”

Klaus’s eyes narrowed. “How did you control her in the attic?”

“I didn’t have to,” Marcel shot back. “But then, I never killed her boyfriend.”

“Yes, yes,” Klaus said sharply. “We’ve been over that. The point is, in her present state she’s useless against the witches and against Mikael.”

“She’s not a tool, She’s a child” Bonnie cut in, her voice like flint.

“Thank you!” Marcel shouted with his arms raised, an angry expression on his face.

“Something’s wrong with her,” Klaus growled.

Kol snorted. “Clearly something is bloody wrong, Nik.”

“But why,” Elijah interjected softly, “is it manifesting with such aggression?”

A thought struck him, and he turned toward the door. Klaus’s hand shot out, halting him. “Where are you going?”

Elijah’s eyes were steady. “This is witch business. Let’s ask a French Quarter witch.”

In the hallway, Katherine waited as though she had known he’d come. Her posture was restless, eyes darting to the floor before locking onto his.

“You’re going to see Sophie.”

“You don’t need to eavesdrop,” Elijah said evenly. “I keep nothing from you.”

Katherine drew in a shaky breath. “Yeah, well, I don’t want to keep anything from you either. And if you’re going out there, then there’s something you should know.” She hesitated, lips parting and closing again before the words rushed out. “She called me. Sophie. She asked me for a favor. Promised she’d help me become a vampire if I gave her some information. And… with everyone hunting me for the cure, with five centuries of enemies gunning for my head, I didn’t think. I just—”

Elijah’s face hardened. “Whatever this is, you must tell me.”

Katherine’s hands twisted together. “She wanted Celeste’s remains. I went through your journals. I found where you buried her. And I told her.” She flinched at his silence. “It was stupid. I should have just asked you. But there’s more.”

Elijah’s stare was unblinking, unreadable.

“I went to check on Sophie, to make sure she’d follow through. Damon and some witch showed up. They… they extracted the cure from me. Took all my blood and I, uh...I died.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know how I’m alive, but I came back with this.” She pulled up her sleeve, showing the strange sigil carved into her wrist. “Point is, Sophie has Celeste’s bones, Damon has the cure, and it’s all my fault.”

Still nothing from Elijah. She took a trembling step closer. “Please say something. Please.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was sharp enough to cut. “She wanted peace. When a witch’s remains are consecrated, their power fuels the community. Celeste did not want that. She made me promise to bury her where she would not be found. You violated my privacy. Worse, you broke my promise to her.”

Tears pricked Katherine’s eyes. “I thought they were just bones, Elijah.”

“If you believed that,” he said coldly, “why not ask me where to find them?”

He left her standing alone, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Upstairs, Caroline was shoving a book into her bag. Her reflection in the mirror showed a ghostly pallor, her body weak. She straightened her spine regardless. Henrik hovered nearby, face creased with worry.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Caroline turned to him, mustering a smile. “I’m no help to Davina if I sit here. I promised I’d keep her friends safe. Tim’s dead. I failed her. Now she’s in danger. Maybe the witches are behind it, maybe not, but I have to do something.”

Henrik’s voice wavered. “But Nik said you need to rest. And with Father coming and the way you look right now... I’m scared you’re going to die. Again.”

Her expression softened. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I won’t do any heavy spells. I promise.”

Henrik didn’t look convinced, and before he could answer, a voice drawled from the doorway.

“I second what the boy says.”

Caroline froze. “Enzo.”

Isla stepped into view behind him, arms crossed. “Me too.”

Isaac joined them with a grim expression.

Caroline huffed. “I guess you too, Isaac.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “You’re benched.”

“I can help.”

Enzo smirked without humour. “Sure. When you don’t look like a corpse. Until then you’re benched.”

In his room, Elijah sat at his desk. He drew the mark from Katherine’s wrist, hand steady though his jaw clenched hard. He stared at the shape, ancient dread curling through his chest. Folding the page, he slipped it into his pocket.

The wood creaked beneath his grip, and before he realised it, the desk edge splintered beneath his hand. Pain exploded in his hand as the splinters pierced his skin. He stared at the blood slowly creeping toward his pristine white cuff as if he were in a trance, the darkness creeping into his vision as everything began to pause. But as quickly as the panic began, he snapped out of it, grabbing his hankerchief and dabbing the blood clean before plucking the wood from his flesh with surgical precision.

He crossed to the bathroom, washed the blood away, and replaced the handkerchief. For a moment, his eyes caught on the ruined square, its dark stains, and a chill swept through him. A need to keep everything immaculate, to push the dread down.

Celeste. Sophie. Davina.

There was no time to hesitate. He straightened his cuffs, composed his face, and left the room.

He had to see Sophie. For Davina. And now, for Celeste.

The tomb was damp and cold, its walls streaked with age and mildew. The air carried the acrid tang of burning herbs as Sabine crouched over a small cauldron, muttering under her breath. Wisps of smoke curled toward the low ceiling.

A sudden creak of footsteps on stone made her glance up. Sophie appeared, shoulders straining under the weight of a heavy knapsack. She wrinkled her nose at the cauldron’s contents.

“If that’s dinner,” Sophie said dryly, dropping the bag with a thud, “I’ll pass.”

Sabine straightened, brushing soot from her hands. “Sophie. Where have you been?”

“Short answer? Grave robbing.” Sophie’s tone was flippant, but there was a fierce light in her eyes. “Stop whatever you’re doing. We need to find Davina. I figured out a way to complete the Harvest.”

Sabine froze. “What? How?”

“We need an Elder to finish it, right?” Sophie pushed a lock of hair back, her movements sharp with urgency. “I figured out a way to become one.”

Sabine blinked, incredulous. “Soph, you can’t just become an Elder. That kind of power has to be bestowed by the others. All of whom, in case you’ve forgotten, are dead. Following my logic?”

“How about follow your history?” Sophie shot back. “I did research. In 1742, there was a witch massacre. All the Elders were wiped out. So they decided whoever consecrated the most powerful dead witch in the community became an Elder. And it worked.”

