Chapter 2 - Two Shots

Two Shots:

It was early afternoon, and the sun hung high above the outskirts of New Orleans sky, casting long beams of light through the swaying trees. A dusty two-lane road cut through the Bayou, its silence broken only by the steady hum of a car rolling along its path. Inside the vehicle, Klaus Mikaelson sat behind the wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead. In the passenger seat beside him, Hayley Marshall watched the blur of green pass by, one hand resting on her knee while the other hung loosely by the door.

They had just finished retrieving Rebekah's coffin, another grim errand added to the ever-growing list of burdens they carried. Though the task was done, the air inside the car remained thick—too quiet for comfort, too heavy for peace.

Hayley glanced at Klaus from time to time, noticing how tense his jaw was, how his grip on the steering wheel seemed just a little too tight. She didn't press him. Not yet.

So much had happened to the Mikaelsons in such a short span—loss, betrayal, enemies rising on every front. And among all the chaos, the wound that seemed to bleed the most silently was the recent death of Camille O'Connell.

Klaus hadn't spoken much about Camille since her passing. But during this quiet moment with Hayley, he finally opened up, reflecting on the countless things he had left unsaid. There were a thousand thoughts he had meant to share with.

The weight of that silence lingered with him, sharper now in the wake of her absence.

Aware of how fragile Elijah had become in recent days, Klaus urged Hayley not to fall into the same trap. With the prophecy looming over them like a ticking clock, there was no room for hesitation. Time, as he had learned too late, was not a luxury they could afford to waste.

Klaus kept his eyes fixed on the road. For a while, neither of them spoke.

The silence felt fragile, almost sacred, until Hayley's voice broke through softly, weighed with guilt and uncertainty.

"I pushed him away for so long, Klaus, what if—what if he doesn't…"

"He does," Klaus said, cutting her off without looking her way. His voice was steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. It wasn't impatience, not really. It was conviction—sharp, unflinching, and laced with something far more rare in him: hope. The kind he only ever showed when it truly mattered.

The buzz of a phone broke the moment. Klaus reached into his coat and glanced at the screen. Elijah's name glowed across it. Without hesitation, he handed the phone to Hayley, keeping his attention firmly on the road.

"Ask him yourself," Klaus said, his voice calm but edged with something more personal now. He knew how much this call meant.

Hayley took the phone slowly, her fingers curling around it as she brought it close. Just as she was about to answer, a black car suddenly veered into view. In a split second, it smashed violently into the side of their vehicle.

The force of the collision was devastating. The moment the black car struck, metal crumpled and glass exploded into the air like shards of lightning. The world spun violently before everything dropped into darkness.

Klaus stirred, groaning low as he came to. His vision was blurred, the edges of his sight swimming as he pulled himself out of the wreck. Blood trickled from a gash on his forehead, dripping down the side of his face. The air was thick with the scent of gasoline, smoke, and burning rubber. He stumbled forward, one hand gripping the mangled edge of the car door for balance.

Then his eyes landed on her.

Hayley lay motionless on the ground, her body sprawled across the cracked pavement. Her neck was unnaturally twisted, and a crude wooden stake—sharpened from a broken fence post or something similar—was driven through her stomach, pinning her to the ground. Her eyes were closed, peaceful despite the violence that had brought her down.

Klaus took a breath, his pain momentarily forgotten as rage surged through him. He moved toward her, each step fueled by a building fury.

Before he could reach her, a figure stepped out of the smoke and debris, materializing like a shadow given form.

"Nik, I was hoping to run into you," Lucien said with a grin, his tone infuriatingly casual.

Without another word, he slammed his fist into Klaus's chest, sending him flying backward into the twisted frame of the car. Klaus hit the metal hard, the impact sending another wave of pain through his already battered body.

Lucien laughed, savoring the moment.

"Oh come now! There's no fun if it's easy, at least Cami went down swinging," he added, his voice cruel, mocking.

