The night air thickened as they arrived not as individuals, but as a storm. One moment the street was empty, the next it was filled with them. The Originals. They stood on the cracked pavement of a dimly lit street, the humid air seeming to pull away from their presence.
Kol inhaled deeply, a wide, wicked grin splitting his face. "Oh, the memories," he sighed with relish. "The screams, the music, the absolute chaos. This place was a playground."
Beside him, his brother Viktor, the Original Tribrid, paid no mind to the nostalgia. His eyes were fixed on a dimly lit bar across the street, a dive called The Rusty Nail. The sound of a blues guitar whined through the open door.
"I need a drink," Viktor announced, his voice a low rumble. He adjusted the cuff of his jacket. "Why don't you all go on ahead and meet with Klaus and Elijah. I'll catch up."
Freya gave a pragmatic nod. "Alright. Don't be long." Her gaze was already scanning the rooftops, assessing threats.
Viktor's daughter, Malia, stepped forward. She had her father's piercing eyes and a restless energy. "Mind if I join?" she asked.
Viktor gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug. "Suit yourself."
As they turned toward the bar, Qetsiyah, called after them, her voice laced with a timeless weariness. "Try not to cause any trouble we'll have to clean up."
Viktor didn't look back, simply raising a hand in dismissive acknowledgment before he and Malia disappeared into the smoky interior of the bar.
As they veered off, the rest of the group continued on. The streets grew quieter as they moved deeper into the city. Lexi walked in silence, her face tight with a storm barely held back.
Stefan glanced at her sideways. "You okay?"
She didn't answer right away. Then, finally: "I'm going to kill him."
"Which one this time?"
"Alex," she hissed. "He let me believe he was dead. I mourned him. I buried him in my heart. And now he's alive?"
Stefan winced. "Oof."
"Oof?" Lexi turned to him, hands balled into fists. "I spent decades thinking I failed to save him. That his light was gone. Now I find out he's been breathing this whole time like nothing happened?"
Kai, walking behind them, snorted. "You should thank him. Gives you something to live for again."
Lexi didn't even look at him. "Say one more word and I'll shove your soul into the Prison World."
Kai raised his hands, mock-surrender. "Touchy."
They reached the cemetery soon after. Klaus and Elijah stood waiting near the entrance, the silhouette of the compound behind them flickering with torchlight and old magic. Klaus's expression was unreadable as he saw them approach.
"So," Klaus said, folding his arms, "the cavalry arrives. Took you long enough."
Freya was the first to embrace her brothers. A rare, fleeting softness passed between them before the business of war took over.
Kol clapped Klaus on the back. "Miss me, Nik?"
"Like a toothache," Klaus muttered, though his smirk betrayed his pleasure.
Rebekah raised an eyebrow. "So what's this I hear about a child?"
Elijah stepped in, cutting the tension. "There will be time for all that. First, we need to discuss the witches. The life-link spell still holds. We can't act until it's broken."
Finn's eyes narrowed. "Then why are we standing around?"
Klaus's smile was a sharp, dangerous thing in the torchlight. He ignored Rebekah's question, his gaze locking onto Kol. The anticipation of violence was a language they both understood perfectly.
"Lead the way, brother," Klaus said, his voice a low purr. "Show those witches the particular madness of an Original Heretic."
Kol's eyes lit up with gleeful malice. "With pleasure." He cracked his knuckles, a dark energy already beginning to crackle around his fingertips. "Time to remind this town what real magic looks like."
As the group moved with a single purpose toward the witch's crypt, the air itself seemed to recoil from their collective intent.
---
Across town, the door to The Rusty Nail swung shut behind Viktor and Malia, cutting off the sound of the blues guitar. The silence that fell was immediate and heavy. Every patron—a clientele comprised entirely of Marcel's vampires—turned to stare. The scent of aggression and cheap liquor filled the smoky air.
Viktor ignored them. He walked to the bar with an unnerving calm, Malia a silent shadow at his side. The werewolf bartender's hands shook as he placed a bottle of whiskey and a glass on the counter.
"Didn't think we'd see you in here," the bartender muttered, not meeting Viktor's eyes.
Viktor poured a measure of amber liquid and knocked it back. "I go where I please."
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. They saw the resemblance, the same arrogant set of the shoulders, the same air of untouchable power. They thought they were looking at Klaus.
One vampire, a bulky man with a shaved head and a network of scars on his neck, finally pushed back his chair. The sound screeched in the quiet. He swaggered over, flanked by two others.
"Marcel said not to pick a fight with you," the vampire said, his voice a low growl. He stopped a few feet from Viktor, who hadn't even turned to look at him. "But I think he's all talk. The fear you put in him… I don't believe it. I don't believe anyone is that strong. That unkillable."
Malia let out a soft, bored sigh. "You should really listen to Marcel. It's better for your health. Unless you want this bar turned into a bloodbath."
The lead vampire's eyes flicked to her, a slow, insulting once-over. A leer spread across his face. "You got a pretty face. Shame about the mouth."
That was all it took.
Malia's expression didn't change. She just looked at Viktor. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
The leer was still frozen on the vampire's face when Malia moved. It wasn't a blur; it was a disappearance and a reappearance. One moment she was beside the bar, the next she was behind the talking vampire. There was a wet, tearing sound. His head toppled from his shoulders and hit the floor with a dull thud, the leer still in place.
His body hadn't even begun to crumple before Malia was on the next one. Her hand shot out, a piston of brutal force, and punched straight through his chest. She yanked back, holding his still-beating heart in her fist for a split second before it crumbled to ash.
The third vampire finally registered the horror and lunged at Viktor's back.
Viktor didn't turn. He simply raised his left hand, palm open, as if telling someone to stop. The charging vampire froze mid-step, his eyes bulging. A terrible wrenching sound came from inside his own chest. With a sickening slurp, his heart exploded out through his ribcage, flew across the room, and landed in Viktor's waiting hand with a soft, final slap.
Viktor finally turned, holding the dripping organ. He looked at the rest of the bar, his expression one of mild distaste. "Anyone else?"
The bar erupted.
It wasn't a fight. It was a demolition. A vampire leaped from a table, only to be met by Malia's fist, which caved in his skull. She moved like a dancer of death, every movement efficient and terminal—snapping necks, shredding limbs, her form a beautiful, deadly whirlwind.
Viktor walked through the chaos with the same calm he'd entered with. He didn't rush. A vampire swung a silver-bladed knife at him; Viktor caught the blade, crushed it in his hand, and drove the fragments back into the vampire's throat. Another came at him with a broken bottle; Viktor flicked his wrist, and the man's own skeleton twisted, snapping his spine with an audible crack.
He didn't just kill them; he dismantled them. It was a clinical, terrifying display of power that made Klaus's brutal fury seem almost sentimental. There was no rage here, only absolute, effortless superiority.
In less than a minute, it was over. The only sounds were the drip of blood and the faint crackle of vampires turning to dust. The bar was a charnel house.
Malia stood amidst the carnage, not a hair out of place, though her clothes were spattered with dark ash. She looked at her father.
Viktor dropped the useless heart onto the floor. He picked up his glass of whiskey from the bar, finished it in one swallow, and placed it back down.
"Let's go," he said, his voice still that same low rumble. "I think our drink has been spoiled."
They stepped back out into the night, leaving the silence of the grave behind them. The message had been sent, not in a roar, but in a whisper of overwhelming, absolute force. The king was not just back. His whole court had arrived.