Sabine folded her arms. “Teeny flaw. What powerful witch is even left for you to bury?”

Wordless, Sophie crouched and tugged open the knapsack. The sound of brittle bones clattering against stone filled the tomb as she dumped the contents onto the floor. Skulls and ribs gleamed pale in the candlelight. From her jacket, she withdrew a faded photo and held it up.

“Meet Celeste Marie-Hélène Dubois,” she said grimly. “Elijah Mikaelson’s old lover. Drowned in 1821 for being a witch. He buried her, told no one where.”

Sabine’s mouth fell open. “How the hell did you find her?”

“I bribed Katherine Pierce to read his journals.”

Sabine arched a brow. “Bribed her with what?”

“The hope of being a vampire again.” Sophie’s voice dripped with disdain. “Doubt it’ll do her much good though.”

“Why would you say that?”

Sophie leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “Because some old-timey witch and a vampire showed up out of nowhere. Gunning for Katherine or more likely, the cure that was coursing through her veins. They were juiced up with something dark and took out a five-hundred-year-old vampire like she was nothing. I wasn’t about to stick around and risk my ass for someone as morally bankrupt as Katherine Pierce.”

Sabine faltered, caught off guard. “That’s… well—”

“Cowardly?” Sophie snapped. “Maybe. But we’ve only got a few weeks left to complete the Harvest. And if we fail, witches are done in this town. Our power fades. Those girls sacrificed will never resurrect. My niece will never come back. So if digging up some creepy old bones and leaving someone as despicable as Katherine to die means I get Monique back, then I don’t care about anything else.”

A new voice echoed from the doorway, calm but sharp as a blade.

“I happen to care.”

Both women spun. Elijah stepped into the tomb, his figure framed by the flickering torchlight, his eyes cold and unyielding.

“You’re coming with me,” he said.

Back at the cabin, Stefan sat hunched on the couch, his phone pressed to his ear. His thumb tapped restlessly against the wood of the armrest as he waited. The line connected.

Meanwhile, at the Salvatore Boarding House, Jeremy hunched over his laptop, his fingers flying across the keys as he tried to track Caitlin’s phone. Alaric hovered nearby, phone in hand, frustration etched deep into his features. Between Damon missing, Caitlin gone, and Elena dead, it was chaos.

Jeremy’s phone buzzed. Stefan’s name lit the screen. His stomach lurched as he exchanged a wary look with Alaric. Fury flared hot and sharp in his chest as he answered.

“I swear if you’ve done anything to Caitlin or her family. I’m going to rip-”

A surge of guilt ripped through Stefan. His face twisted with pain, but he forced it down, forced his voice to remain steady. “Caitlin’s okay.” Stefan’s tone was hollow, exhausted, a voice completely broken. The sound of it made both Jeremy and Alaric falter. “Look, we have to talk.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Jeremy shot back, voice rising. “After murdering over two hundred people, kidnapping Caitlin, after all the pain you caused. You want to talk? You sound almost as if you feel any emotions at all.”

Stefan drew in a shaky breath, but before he could respond, there was the scrape of movement on his end of the line. A new voice slipped into the call.

“Want is a stretch,” Qetsiyah said coolly. “Need, though…”

Jeremy’s eyes widened. “Who is this?”

Alaric’s face hardened in recognition. “You’re the witch.”

“Yes,” Tessa said. “It’s me. Sadly, we don’t have the luxury of formal introductions. If you want any chance of bringing Elena back, saving Damon and Stefan, stopping Mystic Falls from being blown off the map, you should probably want to listen to what I’m about to tell you.”

On the highway, Damon’s car tore down the asphalt, the hum of its engine filling the silence. Silas lounged behind the wheel, one hand lazily flicking through the radio stations, while Damon rode shotgun, taking a swig from his pocket flask. Samara sat in the backseat, scrolling her phone, her expression bored.

Damon groaned. “Are you done flicking through stations? I kind of like to hear at least one song.”

“Uh” Silas tilted his head mockingly, a smirk curling his lips. “Well obviously I am not done if I’m still flicking through the stations.”

Samara’s phone buzzed with a message. She glanced down, her face hardening as she typed quickly. Silas didn’t seem to notice, but Damon caught it, his eyes narrowing. Silas continued his restless flipping.

“Boys,” Samara said sharply, “we have until sundown until Qetsiyah turns up. Let’s not do this.”

“You mentioned her,” Damon drawled, “but what about the Travelers? How do you plan to deal with hordes of Travelers?”

“Yeah, that sounds like a problem, huh?” Silas said sarcastically. “Ask Samara. She knows all about them.”

Samara’s jaw tightened. Damon’s suspicions sharpened as he turned toward her.

“What does he mean by that?” Damon demanded, his patience fraying. His gaze cut to Silas. “What did you mean by that?”

Samara exhaled slowly, visibly trying to keep control. Silas smirked, enjoying her discomfort.

“Two thousand years ago,” Samara said reluctantly, “both Silas and I used to be members of the Traveler community.”

Damon stared. “Excuse me?”

Silas grinned. “Yeah, it’s crazy, huh? Didn’t the Travelers kill… Elana? Alina? Hang on…Elena. Yeah, her. Small world, huh?”

Samara shot him a withering glare but forced her voice to stay level. “The Travelers are no friends of ours. We need to get the anchor and stop them before they destroy it themselves and start the apocalypse. The Travelers hide in plain sight. Their main advantage is spiritual possession, and they use their powers as a collective. That means anyone, from a little boy playing catch in the yard to sweet old grandma, could be juiced up and controlled by a Traveler. If they can amass enough followers, they’ll overpower us.” Silas scoffed at the mere presumption that he could be overpowered by Travellers of all people but Samara pressed on. “We need to enter the town undetected and find out where they’re storing the anchor.”

Damon let out a humourless laugh. “And you both would have no hope of entering Mystic Falls undetected without inside help. If only you had a vampire who was born and raised in Mystic Falls who could help.”

Back at the Boarding House, Alaric and Jeremy listened intently as Tessa’s voice sharpened through the line.

