The dust in Sophie Deveraux's apothecary shop hadn't settled in days. It hung in the slants of afternoon light, stirred up by her nervous pacing. Every creak of the old floorboards, every distant car horn, made her jump. Klaus's words were a trap she couldn't escape. Marcel won't kill you. It wasn't a comfort; it was a death sentence on a delay.
The bell above her door didn't jingle. It was ripped from its hinge with a metallic snap. Three of Marcel's vampires filled the doorway, their faces blank, their postures rigid. Thierry led them.
"Marcel wants to see you," Thierry said, his voice flat.
Sophie's heart hammered against her ribs. She forced her hands to still on the counter. "What does he want from me now? After Jane-Anne… after my sister… was that not enough?"
"That's not for you to know," Thierry replied, stepping inside. The other two fanned out, blocking any escape. "You just need to come."
The air in the shop, already thick with the scent of dried herbs and fear, suddenly changed. It didn't grow cold, but still, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The hair on Sophie's arms stood up.
A figure moved in the periphery, a blur of dark elegance that hadn't been there a second before. He stood near a shelf of bottled roots, examining them with an air of detached curiosity. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, immaculate despite the dust, and he slowly wiped his fingers with a white handkerchief.
Thierry and his men spun around, their supernatural speed seeming clumsy compared to his effortless appearance.
"Who the hell are you?" Thierry snarled.
The man looked up, his gaze calm and utterly intimidating. "I believe the lady asked you a question." His voice was polished, each word enunciated with a quiet power that filled the small space. "What is it you want with her?"
"This doesn't concern you," one of the other vampires spat, taking a threatening step forward.
In a movement faster than a blink, the man was suddenly inches from the advancing vampire. There was no aggression in his posture, only impeccable grace. He placed a hand on the vampire's chest, not a shove, but a gentle, almost paternal restraint.
"I must insist," he said softly.
The vampire glanced down at the hand, a smirk forming on his lips. "You and what army, man?"
The man's expression didn't change. He simply pushed.
The vampire flew backward as if hit by a truck, crashing through the shop's front window in an explosion of glass and splintered wood. He landed in a heap on the cobblestone street, not moving.
Thierry and the remaining vampire stared, stunned. The man turned his placid gaze to them.
"My name," he said, folding his handkerchief neatly and tucking it into his breast pocket, "is Elijah Mikaelson."
The name landed with the force of a physical blow. Thierry's bravado evaporated, replaced by pure, primal fear. He looked from Elijah to Sophie, understanding dawning. The call had been answered.
"Run," Thierry breathed to his companion.
They didn't need telling twice. They scrambled over each other to get through the shattered doorway and vanished into the fading light.
Elijah watched them go, then turned to Sophie, who was leaning against the counter for support, her legs weak.
"It would seem," Elijah said, his tone dryly amused, "that my brother has been making friends."
Sophie could only stare. The stories didn't do him justice. The power that rolled off him was different from Klaus's chaotic fury; it was ancient, controlled, and utterly terrifying.
"Thank you," she managed to whisper.
"Do not thank me yet," Elijah replied. "You are a witch with knowledge of my brother's recent activities. That makes you a person of interest. And currently, my only lead. You will take me to your people. Now."
It wasn't a request. It was a command, delivered with such effortless authority that Sophie simply nodded, grabbing her coat.
She led him through a maze of back alleys, down into the damp, hidden underbelly of the city, to a crypt accessed through a rusted gate. Inside, candlelight flickered over stone walls, illuminating the faces of the remaining elder witches. They watched Elijah's entrance with a mixture of terror and desperate hope.
In the center of the room, a young woman with a wary expression sat on a stone slab. She had a toughness about her, but her hands were protectively curled over her stomach.
"Elijah Mikaelson," one of the elder witches said, her voice trembling. "We summoned your brother for a reason. We need your family's protection."
"From Marcel, I presume," Elijah said, his eyes scanning the grim surroundings. "My brother is not known for his charitable nature. You must have offered him something significant."
The witch gestured to the young woman on the slab. "This is Hayley. She came to us for help tracing her family. We helped her. And in doing so, we discovered something… monumental."
Hayley looked up, meeting Elijah's gaze without flinching. "I'm pregnant."
A beat of silence. Elijah's impeccable composure didn't so much as crack, but a profound, calculating intensity ignited in his eyes.
Hayley continued, her voice steady. "And according to their whacked-out magic DNA test, the baby's father is Klaus."
The crypt was utterly silent. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Elijah's lips. It wasn't a smile of joy, but one of staggering realization.
"Well," Elijah said, the single word laden with a thousand years of meaning. He looked from Hayley to the coven elders. "That is monumental."
He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his hands clasped behind his back. "My brother, Niklaus, has spent a centuries believing he was not like Viktor, unable to father a child of his own. This child… it shatters that curse."
"We know," the head witch said, her voice gaining strength. "It is a miracle. And it is our only leverage. Marcel has forbidden magic. He hunts us. We cannot protect her, or the child, on our own. But you… your family can. Help us, and we will give you the one thing your brother has always wanted: a child. An heir."
Elijah studied Hayley, this strange, brave girl who held the future of his family in her womb. He thought of his brother Viktor, the older twin, who had already fathered a child in the strange, sprawling tapestry of their lives. That Klaus would follow such a path was not entirely surprising, however improbable.
"A child," Elijah repeated, the word tasting of new beginnings and ancient wars. He looked at Sophie, then back at the coven. "It seems the game has changed entirely. Very well. You have the protection of my family."
He offered a hand to Hayley. After a moment's hesitation, she took it, allowing him to help her from the cold stone.
"Come," Elijah said, his voice now gentle, yet firm. "This is no place for a Mikaelson to be born. It's time to bring you home."