That name was the spark that lit the fire. Klaus's eyes flared with fury, all restraint gone. With a roar, he charged Lucien. He grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forward, slamming Lucien's face into the wrecked car behind them with bone-cracking force. The sound echoed across the road. Klaus followed it up with a brutal kick to Lucien's gut, launching him backward across the gravel.

Lucien stumbled, dust rising around him. For a moment, he looked stunned. The hit had landed harder than he expected, and the flash of humiliation on his face was unmistakable. But that only fueled him further.

With a burst of speed, Lucien vanished in a blur and reappeared right in front of Klaus. The sudden movement caught Klaus off guard. Before he could react, Lucien grabbed him and hurled him off his feet.

Klaus's body crashed through the heavy wooden doors of a barn that sat just off the road, splinters flying in every direction as he slammed into the far wall. He dropped to the floor, groaning as dust clouded the air around him.

Lucien stepped through the broken doorway with slow, deliberate strides, his smirk widening.

The fight was far from over.

Inside the barn, on the old wooden stairs, Klaus struggled to get up after being thrown hard across the space. Splintered debris littered the ground around him, and dust hung heavy in the air. He braced himself against the railing, breath ragged, body aching. Then he heard Lucien's voice as he entered the barn, his tone thick with mockery.

"Haha, haven't you learned yet, Nik? I am finally your superior in every way," Lucien said, crouching slightly as he looked down at Klaus with a sneer of amusement and dominance.

Klaus was still trying to get back on his feet when Lucien struck again—driving a powerful kick into his chest. The force of the blow sent Klaus flying backward, crashing deeper into the barn and landing hard in a narrow corridor littered with broken beams and shadows.

He groaned, forcing himself upright once more, when Lucien's voice echoed through the darkened corridor. Klaus looked around but saw nothing.

"Awoooo… Haha, I can smell it, the stench of fear. Uncomfortable isn't it? Knowing your life could be snuffed out any second."

Klaus felt it now—the shift in power. Lucien wasn't bluffing. He was stronger, faster, enhanced by something more than just rage. For the first time, Klaus Mikaelson, an Original, was outmatched.

He moved slowly down the corridor, each step tense. Then, without warning, Lucien appeared in front of him, stepping out of the shadows.

"Count your heartbeats, Klaus," he said calmly, voice dripping with menace.

Lucien charged without hesitation, and Klaus met him head-on. The two collided with full force, as the brutal fight raged on once more.

Outside the barn, near the edge of the road, Hayley stirred with a sharp gasp. Her eyes snapped open as she coughed hard, the pain hitting her all at once. A wooden plank was still lodged through her stomach, the crude stake having pinned her during the car crash. Blood stained her shirt, and her breath trembled as she took it all in.

For a moment, she stayed still, gathering herself. Then came the sound—distant, muffled, but unmistakable. Fighting. It echoed from within the barn.

Hayley's eyes narrowed.

Niklaus.

Without hesitation, she reached down, bracing herself, and gritted her teeth as she yanked the wooden plank from her torso. The pain surged through her, but she didn't stop. Healing quickly, she pushed herself to her feet and sped toward the barn.

The closer she got, the louder the noise became. Fists, crashing wood, grunts of pain—someone was being thrown around inside. As she slipped through the entrance, she moved carefully toward the source of the commotion.

Then she saw it.

Klaus was on the ground, bloodied and struggling to get up. The attacker—tall, confident, and walking slowly toward him—was someone she immediately recognized.

Lucien.

Her heart pounded, but her instincts kicked in. She moved fast, spotting a shovel leaning against the wall. Grabbing it, she crept up behind Lucien, hoping to land a surprise strike before he could react.

But Lucien stopped. He turned slightly, his expression shifting as he sensed her presence behind him.

Hayley, with all her might, smashed the shovel into Lucien's face. The blow landed hard, making Lucien stumble back a few steps toward the old sink behind him.