“The anchor is the key to the Travelers getting what they want. The Travelers have it, but they’ll destroy it only when they are good and ready. Silas, on the other hand, will want to destroy it immediately and reunite with Amara on the Other Side.”

Alaric frowned. “Right, so what’s the anchor again and why does that affect us?”

“The anchor is an object I used to bind the Other Side to,” Tessa explained. “If it’s destroyed, the Other Side is gone. Silas can reunite with that skank and get his happily ever after. But if the anchor is destroyed, the veil drops.”

Jeremy’s eyes lit with desperate hope. “If the veil drops, we can get Elena back.”

“No.” Tessa’s tone cut like a knife. “If the veil drops, nobody is coming back.”

“Silas and I don’t have a good lay of the land, so to speak,” Samara continued, her voice calm but taut. “The Travelers despise Traditional Magic. However much they think it impure and corruptible, to protect an object such as the Anchor they need to draw on locations of great power within Mystic Falls. Places of supernatural importance, usually sites of great tragedy or great creation.”

Damon laughed, low and sharp. “If you say the Anchor is in Mystic Falls, you’re spoiled for choice, honey.”

“Yeah,” Silas drawled without looking away from the road. “Your town is fifteen kinds of crazy, huh?”

“There is a way we can find the Anchor,” Samara continued, “but it’s tricky. We could do a locator spell, but with the town being a hot bed of magical power we can’t get an accurate location of the Anchor unless we’re in Mystic Falls itself.”

“And let me guess,” Damon said dryly, “the Travelers will be attracted to those nexus points too.”

“The other points would serve as places to reinforce the town and hide the Anchor even more,” Samara said. “Once we attack one place, the Travelers will know exactly where we are and will kill us all. We need to be in Mystic Falls, hidden enough to do the spell, to find exactly where they’re keeping the Anchor. Once we have that location, we will have one shot to get the Anchor and get out. We’ll be able to destroy it, drop the veil, bring back your lost love, and allow Silas to be reunited with his.”

“Just that easy, isn’t it?” Silas chuckled, the sound dark and amused.

Damon turned to Samara, eyes narrowed. “What do you get out of it?”

“To stop the Travelers. To save humanity. To stop the world from ending,” she said flatly. “Only we can’t do that without your help Damon. Another aspect of the Travelers’ spiritual possession is that they can use their power to gain access of the host’s memories. The place must be well hidden, somewhere very few people know about or would think to look. We’re at the home stretch now, it is literally now or never. Do you want Elena back or not?”

Damon’s eyes darkened at the mention of Elena and Samara’s blatent manipulations. “Careful…” He exhaled slowly. “I have a place in mind. But given the way you both are acting, I’m going to need some assurances. How exactly are you going to bring Elena back? You said you did a spell to keep her soul safe from dead Travelers on the Other Side by binding her to the house. So if you drop the veil in Mystic Falls, how will you bring her back at all?”

“Because I didn’t bind her to the house itself but the earth on which the house was placed.” Samara reached into her long red dress and produced a small glass vial of dirt. She handed it to Damon, who took it gingerly, incredulity etched across his face.

“So you’re saying that Elena’s soul is bound to a flimsy vial of dirt?” Damon asked.

Silas laughed.

“The earth is representational. An anchor of sorts,” Samara said smoothly. “In a spell, the dirt will be used to bring her to where we need her. In this case, Mystic Falls. I spelled the glass of the vial not to shatter. However, if you were to lose the vial, we would have to get more earth from the house. Of course, if you did that you would miss the veil going down, so we wouldn’t be able to bring Elena back. So, I suggest you keep that vial safe.”

Damon stared at the vial in his hands, his jaw tightening.

Tessa’s voice on the phone was steady, but there was a razor-edge of urgency beneath it. “Once the Anchor is destroyed, it won’t be in a state of limbo as it was last time. As soon as the anchor is destroyed, so is the Other Side, all souls stuck on the Other Side will cease to exist, everyone including your sister will be sucked into oblivion and move on.”

Jeremy’s grip tightened around his phone. “So how can I get my sister back?”

“If you help me keep the Anchor safe, I will lower the veil and bring Elena back myself,” Tessa said. “I am the only witch powerful enough to do that, and the only one invested in not letting Silas, Samara, and the Travelers get what they want.”

Jeremy’s tone sharpened. “If you’re so powerful, why aren’t you out here getting it yourself?”

“Silas has trapped Stefan and me in my cabin with a spell.”

“Then break it.”

Tessa’s voice rose, angry now. “It’s not that simple. It draws on the power of the people trapped. The more powerful the beings, the stronger the spell resists them. Stefan and I are trapped here until sundown.”

Alaric, curiosity cutting through his skepticism, asked, “Why do you have Stefan again?”

“The Travelers are keeping the Anchor safe in Mystic Falls, but because it’s so important and so many people want it, they must draw on places of great supernatural importance to keep it protected,” Tessa explained. “The Travelers would converge on the town en masse and protect it at all costs. Given the curse placed on the Travellers the only way for them to do this is to—”

“Possess people in Mystic Falls,” Alaric finished grimly.

Jeremy’s voice was tight as he was piecing it together. “You need someone who knows Mystic Falls. Who can show you where the supernatural events happened and where the Travellers can draw power.”

“And I am not the only one with that idea,” Tessa said. “Silas and Samara need someone just as knowledgeable, someone blinded by grief and misery who will do anything to get their loved ones back.”

Stefan’s voice cut through, low and bitter. “Damon. They have Damon helping them.”

Tessa didn’t hesitate. “Promising him the same thing I’m promising you. Of course they have no intention of delivering on that promise. Not to mention, I haven’t even gotten to the best part.”

Elijah ushered Sophie inside, her expression tight with suspicion and exhaustion. Around them, the family gathered: Klaus lounging carelessly in an armchair, one leg draped over the other; Rebekah leaning against the mantle, arms folded; Kol standing restless with a glass in hand; and Bonnie, quiet, watching.

