The bayou was thick with the smell of wet earth and magic. Klaus Mikaelson stood at the edge of the French Quarter, his eyes scanning a skyline he hadn't seen in years. It was different. More light, more noise. But the heart of it, the old, beating pulse of power and decay, was the same.
A slow, proud smile touched his lips. His city. He'd built this. Fought for it. Bled for it.
The witch's summons was a buzzing fly in his ear, an irritation he'd deal with swiftly. But first, he allowed himself a moment. To remember. To own the ground beneath his feet once more.
He moved through the streets like a shadow, a predator returned to his old hunting grounds. The witch quarters hadn't changed much—narrow alleys, hanging herbs, the constant, low hum of power that set his hybrid senses on edge. He found a clapboard house, paint peeling, and didn't bother to knock. The door swung open under his hand.
Inside, an older woman was grinding something in a mortar. She didn't look up.
"I'm looking for Jane-Anne," Klaus said, his voice a low, pleasant rumble that didn't match the danger in his eyes.
The woman kept grinding. "I don't answer to you."
Klaus laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Clearly, you don't know who I am."
Now she looked up. Her eyes were old and held no fear. "I know you. You're Klaus Mikaelson. The Hybrid."
His smile was a razor's edge. "The Original Hybrid. And you are bold, I'll give you that. But boldness won't save you." He took a single, fluid step forward. The air in the room grew cold. "If you do not tell me where she is, I will paint these witch quarters with your blood. And the blood of everyone in your household." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now… start talking."
The woman held his gaze for a long, tense moment. The only sound was the pestle scraping against the stone bowl. Finally, she spoke, her voice flat. "You should ask Marcel."
The name hit him like a physical blow.
Marcel.
His mind recoiled. It wasn't possible. He'd seen the carnage, heard the stories. Marcel was gone. Dead. To hear his name here, in this dusty room, felt like the world tilting on its axis.
If Marcel was alive… then the others, Erik and Alex… they were out there, too. A storm of emotions—shock, a flicker of impossible hope, and a rising, cold fury—threatened to break his composure. He locked it down, his face becoming a mask of cold control.
He stared at the witch, searching for a lie in her weathered face. He found none. Only a grim truth.
Without another word, he turned and left the house, the door slamming shut behind him with the force of his passing.
He stood in the alley, the sounds of the city suddenly distant. Marcel. Alive. The implications crashed over him, each one more troubling than the last. Why hadn't he come looking? Why was he here, in his city? What game was being played?
Jane-Anne could wait. This… this changed everything.
He moved with a new purpose, a ghost drawn to the one place that held answers. He found himself outside a familiar, refurbished warehouse—Marcel's old headquarters. It was smarter now, more fortified. A symbol of a reign that had lasted in his absence.
He didn't bother with stealth. He walked right through the front door as if he owned it.
The interior was a mix of old brick and modern luxury. And there, in the center of the room, surrounded by a few of his loyal followers, was Marcel. Older, his face harder, the boyish charm sanded away by time and power. But it was him. Undeniably.
Marcel turned, a casual smile ready for whoever had intruded. It froze on his face. His eyes widened, the glass in his hand lowering slowly.
The room fell silent. All eyes were on the two of them.
Klaus let the silence stretch, drinking in the shock on Marcel's face. He took a few slow steps forward, his gaze sweeping over the room before settling back on the man he'd raised.
"Well, well," Klaus said, his voice deceptively light. "Look what the cat dragged in."
Marcel finally found his voice, though it was tighter than before. "Klaus." He said the name like a statement, a curse, and a question all at once.
"In the flesh," Klaus replied, stopping a few feet away. He shoved his hands in his pockets, a picture of casual menace. "You'll have to forgive my surprise. I was under the distinct impression you were dead."
"You of all people should know," Marcel said, his composure returning, "that in this town, rumors of your death are… greatly exaggerated."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Klaus's face. "Indeed." His eyes flicked to the vampires flanking Marcel. "And what of the others? Erik? Alex? Do they also reside among the living?"
"They're around," Marcel said carefully, his guard up. "Why are you here, Klaus?"
"A witch summoned me. A rather impertinent one named Jane-Anne. She seems to believe she holds some authority over me." Klaus's smile vanished. "But that is a trifling matter. What interests me now is you. Living in my city. Governing my people."
"Your city?" Marcel let out a short, humorless laugh. "It hasn't been your city for a long time, Klaus. I built this. I protected it. While you were gone, I made it safe."
"Safe?" Klaus took another step, his voice dropping. "You preside over my kingdom, you let witches think they can command me, and you speak to me of safe?" He was inches from Marcel now, the air crackling with a thousand unsaid things. "You were a stray I picked up from the gutter. Everything you are, everything you have, you owe to me."
Marcel didn't flinch. The years had forged him into something solid, unyielding. "I paid that debt a long time ago."
Klaus searched his face, this boy he had loved as a son, and saw only a rival. A king defending his throne. The hope he'd felt curdled into something darker, more familiar. A burning, possessive rage.
"We shall see," Klaus whispered.
He turned, his coat flaring slightly, and walked back towards the door. He paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder.
"Tell Jane-Anne," he said, his voice carrying through the silent room, "that the Original Hybrid is in New Orleans. And I do not answer summons. I issue them."
He left them there, in the quiet he had created. The game had changed. The board was set. New Orleans was his, and he would tear it apart, piece by piece, to remind everyone of that fact. And as for Marcel… and the brothers he thought were lost…
He stepped out into the humid night, a new fire burning in his eyes. The hunt was just beginning.