His pride clearly stung, Lucien reached for the nearest object—a metal pot—and smashed it straight into Hayley's face. She reeled back from the impact. But then he felt something strike him from the side.

It was Klaus, hitting him with another object from behind. Lucien turned, unfazed, then used the same pot to strike Klaus directly. With one hand, he grabbed Klaus by the neck and slammed him against the wooden wall.

Hayley, seeing this, forced herself up and sped toward Lucien to help. But Lucien was ready. With a menacing laugh, he caught her head in both hands, then drove her face hard into a wooden cabinet. The wood cracked, and Hayley dropped to the floor, briefly incapacitated.

Klaus, now free from Lucien's grasp, spotted the shovel Hayley had dropped earlier. He grabbed it quickly and swung it straight into Lucien's face. The hit made Lucien flinch slightly, but he quickly overpowered Klaus and ripped the shovel from his hands.

Without giving Klaus a chance to react, Lucien struck him with the shovel in a swift, brutal combo—blow after blow landing fast and hard. Klaus tried to brace himself, but the hits drove him lower with each strike.

Lucien's laugh echoed through the barn.

Then came the final blow.

Lucien raised the shovel and smashed it into Klaus's face with full force, sending him flying straight out of the barn.

After being thrown out of the barn, Klaus lay motionless for a few seconds. Slowly, he stirred, using his hands to push himself up off the dirt. Around him was an open clearing, surrounded by tall trees and patches of grass. The earth was uneven, and broken wood from the barn doors lay scattered nearby.

He struggled to his feet, unsteady, still recovering from the hit. Blood dripped from his head as he turned around to see what was happening behind him.

There stood Lucien, laughing loudly in the open. In front of him was Hayley, coughing up blood as she remained barely upright. Klaus's eyes sharpened when he realized what he was looking at. Lucien had his hand pierced straight through her back, fingers clenched tightly around her heart.

Klaus froze.

He didn't move, afraid that even the slightest action might push Lucien to finish it. He stayed completely still and locked eyes with him.

Lucien saw his reaction and smiled with satisfaction. He had beaten Klaus. It showed in every line of his face. His ego towered now.

"Oh well, a queen and a king caught by a one-time pawn. Thus the game comes to its inevitable end," Lucien said to Klaus, still gripping Hayley's heart and squeezing it slowly, repeatedly.

Hayley gasped, her body weak from the pain and blood loss.

Klaus's voice was tight as he quickly tried to reason with him.

"What are you proving by killing her? It's me you hate."

Lucien responded with a cold, sarcastic tone.

"Was I not clear when I murdered Finn and Camille? I don't care who dies. But since you do, indulge me and I might just spare the mother of your child," he said, pointing his finger directly at Klaus. "Kneel. Get on your knees."

Klaus didn't move at first. There was hesitation on his face. Lucien noticed it and made his warning sharper.

"I can feel her heart pounding in my fist. Do you really want to measure your pride against my mercy?"

Klaus looked at Hayley again. He saw the pain, the blood, the danger in her eyes. He took a breath.

Then, slowly, Klaus dropped to his knees. He had made his choice.

For Hayley. For Hope.

While all of this was happening, not far from the clearing, Freya and Elijah had already arrived at the scene. Hidden behind the tree line, they watched silently. Freya's eyes remained focused, her hand already marked with runes, while Elijah kept his posture steady, alert.

They were waiting for the right moment. Timing was everything if they hoped to strike Lucien and strip away the power that made him nearly unstoppable.

Freya's breath slowed as she concentrated on the spell. Elijah's eyes never left Klaus.

When they saw Klaus lowering himself, ready to kneel before Lucien, they exchanged a glance. It was time.

But before they could step forward, a voice cut through the tension.

"Pathetic."

It was sharp, cold, and familiar.

Both Freya and Elijah froze.

A sudden surge of energy followed the voice, and a dome of crimson darkness erupted into existence. It formed instantly—glowing and swirling with unnatural force—rising between Klaus and Hayley, standing directly in front of Lucien.

