The cathedral, once an ancient sanctum of worship, now trembled beneath the storm of divine retribution.
The first scream came from a newborn, his throat torn out mid-turn as Khan vanished and reappeared behind him, his blade dripping crimson. Like a conductor flicking his wrist, Sébastien's simple tap of the cane had signaled not just battle, but judgment. And with that unspoken command, the Volturi death dealers surged forward, silent and coordinated as a single shadowed organism.
Steel flashed. Bones cracked. Screams tore through the cathedral's lofty ceiling.
They struck without hesitation or error. Heidi, with her twin daggers laced in vervain oil, weaved between her foes like a wraith, each movement measured, elegant, lethal. A downward arc took one newborn's leg. A spinning sweep ended another. She didn't pause. There was no need. Death was routine.
Above them, on the balcony, Sébastien stood still, his violet eyes calmly watching as the chaos bloomed beneath him like a deadly rose.
One vampire broke from the frenzy and made a desperate leap toward him, fangs bared and claws extended. Sébastien sighed softly.
"Audacity without talent is a disease," he murmured.
With one smooth motion, he unsheathed his cane blade. The wolf-etched pommel glinted, and the blade sang as it met the air. There was a sudden blur of movement—a single, clean stroke—and the attacker landed in two separate halves. A heartbeat later, Sébastien was already descending the stairs at a leisurely pace, untouched by the mayhem.
As he moved, illusions pulsed invisibly from him like heatwaves.
One veteran vampire screamed and clawed at his face as phantom fire consumed his mind—sunlight, or so he believed. Another froze in place, eyes wide as Sébastien's manipulation stripped away his senses. Sight vanished. Sound died. Touch, smell, taste—all drowned in a suffocating void.
He collapsed in a corner, screaming into nothing.
"Let them feel their arrogance unravel," Sébastien said calmly to Khan, who stood at his side. "Let them see the true cost of ignorance."
Khan nodded once and vanished again into the shadows.
In the middle of the sanctuary, Shauna fought fiercely. She was older than many of the death dealers, and her movements were seasoned. But she was outnumbered, and worse—outmatched.
She slashed a death dealer's throat open with a burst of strength, only to stumble back as the air thickened around her. For a moment, she saw something impossible—Sebastien standing behind her, whispering in her ear.
"That was your last elegant movement, my dear."
She turned, lashing out, but no one was there. Illusion.
From behind, Heidi's dagger slid across her back, burning her with vervain. Shauna shrieked and vanished in a blur to regroup—but her breathing was sharp now. Her composure was cracking.
Across the room, Sébastien's coat swirled as he walked calmly through the slaughter. A vampire charged him in panic. Sébastien didn't look up. He merely whispered:
"Fall."
The vampire's legs gave out. A psychic suggestion—woven into the illusion of pain. He crumpled to the floor, shrieking as his nerves betrayed him, believing invisible blades were tearing into his skin.
"I tire of your noise," Sébastien muttered, raising a hand.
The vampire's mouth sealed shut. Literally. Skin grew over it like wax melting over a candle. His muffled screams were the only sound he could make before a death dealer finished him off.
Shauna and Edmond regrouped in the center of the sanctuary, panting, surrounded by corpses and fading illusions. The younger vampires had been culled with terrifying efficiency. Only a few of the older ones remained, encircled.
Then—the music began.
A phonograph somewhere in the cathedral activated on its own, Sébastien's influence twisting the mechanisms. A haunting violin aria spilled into the chaos.
Sébastien said softly, flicking blood from his blade. "I find it calms the nerves during bloodletting."
Edmond, blood running from his lip, roared and charged him. Sébastien moved like ink poured through water—flowing, effortless.
Edmond lunged.
Parried. Riposte. Knee to the sternum.
A spin. A slash across the shoulder.
Sébastien dodged everything with a calm expression, not a single hair out of place.
"Predictable. Emotional. Slow." he chided.
Edmond tried one final lunge—and Sébastien vanished.
Behind you, a voice echoed in his head.
Before he could turn, Sébastien's blade pierced his shoulder from behind, dragging downward in one fluid motion.
Edmond collapsed to one knee, trembling.
"You sought to rule by fear," Sébastien whispered into his ear. "I command through loyalty, earned and kept. That is why you fail."
A sudden scream echoed through the cathedral—Shauna's.
She had been disarmed and restrained by Heidi and two others. She thrashed, hissing curses through blood-stained teeth.
