The morning sunlight spilled across the horizon, gilding the Spanish countryside in warm golds and ambers. But within the mansion of Sébastien Valet, light remained an outsider. Shadows clung to the walls like loyal sentinels, especially within the lower quarters—where prisoners and traitors were kept.
Sébastien descended the stone stairs into the holding chamber. The scent of vervain still hung heavy in the air, laced with the faint, acrid tang of silver. Inside the reinforced chamber, Shauna Tureq remained bound, the floor chains glowing faintly with the runes engraved into the silver links. Her eyes twitched. Her lips trembled. Her once sharp features were now sallow, desiccated, as her body began the slow but inevitable march toward desiccation.
But it was not her physical state that Sébastien came to inspect.
He stepped inside silently, his cane tapping once against the flagstone before he knelt. The psychic pulse from her mind was still aflame with agony—a relentless illusion of being strung to a burning cross. Her screams had gone silent long ago, buried so deep in her subconscious they were now nothing but the distant echo of madness.
He reached out and placed his hand upon her forehead. Her body flinched reflexively.
"You've endured enough."
With a soft sigh and a glow of his violet eyes, Sébastien dove into her mindscape. There was no resistance this time. Her defenses, once formidable, had collapsed beneath his illusion—the fire had seared not her body, but her will.
Inside, the inferno had dimmed to embers. He found her curled on the scorched ground, body shivering, as though centuries had passed in the blink of a day. When she saw him, her eyes widened.
"No, please... please don't put me back! No more flames! I'll talk! I'll tell you everything. Just... no more burning!" she sobbed, crawling toward him like a woman lost in a desert, her voice fractured by psychic torment.
Sébastien reached out and took her hand gently. "I know. It's over. I kept my word."
She gasped, her eyes desperate. "The man behind it all—the one who gave us orders—his name was Mohinder. We never saw him directly. Only whispers, psychic commands. But I remember his presence. He's powerful, dangerous. You... you know the name, don't you?"
Sébastien's eyes narrowed.
Mohinder.
A name he'd only heard in passing over the last century. First through Elijah's letters. Then through whispers in vampire circles who still remembered the Strix. Rumors said Mohinder was the Strix's phantom blade—the one they sent when persuasion failed and destruction was necessary.
As Shauna sobbed in relief, Sébastien stood. "You did well, Shauna. Sleep now."
He waved his hand. In an instant, the mental scenery shifted. Her burning cross vanished. Her skin became smooth again, youthful. Her mind placed her on a beach, warm sun kissing her face, children laughing in the distance. A soft breeze carried the scent of lavender and peace.
A dream. One that would last until the body failed.
Her actual body, however, continued its decline. The lack of blood, the torment of her soul, the magic in her chains—it was all catching up.
Sébastien exited the chamber and gave a simple nod. Two Death Dealers appeared without a word, bowing as they entered. They knew what to do. He didn't need to tell them.
They would deal with the corpse and what little remained of her mind.
Later that evening, Sébastien sat once again in the drawing room, swirling a glass of rich, dark wine. The flicker of candlelight danced across the crystal.
Khan entered, followed by Amelia and Heidi, their armor slightly scuffed from hours of travel.
Khan bowed. "The splinter group was one of many. Traces point to Warsaw, Lisbon, Budapest. The Strix are testing waters. Probing strengths. Measuring reactions."
Heidi added, "And now... they're missing an entire cell."
Sébastien nodded. "They'll come looking."
"And what of Shauna?" Amelia asked.
He took a sip of wine before speaking. "She's seen more than she understood. The name Mohinder came up. It confirmed our worst suspicions."
Khan's eyes narrowed. "So it is the Strix."
"Yes," Sébastien said. "And now perhaps, they know of us. Of me."
Elsewhere, under the cover of dusk, a quiet tavern nestled at the edge of a small Spanish town bustled with laughter and the clinking of glasses. Inside, seated near the fireplace, were the Mikaelsons.
Elijah, ever composed, sipped a Bordeaux with a contemplative expression. Rebekah leaned lazily against a velvet-backed chair, twirling a dagger between her fingers.
Klaus sipped his wine with a smirk. "You do realize, brother, we've been watched for days now?"
Elijah raised a brow. "You're certain?"
"Please. I know the scent of paranoia when it breathes down my neck."
Rebekah's smirk faded. "Death Dealers?"
"No doubt. Valet wouldn't leave us alone, not with this timing."
Klaus stood. "Let's stretch our legs, shall we? I believe we owe our shadowy friends a proper introduction."
In the dense forest not far from the town, Klaus, Rebekah, and Elijah moved with preternatural grace, their presence near-silent—until a branch snapped.
Three Death Dealers stood in the clearing. Faces hidden by dark hoods and armor etched with the Volturi's sigils.