The ground trembled slightly beneath their feet.

Lucien stepped back, narrowing his eyes, caught off guard.

Freya's grip on her spell faltered. Elijah shifted forward, tense.

Whoever had spoken had arrived unannounced—and they had power strong enough to shift the battlefield in a single moment.

In the blink of an eye, the swirling crimson shadow vanished, collapsing inward with a faint hiss of energy. Standing in its place was an old man. His presence was composed yet unsettling, dressed in a sharp black and red suit that gave the impression of noble elegance, like someone out of a time long passed. In one arm, he cradled a baby wrapped securely in a pale blanket. The child's tiny hands were busy tugging gently at his black and white beard, unaware of the danger surrounding them. In his other hand, the man carried a worn leather satchel that hung at his side.

The sudden appearance drew everyone's attention—especially Lucien. His brows drew together in confusion, his grip still firm inside Hayley's back. Blood trickled around his wrist where it pierced through, his hand wrapped around her heart.

Lucien didn't recognize the old man. But Klaus did.

Now back on his feet, though still injured, Klaus stood completely still. His eyes widened slightly, not at the man—but at the child in his arms.

It was Hope.

The realization hit him hard. He took a cautious step forward, heart pounding. "Hope," he breathed, his voice low and strained. But he didn't dare move any closer. The last time this man appeared, Klaus had been subdued in an instant. He didn't know what the old man would do if he made a wrong move now.

At the same time, Hayley knew exactly who it was the moment the swirling crimson shadow appeared. She didn't speak, but the presence was unmistakable. Even with Lucien's hand pierced through her body, even through the haze of pain, she held her ground in silence. Her breathing was shallow, but her eyes stayed steady, and focused.

Not far from them, still hidden, Elijah and Freya watched the scene unfold, sweat forming on their brows. Their spell had been abandoned. Neither of them spoke, but the tension between them was palpable. They recognized him too.

Lucien, standing a few feet away from Klaus, glanced back and forth between them. He noticed Klaus's frozen stance, the fear in his eyes. That, more than anything, unsettled him.

"Nik," Lucien said slowly, turning toward Klaus, "do you know this guy?"

The silence lingered as he looked back at the old man and chuckled with his usual arrogance. "Old man, who are you? It seems you got here at the wrong time."

His tone was casual, but laced with cold amusement.

The old man didn't respond. He glanced at Lucien for only a moment, his expression unreadable, before turning his eyes back down to the baby in his arms. His silence was deliberate. He hadn't come to explain himself.

And that was enough to send a chill through every Mikaelson present.

Lucien didn't like this feeling. He wasn't used to being ignored—especially not now. He was stronger than the Originals, faster, more evolved. The power coursing through his veins had made him something more, something untouchable. Yet, this old man… this stranger who had stepped between them all with calm indifference… dared to overlook him entirely.

He had seen the crimson shadow that signaled the man's arrival. And although it was strange, perhaps magical, Lucien brushed it off. The man looked like a warlock, maybe a servant of some coven. Nothing more. Certainly no match for him.

And now, being ignored?

Lucien's amusement faded into irritation. Then anger.

He clenched his jaw and cast a sharp glance toward Klaus. This was the final insult. After he finished dealing with Klaus, he'd rip this old fool apart and drain every last drop of blood from his body—for disrespecting him, for daring to exist in the middle of his victory.

But just as the thought solidified in his mind, the old man began to speak.

"Miss Marshall," the man said calmly, his voice smooth but firm, "I already told you that my master can't accompany your child for too long. Now here she is. Go get her."

His words cut through the clearing. Everyone heard them. Even Elijah and Freya, hidden just beyond the trees, exchanged tense glances. The air grew heavier. The Mikaelsons, all of them, now had the same silent question running through their minds:

Since when was Hayley familiar with this old man?