Elijah’s voice was low, deliberate. “So you have stolen the remains of the very person Davina has been sketching for months. Would you care to explain this startling coincidence?”

Sophie set her jaw, defensive. “I can’t. I didn’t even know who Celeste Dubois was until I—”

She didn’t finish. The ground beneath their feet began to tremble violently, the walls groaning, the chandeliers rattling overhead. Dust spilled down from the beams. Sophie staggered, her eyes wide with alarm.

But Klaus, Elijah, and Rebekah only exchanged weary looks. As though this disruption were nothing more than a nuisance. Kol raised an eyebrow and took a slow sip, though his grip tightened on the glass. Bonnie braced herself against the table, eyes darting around, assessing.

“Was that Davina?” Sophie whispered, breathless.

Kol smirked. “Charming little habit she’s developed.”

“And the earthquake I felt today?” Sophie pressed.

Rebekah’s answer was clipped. “Also Davina. And, she’s taken to vomiting dirt.”

Sophie’s face drained of colour. “Oh. We have a huge problem. I thought that we had more time, but we need to complete the Harvest now.”

Klaus gave a soft, mocking laugh, swirling the amber in his glass. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, but his eyes gleamed too brightly, betraying the crack beneath the mask. “Said the desperate witch. Convenient, isn’t it?”

“I’m serious!” Sophie snapped, panic sharpening her tone. “That earthquake you just felt is a preview of the disaster movie that’s about to hit us.”

Bonnie stepped forward, arms crossed. “Why should we believe you?”

Sophie turned toward her, desperate. “You’ve met Davina, you know her story. For months now, she’s been holding all the power of the three girls sacrificed in the Harvest ritual. A force that was meant to flow through her and back into the earth. One person was never meant to hold that much power. It’s tearing her apart, and it will take us down with it.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of Sophie’s words hanging in the air. Rebekah’s gaze flicked to Elijah, Kol smirked faintly, though his jaw clenched, and Bonnie’s eyes darkened.

Klaus leaned back further into his chair, a smirk painted on his lips, but his fingers tapped rapidly against the armrest. He looked for all the world like a man amused, relaxed. But in the hollows of his eyes, the truth flickered, the restlessness, fear, and the monster that had been looming over him for over a thousand years.

Mikael was coming and this… he did not need this.

Not. At. All.

Rue de Main was practically abandoned as Klaus walked beside Father Kieran, his expression composed but his eyes sharp, restless. He spoke as though briefing an ally on nothing more than a minor inconvenience, though the tension in his gait betrayed the storm under his skin.

“We need to prepare. According to Sophie Deveraux, as Davina self-destructs, she’ll cycle through four stages that represent the four elements that bound together the Harvest.”

“The earthquake?” Kieran asked grimly.

“Yes. Earth stage comes first.”

The soft glow of sunlight did little to warm the chill in Davina’s chamber. Rebekah sat on the edge of the bed, her tone deceptively casual.

“Then comes wind. And since each stage is more intense than the last, let’s just say you’ll blow the roof off this place.”

From the corner, Vasil leaned lazily against the wall, flanked by a pair of daywalkers watching Davina’s every move. His smirk deepened at Rebekah’s words, enjoying her discomfort almost as much as Davina’s panic.

Klaus’s voice dropped, cool and measured. “Then after the wind is water. Rain, flood…”

Kieran frowned. “How bad?”

“Quite bad, actually.” Klaus gave a wry half-smile, the kind that never reached his eyes. “But that’s not the worst of it.”

Sophie’s voice rose, urgent and raw. “The last stage is fire, and since it’s the last—”

“It will be by far the worst,” Klaus finished. His gaze swept the street, as though daring the city itself to rise against him. “But I didn’t take over this town to watch it burn to the ground.”

“You can stop this, right?” Kieran pressed.

“Yes,” Klaus said smoothly. His smirk darkened. “But you’re not gonna like how.”

Rebekah’s expression tightened. She turned back to the girl huddled on the bed.

“They want to complete the Harvest.”

Davina’s breath hitched, her eyes wild. “No!”

From the corner, Vasil chuckled. “You too, Becky. Don’t be shy now.”

Rebekah shot him a glare sharp enough to cut stone before she turned back to Davina. “The witches say you’ll be resurrected.”

“They’re liars!” Davina spat. “They’ll say anything to get what they want. Just like Marcel. Just like you!”

Rebekah’s jaw clenched, but her voice softened. “Davina, you may think that I don’t care about you, but you’re wrong. I know what it’s like to have your life stripped away because of other people’s bad decisions. How do you think I became a vampire?”

Elijah entered, his presence filling the room with its familiar quiet gravity. Marcel stood near the window, tension coiled in his shoulders, while Kol lounged with false ease and Bonnie hovered near the hearth.

“You’ve convinced my siblings,” Elijah said evenly. “You have yet to convince us.”

Sophie’s reply came quick, sharp. “We don’t have time to waste. The first sign’s already come and gone.”

“Then fix her!” Marcel snapped.

“She can’t be fixed,” Sophie said, her voice grim.

Rebekah pulled a syringe from her pocket, advancing slowly toward the bed. Davina’s eyes widened in horror.

“What—what is that?”

“The more upset you become, the faster you deteriorate,” Rebekah said softly. “I compelled up some sedative.”

“No, no, no!” Davina backed against the headboard, panic rising.

“We keep you calm, we keep you alive, Davina.”

“Well, alive long enough to sacrifice you anyway,” Vasil added dryly. Rebekah’s glare was murderous; he only shrugged, amused.

“Stop! Please!” Davina cried.

“She can’t be saved,” Sophie said flatly. “This will not stop at the earth sign. If you wait it out, you immortals will be the only ones left to argue about it.”

“No! Please! No! Please! NOOO!”

The words tore from Davina’s throat just as the air shifted. A violent gale ripped through the Quarter, rattling windows, bursting panes of glass in the compound. The shriek of the wind sent Rebekah staggering, daywalkers clutching for balance.

Vasil vamped forward, pinning Davina to the mattress as the storm howled around them. Rebekah plunged the syringe into Davina’s arm, her hands steady despite the chaos. Davina’s body went rigid, then slack as the sedative took hold.