Edmond growled. "If you kill us, the elders will come for you—"
With one smooth motion, Sébastien raised his sword.
A clean arc—Edmond's head rolled across the stone floor.
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Shauna screamed.
Sébastien turned to her and, in a voice as cold and precise as winter steel, said:
"You may scream later. For now." He held a finger to his lips, and suddenly, no sound came from her mouth.
He stepped aside and let his death dealers decide what to do with her. He didn't look back.
Outside, the night was quiet again. No more screams. No more vampires stirring.
Sébastien walked to the priest's cellar, where the captives had been kept. A simple wave of his hand shattered the lock. Inside, the priest—bruised but alive—and two young witches blinked in stunned silence as the violet-eyed vampire entered.
"You're safe now," he said gently. "Come. You're under my protection."
They followed, still in shock, their minds barely able to process what had occurred.
Above them, the Volturi flag was raised over the cathedral. A warning. A promise.
Sébastien Valet had come. And order had been restored.
-----
The battle was over.
The great cathedral's stained-glass windows were shattered, their fractured colors bleeding into the cold stone floor like scattered memories. The air hung thick with the scent of burnt incense, blood, and death—a grisly perfume that clung to the once-sacred halls.
Vampires loyal to the Blood Sires lay strewn like broken puppets, their lifeless forms a testament to the swift and brutal justice Sébastien's Death Dealers had dealt. Their armor gleamed dully beneath the flickering torchlight, their fangs dulled by swift retribution.
Sébastien stood tall amid the carnage, his violet eyes cold and unyielding as he surveyed the ruined sanctum. His cane, its howling wolf motif gleaming even in the dim light, tapped softly on the stone floor with each measured step.
At his side, the Death Dealers—Amelia, Heidi, Khan, and the others—moved like shadows, vigilant and ready. Their mission was accomplished, but their leader's work was never done.
From the darkened depths of the cathedral's cellar, Sébastien's two wards emerged—Mia and Nia. The twin witches, shaken but unharmed, their luminous eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe.
Anya, the Bennett witch who had sought Sébastien's help, stepped forward. Her emerald gaze softened as she approached the twins.
"Safe," Sébastien said quietly, his voice a smooth balm amid the echoes of violence. "Stronger than they know."
Mia and Nia clung to Anya, trembling. The atmosphere, once suffused with menace, now brimmed with relief.
Anya turned to Sébastien, gratitude flickering in her eyes. "Thank you. You kept your word."
The journey to the Bennett Coven's sanctuary was quiet but tense, the city's shadows seeming to bend and bow to Sébastien's presence. The witches' home was a sprawling estate hidden deep within a forest—a place where magic whispered in the leaves and the air shimmered with ancient power.
Inside the coven's halls, the scent of herbs and old books mingled with the warmth of a fire crackling in the hearth. The once-vibrant home bore scars from the recent attack, but resilience radiated from its inhabitants.
Sébastien stepped through the threshold, his eyes immediately drawn to the familiar surroundings—echoes of a past when Seraysha led with fierce compassion.
"Anya," Sébastien said, his voice softer now. "Your mother's mark is still here. Strong. Even in her absence."
Anya's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "We've tried to keep her spirit alive."
Sébastien's gaze swept across the gathered witches—young and old, their faces etched with gratitude and cautious hope.
"You have endured," he said. "And you will endure still. But know this: this city is no place for weakness. The Blood Sires tested your will and found it wanting."
He paused, cane resting lightly against the floor, and studied Anya.
"You are stronger than your mother ever was. And wiser."
Anya smiled faintly. "That means more coming from you than anyone."
Sébastien inclined his head. "I have seen empires rise and fall, most seldom last a few decades and I have learned that power tempered by mercy is the most dangerous of all."
The silence between them was comfortable, filled with unspoken respect.
Anya's voice broke the stillness. "Will you stay?"
Sébastien shook his head gently. "My place is elsewhere. The balance demands it."
He turned toward the door, his coat swirling like midnight smoke.
"Thank you," Anya whispered.
Sébastien paused, hand on the doorframe.
"Peace is a fragile thing. Cherish it."
Outside, the Death Dealers awaited, their eyes sharp, their forms taut with readiness.
Sébastien stepped into the night, the moon casting a silver glow over the world he ruled.
"Let's go home," he said.
The group vanished into the shadows, leaving behind the echoes of their presence