Klaus stepped forward, lips curled into a snarl. "Are we so dangerous you need to babysit us like mortals with sharp teeth?"
The lead Death Dealer remained still.
Klaus took another step forward, his smile more dangerous now. "I've torn apart armies for less provocation."
Rebekah drew her dagger. Elijah stepped beside them, calm but alert.
The clearing grew colder.
Then, with subtle rustles and glints of steel, a dozen more Death Dealers emerged from the forest. From behind trees. From above in the canopy. Every weapon drawn. Every movement precise.
Heidi stood among them now, eyes glowing red, her blades catching the moonlight.
Khan, at her side, cracked his neck. "We are not here to provoke... only to ensure."
Amelia appeared last, her whip unraveling slowly in her hand.
The Mikaelsons, for the first time in years, did not charge forward. They shifted into a loose formation.
Elijah's eyes flicked between the soldiers. "Impressive"
Klaus scoffed. "You think numbers frighten me?"
"They don't," Heidi said. "But make no mistake. These aren't mere numbers. These are hunters."
Sparks flew in the air as tension gripped the clearing.
The two sides stood, vampires all—but different breeds of war.
The old world was about to clash with the new.
And the forest held its breath.
-----
Far from the quiet grandeur of Sébastien Valet's gothic estate, beyond the borders of Valencia and tucked within the winding, uncharted paths of the Carpathian wilds, there stood a monastery cloaked in illusion and warded fog. Within its cavernous heart, past tomes and relics lost to all but the most secretive archives of vampiric history, sat a tall figure of regal posture and unnerving stillness.
Mohinder.
A name spoken in whispers. His mere presence often elicited reverence or dread among supernatural circles. He stood now in his chamber, surrounded by parchment, maps, and obsidian runes marked with script glowing with faint crimson light.
With his dark eyes locked onto a wall-sized map of Western Europe formed from glimmering blood-scribed ink, Mohinder moved pieces across the map, symbols representing various cells of the Strix's probing forces. Each one was color-coded and marked with time stamps for communication, deployment, and response.
One by one, he reviewed them.
"Prague: Cell active. Dominant local presence: Druid coven. Weak influence, no organized resistance. We proceed."
"Bordeaux: Cell active. The vampire Matriarch Marette submitted. A few key disappearances and she bent the knee. No trouble."
"Lisbon: Cell disbanded. Traced and dismantled by human hunters aligned with local witches. Replacement requested."
He paused, then turned toward the parchment floating closest to him.
"Valencia…"
He lifted the page slowly, eyes narrowing. "Last report: Seven nights ago. Report overdue by two."
The candlelight in the chamber flickered violently.
He turned and walked toward the war table, where a second set of reports awaited. These bore the seal of Strix command—each filled with strategic analysis, psychological profiles of local power figures, supernatural population density charts, and factional loyalty matrices.
Mohinder read through the dossier marked "The Volturi."
A faction of vampire governance localized in the Iberian Peninsula, founded nearly a century ago, with increasing legitimacy among the region's supernatural communities. Known for neutrality, swift enforcement of law, and brutal retaliation against challengers.
He reached a specific section—Leadership: Sébastien Valet.
He paused.
The name gnawed at something in his memory.
"Sébastien Valet…" he repeated softly.
He turned to the side and lifted a smaller scroll with an older, faded seal—one of Tristan's personal collection, long forgotten but preserved. He skimmed through it. A rejection letter. The signatory: Valet.
He blinked, slowly.
Tristan had once recruited this man. Offered him membership in the Strix, and was refused.
Was this the same Sébastien Valet? It seemed unlikely… but the dates matched. The region matched. The description from intercepted whispers—brown skin, violet eyes, psychic—matched.
He clenched his jaw.
"I should've paid more attention to this one," he muttered to himself.
He stepped away from the table and gazed toward the windows, where storm clouds gathered like omens.
"If the Blood Sires are dead, this Volturi is no local militia. They're organized. Defended. Capable of coordinated extermination."
He considered the implications.
"Any attempt to bring the Iberian Peninsula under our banner will require either the subjugation… or eradication… of the Volturi."
The flickering candles now burned steadier, as if the chamber were reacting to his clarity of thought. He returned to the table and picked up a sealed scroll—black wax, etched with the twin dragons of the highest authority.
He turned to the raven perched silently on a wooden stand nearby.
"To Anya and Tristan," he said. "It's time they learned of this personally."
The raven blinked once. Then, the seal burned with crimson fire as the scroll disintegrated into mist and shadow, carried instantly to its destinations by blood-sorcery.
Mohinder stood in silence. His expression was unreadable.
The game board had shifted.
Now, it was a matter of time before war, diplomacy—or something far worse—broke across the land.