The gale cut off in an instant, leaving only the sound of shattered glass and heavy breathing.

The silence after the wind was deafening. Sophie looked around at the faces of vampires and witches alike, her expression set.

“Convinced now?”

Elijah paced the length of the parlor, fingers worrying the edge of a book as he tried to find a steady rhythm to his thoughts. “We sedated her too heavily,” he said at last.

Klaus, lounging as if he were bored with catastrophe itself, shrugged. “Well, if this is her sedated, I’d hate to see her otherwise. We all agreed that Davina must be sacrificed. There’s no need to let her blow the roof off our heads in the meantime.”

“No way! You’re not touching her!” Marcel barked, the words detonating as he rose and punched Klaus across the chest in a burst of blind, hot fury.

Klaus rubbed his face, annoyed. “Okay, I’ll let you have that one.”

“Elijah,” Marcel spat, “no one wishes to see Davina come to harm less than I, but there is no scenario here in which we simply wait this out. She’s going to die.”

“According to Sophie,” Marcel went on, voice raw, “the witch who screwed over everybody here.”

Elijah’s look was steady. “The Harvest was working before it was stopped. If a nonbeliever like Sophie Deveraux can come to have faith that these girls will be resurrected, then I, also, am a believer.”

Marcel’s fists clenched. “You saved Davina from the Harvest, and now you want me to just hand her over?”

Klaus’s voice sharpened. “Do you think I’m happy about this? If the witches complete the Harvest, not only do they regain their power, we lose our weapon against them. With Mikael on his way, even more so. The earthquake I was willing to chalk up to hideous coincidence, but these winds? If Davina is not sacrificed, then every inch of earth that shook, everything blowing about now will soon be drenched in water and consumed by fire.”

Marcel’s anger turned bitter, incredulous. “Oh! Now you care about the city.”

Elijah stepped between them, voice quiet and fierce. “We ought to. We built it.”

Klaus’s eyes hardened. “And we all saw it burn to the ground twice. I will not let that happen again. Do I make myself clear?”

Marcel met Klaus’s gaze, then exhaled, empty. “Yeah. Yeah.” He left the room angry, the door slamming like an accusation.

Elijah turned to watch him go, then leveled a look at Klaus. “Not a people person, are you, Niklaus?”

Klaus smiled a surface smile. “Nonsense. I love people. Just on my way to warn a couple of prominent ones in case the weather gets out of hand. If you fancy yourself as plus diplomatique, perhaps you’d like to come along.”

Elijah’s mouth tightened. “No. Soon Sophie Deveraux shall be consecrating Celeste’s remains, and though her actions are reprehensible, still I should pay my respects.”

Katherine stepped into the doorway, hesitating before she spoke. “Hey. Do you have a minute?”

Elijah’s tone remained cool. “Just on my way out.”

He moved away. As he reached the corridor, Klaus called after him with a barbed lightness. “Which one of us is the people person again?”

Down the hall, the compound’s other rooms were a hive of anxious activity. Caroline’s bedroom had become a makeshift research den: books piled in tottering stacks, maps splayed, candles burning low. Bonnie hovered over a laptop; Kol toyed with a glass orb in idleness; Isaac paced; Isla read aloud from a brittle, handwritten grimoire; Enzo leaned against the wall with a pocket flask barely tucked out of sight; Henrik sat near the window like a sentinel, worry carved into his face.

“Please tell me we aren’t considering sacrificing Davina,” Bonnie pleaded quietly.

Liz’s voice was hesitant. “Something like this shouldn’t be taken lightly. Magic causing such feats can’t be a coincidence.”

Isaac threw up his hands. “So the next logical step is what? Sacrificing Davina because the witches who have been itching to kill her for months say so?!”

Enzo’s reply was blunt. “Then what? We don’t sacrifice her, and she’ll die anyway.”

Isaac shook his head, a hard edge to him now. “Unless the witches are doing this? Causing all of the signs.” He jabbed a finger at Liz. “Hell, she used to be one of them and she hasn’t heard of a goddamn harvest.”

Liz shot him a look. “A poor example of one.”

Kol’s amusement had thinned to gravitas. “There are over nine hundred thousand people in this city. If we don’t sacrifice her, we all die.”

Isaac picked up a grimoire and turned to the room, “We can find some loophole. There is always a loophole. Why don’t we Davina’s magic to something? Sacrifice or destroy it instead of her.”

“Magic doesn’t work that way, mate,” Kol added.

“C’mon, we have to do something!” Isaac demanded, turning toward Caroline. “Please tell me you have something.”

All eyes fell on Caroline. She was pale, tired, the weight under her skin making her hush more fragile. “There is very limited lore, if any,” she said softly. “I have no clue how to begin. In general, the idea of four sacrifices isn't new. The number four itself is significant: four cardinal directions, four elements, four seasons—hell, even the four humours. But there is no clear lore on this. I can’t verify anything.”

Isaac’s fists tightened until his knuckles blanched. “So that’s it. We just offer Davina to the slaughter.”

“We’ll keep on looking,” Isla said, resolute.

Isaac scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief, and stormed from the room. Isla started after him, but Enzo caught her arm. “Let him take a breather,” he said.

Henrik’s voice was small and urgent. “We can’t be doing this. This is wrong.”

Kol’s expression softened for a moment; a shadow of guilt passed across his face as he slid the glass orb back into his pocket. “We’ll keep on looking, Hen,” he said quietly.

The room had turned into a storm of paper. Maps layered across the floor and table like the discarded wings of a fallen bird. Henrik crouched over the mess, carefully taping together pieces of a sprawling map of New Orleans, while Caroline stood over her laptop, the phone on speaker. Her patience was wearing thin.

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Caroline said, her voice unnaturally sweet, the kind that came right before the snapping point. “However, we are with the University of New Orleans Meteorology Department, and having this information would be fantastic for our dissertation.”

The man on the other end sounded unimpressed. “Madam, we cannot simply hand out raw data to anyone who calls.”

“Our project—”

“We are the National Weather Forecast Office covering the entirety of New Orleans, Baton Rouge, and surrounding territories,” the man interrupted, his tone growing clipped. “Talking plainly, we don’t appreciate the seven calls you’ve placed within the last hour alone. Your lack of time, or dare I say lack of organisation, is not our problem. Goodbye—”

“Wait,” Caroline said sharply, her eyes flashing with anger. “I don’t think the Faction would appreciate your refusal.”

Silence followed. Henrik looked up, half-startled, half-intrigued.

“We do not know of a Faction—” the man began.

“Father Kieran would say otherwise,” Caroline replied coolly. “As would the mayor, if he were still breathing. You know what’s coming, and what will happen if we don’t stop this. Now, I suggest you hand over the data.”

Another long silence. Then the line went dead.

Henrik blinked. “Do you think it worked?”

Caroline shrugged, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips. “We’ll find out soon enough.” She leaned down to help him tape the last edge of the map, smoothing the paper flat.

Neither of them noticed Klaus standing in the doorway.

He watched quietly, arms folded, his mind a chaos of thoughts. For the thousand years he had ruled, schemed, killed, one thing plagued him entirely.

Fear.

The thought of Mikael’s return clawed at him like an old wound reopening. There was nowhere to run, nowhere safe for Henrik and Caroline, not from Mikael, not from the storm rising inside and beyond the city bounds. Aurora and Tristan were still loose, and reports of massacres: vampires, witches, werewolves, poured in from every corner of the world. Something vast was coming.

And yet, here they were. Two of the very few people he could not bear to lose, piecing together maps with tape and determination, hoping against hope to save an innocent.

The phone rang again. Caroline jumped, fumbling for it.

“The data is sent,” the man said briskly before hanging up.

Caroline looked up at Henrik. A shared, brief smile passed between them as she opened her laptop, pulling up spreadsheets and numbers, fingers moving deftly.

“Can you open the book to page 264?”

Henrik flipped through the heavy textbook until he found it. “So these numbers are supposed to tell you where the magic is?”

“Yes and no,” Caroline said, her focus sharpened to a blade. “Magic itself can’t be quantified. Not directly. What we’re doing is tracking the effect of the magic. Where there’s a cause, there’s an effect. Magic of this magnitude must start and end somewhere. If we can find out where it starts and how it moves, we might figure out how it works and maybe come up with a way to save Davina’s life. The numbers, with a bit of tinkering and formulas, can give us a rough estimate of where the magic acted and when it acted.”

She handed Henrik another map. “I need you to trace the lines of this map onto the one of New Orleans. How’s your drawing skill?”

Henrik scratched the back of his neck. “I’m okay.”

“You’re too humble.” She passed him a translucent pen and a meter-long ruler. The pen failed after a few strokes, sputtering dry. Caroline reached for her pencil case and froze when she saw Klaus in the doorway.

She jumped slightly, then exhaled with a teasing smile. “Unlike him,” she teased Henrik.

Henrik turned, his face brightening. “Nik!”

Klaus stepped forward, hand to his heart in mock offense. “You wound me, love.” There was humour in his tone, but something darker lingered behind his eyes—something brittle.

“Care and I were just gonna try to track the magic,” Henrik said, eager. “See if we can find anything to help Davina.”

Klaus’s gaze softened. “That’s very impressive.”

Caroline gestured toward the table. “Can you spare five minutes?”

“Five minutes?” he echoed, arching a brow.

She handed him sheets of tracing paper, a handful of colored pens, and her laptop. “I’ve generated several lines of effect. I need you to draw these accurately onto the tracing paper. There are twelve lines in total just, uh, press the side arrow each time.”

Henrik leaned closer, eyes scanning the screen. “You have twelve lines because you’re tracking over the entire year?”

“Exactly,” Caroline said. “The Harvest was supposed to happen over eight months ago. I want to see how the ritual was meant to unfold before Marcel intervened and saved Davina. Magic manifests in different ways—not just weather. Plagues, famines, wars. Last time it went this crazy was 1917.”

Klaus’s low chuckle caught her attention. She glanced up, questioning.

“There was a war between Kol and me,” Klaus said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Both of us sought out witches and allies.”

Henrik looked up from his ruler. “A war?”

Klaus hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to the boy. “Kol and I have… disagreed over the centuries.”

“But you’ve made up, right?” Henrik asked hopefully.

Klaus smiled faintly, pained. “There’s a lot of bad water under the bridge. I’ve done many things I’m not proud of—but that doesn’t change that Kol is still our brother. Our family.”

Caroline looked up at him then, her expression softening. It was the rarest thing—to see Klaus like this. Human.

The three of them worked quietly after that. Caroline scrawled through grimoires and meteorological records, pages yellowed with age; Henrik traced careful lines across the maps; Klaus followed the shapes of invisible power with his pen, steady and precise.

For ten blissful minutes, the compound was still. A brief pocket of peace in a world about to split open.

When at last Klaus stood, he lingered longer than he should have. He rested a hand on Henrik’s shoulder, a silent promise and a silent goodbye. Then he passed the laptop back to Caroline, bent down, and kissed her gently on the forehead.

As he turned to leave, the image seared itself into his mind—Caroline and Henrik bent over their work, the lamplight pooling around them like a fragile spell. He wanted to remember them like this. Before the storm. Before Mikael came for them all.

The airport bar smelled of diesel and stale coffee—provisional humanity that grated against Mikael’s fraying nerves. He sat at the end of the polished counter like a god in exile, his suit cut to old standards, a paper ticket folded and thumbed between his fingers: OSLO → NEW ORLEANS, Direct. He lifted his glass and let the scotch bruise his tongue; the burn was a small, honest thing in a world gone soft.

Across the room, a gaggle of students laughed at something bright and stupid. A family argued softly over ferry times. Mikael watched them, a slow, contemptuous curl tugging at his mouth. The world had learned to dull itself with comfort and safety. How soft this world had become.

He had feasted the moment he was delivered from that grey purgatory into the land of the living, a massacre of the weak and complacent, the vampires who thought their fragile alliances would save them from destruction. Young leeches soured on centuries of arrogance and sloth. It made no difference. The world had degenerated into petty claims and fealty to weaklings. Lest they forget that blood tasted the same in any tongue. Vampire or human, they were all the same: bags of flesh, bone, and blood.

He finished the scotch and set the glass down. The board above the bar clicked; his flight slipped another fifteen minutes. He was irritated to be returning to that city of degenerates, cowards, and whores. People were the mirror of their company, and it did not surprise him that the bastard had made his home there again.

A man is forged by pain, by war, by the order he imposes upon his house. He thought back to the human years, before his wife’s adultery and deceit were uncovered, when she had done her duty and borne him children. How small it seemed beside what followed.

The truth had been clear then and remained so now. Love is the folly of fools, pain is the only constant in this life and those who fail to head this truth is destined for oblivion.

A chair scraped. A figure eased into the space beside him with the careful patience of a thing accustomed to being received. Power hummed, low and clean, raising the hair at the back of Mikael’s neck. His hand brushed the inside of his jacket, where the white oak stake rode against his ribs. He recognised the face, knocked back what remained of his drink, and set the glass aside.

“Two more,” the newcomer told the barman, laying down five crisp thousand-krone notes. Tristan De Martell glanced towards the board displaying the flights, “You do know they know you’re coming.”

Mikael didn’t bother to look. “You do know that meeting me in public makes you look desperate.” A thin smile. “My condolences on your Strix. In times of need, even the devil eats flies.”

“And in times of war,” Tristan replied mildly, “even the devil needs allies.”

“You have nothing I want, Tristan. Except perhaps a cold body to drain.”

Tristan took the drink the bartender served to him and took a sip. “Flying to New Orleans now may not be your best move. There is a girl at Klaus’s side who will prove… troublesome.”

“I met her after I rose.” A dismissive snort. “She won’t be a problem.”

“There exists a serum,” Tristan went on, voice smooth as cut glass, “one that elevates a sired vampire beyond that of an Original.”

“Impossible,” Mikael said, amused.

“She rivals the Original Hybrid,” Tristan said, “and at full strength she can kill you outright. No stake required.”

Mikael’s gaze cooled. “And why tell me this? You know what I aim to accomplish. I kill my children, and you and your sister die with them.”

“I have found a solution to that particular inconvenience,” Tristan said. “I came to offer a trade.” He drew a syringe from his inner pocket and set it on the counter. The liquid inside was blood-red, thin white vapour coiling off it like breath in winter. “One dose of the serum and an item of information that will change everything.”

“What use do I have for a bauble?” Mikael asked.

“This is no bauble,” Tristan said softly. “It does not merely work on non-Originals; it works on Originals as well. Take it, and no one will be able to stop you.”

Mikael chuckled without mirth. “If it is so magnificent, why not use it yourself? Rid yourself of your enemies and leave me to oblivion.”

“Until recently it had… complications,” Tristan conceded. “It requires an additional ingredient, the blood of the doppelgänger. You, however, were created with such blood. You do not need it as I do. You pursue your crusade, kill your children and their allies, and you leave me and mine unmolested. We have worked well together across the centuries, you and I. We both know that I am far better to you as a friend than as a foe.”

Mikael let the room bleed into his periphery: the witches veiled among the travellers, the other old parasites wearing mortal faces. He pictured ripping Tristan’s throat and tearing out his heart as he should have nine hundred years ago. But the memory of the girl’s power, the way she had held him and a small army at bay while whisking his son and another away in the same breath, gave him pause. Strategy, then. However, he despised admitting it, the bastard’s cunning in bringing such a weapon to his side demanded it.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I accept your terms. But hear me, Tristan.” His voice dropped to flint. “If you deceive me or fail me, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth and finish what I should have nine centuries ago.”

Tristan inclined his head. “I would expect nothing less.” He slid the syringe across the varnished wood. “Straight to the heart. It will sting… the rest will be most satisfactory.”

“And the information?” Mikael asked.

Tristan’s smile for the first time in this conversation reached his eyes, his eyes glinting with a sadistic glee. “Ah. As for that…”

Tables were crooked on their legs, napkins clung damply to the floor, and the air was sharp with the vinegar tang of spilled liquor. Sophie moved through it with a broom and a roll of paper towels, hair twisted off her face, jaw set. Every sweep of bristles dragged over a minefield of glass, every step crunched. The aftershocks had rattled the Quarter half senseless; what they left behind was her mess to clean.

The bell over the door gave a tired jingle.

Rebekah stepped in as if the floor Sophie cleared were a carpet rolled out just for her. “Fat lot of good that will do,” she said, nodding at the broom.

Sophie didn’t stop moving. “I don’t really have time to socialize.”

“Good.” Rebekah crossed the room, heels finding clean islands between the glittering shards. “Neither do I.”

She stopped opposite Sophie, close enough that the other woman had to lift her gaze. For a heartbeat they were two statues in a wrecked temple, one carved in old marble, the other in weathered wood.

“When you’re done burying your witchy bits on sacred ground,” Rebekah said lightly, “are you prepared to perform the Harvest? You do realize you have to slit a girl’s throat. A very sweet girl, as it turns out.”

Sophie’s hands tightened on the broom. “If it means I get my niece Monique back, I can handle anything.” She tipped her chin. “Why are you really here?”

“When all this is done, after Davina is resurrected and the witches get their power back, you’ll have a decision to make.”

Sophie let the broom thud against the bar and folded her arms. “Enlighten me.”

“A witch at full power can trade body blows with a vampire, punch for punch,” Rebekah said. There was no bluff in it; she was speaking from the spine, from memory. “Believe me, I know.”

“So do I,” Sophie returned. Her eyes flicked to the broken bottles behind the bar, the empty shelves where bourbon used to sit in neat ranks. “Be nice to have a fair fight for a change.”

Rebekah’s laugh was quiet and unkind. “Fair only gets you so far, love. Clever gets you further.” She leaned an elbow on the bar as if it were her own kitchen counter. “After this, Marcel will still be here. And so will Klaus. You know better than anyone that those two don’t fight fair.” Sophie’s mouth twisted, her face forced to adopt that of stone, as flashes of her sister’s body invaded her mind. “You’re going to need an Original on your side,” Rebekah continued, almost conversational, as if discussing produce at a market stall. “And I’m going to need a witch on mine if we’re going to stop those two from running things.”

A beat passed; the air hummed with distant traffic and a ceiling fan clacking uselessly overhead. Sophie studied her, trying to see the stitchwork beneath the Mikaelson polish. “Am I missing something? Why would you side with me?”

Rebekah’s eyes did a slow, cool sweep of the wrecked room. When she looked back, there was something older in her gaze, something a lot more calculated that reminded Sophie to whom she was speaking to.

“Sometimes,” she said, “what’s more important is not who you’re siding with, but who you’re siding against.”

Davina lay small against the starched sheets. The IV line fed a slow drip of sleep into her arm; machines whispered their indifferent lullaby. Two vampires stood at the door, stiff and bored and pretending they were furniture.

Marcel stood closer, he’d seen her look peaceful before. Never like this. This was a peace imposed.

His mind yanked him backwards.

“No, NO! Let go of me! Stop it!”

Davina’s scream cut off like a wire.

The memory snapped him forward.

Enough.

Marcel caught the tubing in his fist and tore the IV from Davina’s arm. The monitor hiccuped and settled. He palmed the puncture with his thumb, warm against her cooler skin.

“I got you,” he said, low. “I got you right here.”

A voice came from the corner he’d written off as empty, lazy with amusement. “Klaus said you would try something.”

Marcel pivoted, placing himself between Davina and the shadow. Vasil stepped out of it, a tall blade of a man with a smirk that never reached his eyes. He flicked open a switchblade and let the light skate over its edge.

“Oh yeah?” Marcel said, squaring his shoulders. “Then you know how this goes because I’m not going to let any of you touch her.”

Vasil snorted genuinely amused, “You’re confident.”

The guards moved at once as did Marcel.

Grab. Twist. Snap.

Two bodies thudding to the floor in the time it took the switchblade to whisper back and forth in Vasil’s fingers. Vasil watched, smiling like a man indulging a child’s tantrum.

“How do you think this is going to go?” he asked genuinely curious.

Marcel blurred forward. Steel met him halfway. Vasil parried as if he’d been waiting for this exact rhythm, each impact a bored beat in a song he already knew. The knife flash-kissed Marcel’s cheek, opening him, and then Vasil turned his momentum and sent him crashing into a chest of drawers. Wood exploded; a jagged length punched through Marcel’s forearm and another speared low into his side near his kidney.

Pain flared white. He snarled, yanked one shard free, tasted copper. Vasil strolled toward him, flipping the blade once, twice, then almost generously, sliding it away.

“Hey, I get it,” he said, closing his hand around Marcel’s throat and lifting him one-handed to his toes. “You see the girl as family. I’d be pissed too... But empathy is something I possess and I’m simply too old to give a shit. But hey I’m not unreasonable,”

Marcel clawed at the wrist and felt the bones there: old, hard, unmoving.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Vasil went on, checking a watch on his other wrist with maddening calm while Marcel’s vision pulsed at the edges. “I’m going to snap your neck and maybe… maybe you’ll wake up in time to watch little D’s throat get slit. You can be there for her, y’know moral support.”

Rage roared up in Marcel as Vasil tone turned cruel and his eyes held nothing but sadistic glee. Marcel’s face shifted in rage and anguish, his veins dark and fangs sharp. He drove a fist into Vasil’s ribs. Vasil barely grunted and twisted, preparing the clean, efficient turn that would end in the crack of a broken neck.

A blur moved behind him.

The stake came for Vasil’s heart, fast and deadly. Vasil reacted faster, arm sweeping back to catch the thrust, grip reversing to fling the attacker across the room. Isaac slammed into the far wall, slid down in a shower of plaster.

Vasil had the stake now. He vamps across the space and plants it against Isaac’s sternum, shoving. Wood groaned into flesh.

“I know blondie will be upset if I kill you,” Vasil murmured, eyes bright with mischief as he leaned his weight forward intentionally slowly, honing in on the growing panic in Isaac’s eyes as the stake moved closer and closer toward his heart. “But accidents happen. I’d ask for last words, but you don’t look like you’ve got anything interesting to say.”

Isaac hissed through his teeth, fighting the inch-by-inch press toward his heart.

Marcel moved.

He blurred off the shattered dresser, pain burning a clear path, and hit Vasil from behind. His hands found Vasil’s jaw and crown, the old executioner’s hold, and wrenched. The neck broke with a satisfying crack. Vasil went boneless and dropped, the stake clattering free.

Marcel was already at Isaac’s side, reaching for the wood jutting from his chest.

“Don’t,” Isaac rasped, catching Marcel’s wrist. His eyes flicked to the doorway. Both men went still, heads tilting, hearing what the human ear would miss: boot steps, four…six…more, closing fast.

“Get Davina and run,” Isaac said, voice steadier by force of will. “I’ll try to buy you some time.”

“Kid—”

“Go.” He shoved Marcel’s arm away and, with a raw sound, wrenched the stake from himself, blood slicking his fingers. He staggered up, breath sawing. “I’ve got this.”

Marcel gave a tight nod. He crossed to the bed in two strides, slid an arm under Davina’s knees and another behind her shoulders, and lifted her against his chest. Her head lolled against him; the place on her arm where the IV had sat was already beading.

He looked back once. Isaac rolled his shoulders, set his stance in front of the doorway, his face resolute as he nodded to Marcel once.

Vasil lay where he’d fallen, neck at a wrong angle, already knitting itself back together. The watch on his wrist ticked forward.

Marcel didn’t look back. He ran with Davina in his arms and with the whole city on the verge of descending upon him the only thing he let himself hear was the steady weight of her breathing against him.