Lucien turned slightly, his eyes shifting down to Hayley—still pinned in front of him, still standing only because of his hand through her back. He didn't say anything, but the look in his eyes sharpened. His grip tightened around her heart.

Hayley let out a strangled cough, a small cry escaping her lips as the pain surged through her again.

With effort, she tilted her head and managed to speak through gritted teeth. "As you see, Sir Marcus… I'm occupied for a moment."

Her voice was strained, shaking—but defiant.

"I see," Marcus replied quietly, his gaze still on her, unreadable.

After a pause, Marcus began to glance around the clearing, his eyes briefly sweeping across Klaus, then toward the spot where Elijah and Freya remained concealed. Though they hadn't revealed themselves, they were no longer unnoticed. Marcus could sense their presence without effort.

Finally, his attention settled on Lucien.

"Is this one of the Mikaelson family dramas again?" he asked, not unkindly, but clearly disinterested. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I have things to attend to, so… you there. The one behind Miss Marshall." His tone turned almost casual. "Would you kindly release her so that she can get this little devil out of my arms?"

Lucien stared at him, stunned into silence.

A moment passed.

Disbelief filled Lucien's expression as he slowly turned his head toward Klaus, as if silently asking if this man was serious. Klaus, of course, was already looking back at him, wearing a faint, knowing smirk and offering a subtle nod—a gesture that seemed almost amused.

It wasn't just mockery. Klaus was baiting him.

He wanted Lucien to lash out, to let his pride do the talking. Because Klaus knew exactly what that would lead to. He wanted the old man who now named Marcus to take action.

Klaus knew. He had seen what Marcus was capable of—and now he was hoping Lucien would step into the same trap as he did.

Lucien's ego flared in response. The old man hadn't merely ignored him. He had issued a command. And Lucien, now more powerful than any Original, saw himself above command. Untouchable. Invincible.

He wasn't going to let it slide. Not now. Not from anyone.

"And what if I don't?" Lucien said, his voice sharp with mockery as he stared Marcus down.

He took a slow step forward, still holding Hayley in front of him like a twisted shield, blood dripping from his hand where it pierced through her back.

"Old man, listen to me," he continued with a crooked smile. "You don't tell me what to do."

He let out a short laugh and gestured broadly, as if addressing a stage. "I was actually in a good mood earlier. A victory like this? Worth celebrating."

Then his expression darkened, his tone turning colder.

"Until you showed up… and ruined it."

He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming. "So unless you're planning to vanish the same way you appeared, I suggest you take your wrinkled little warning and shove it."

Lucien tightened his grip around Hayley's heart and narrowed his eyes.

Hearing Lucien's defiance, Marcus's expression dimmed. His calm demeanor faltered for only a second, but that was all it took for something in the air to shift. His eyes, once unreadable, now burned with a deeper red. The temperature in the clearing seemed to drop.

"Is that so," Marcus said quietly, but his voice carried a cold edge that cut deeper than any shout.

Even the Mikaelsons, felt it. That tone—measured, restrained, yet laced with quiet fury—sent a ripple of dread through them. One thing was suddenly clear: Lucien was done for.

Lucien, unaware of what he had provoked, simply smirked in return. But something in him—primal and instinctual—shuddered. That voice. It gnawed at the back of his mind and sent a chill straight down his spine. Still, he masked it, pretending confidence.

But before he could say another word, it happened.

A blur of motion swept between him and Hayley—nothing but a ripple of shadow—and then came the sensation of falling. Lucien's eyes widened in confusion. His body tilted backward, and the moment he hit the ground, pain shot through him.

He looked down.

His legs were gone.

A few feet away, the severed limbs twitched uselessly, and beside them, a tiny, grotesque creature with sunken eyes and sharpened teeth gnawed eagerly at the torn flesh. It was something out of nightmares, something no ancient legend or dark folklore had ever dared to describe.

On Hayley's back, a severed arm still clutched her heart, fingers frozen in a death grip. As the tension left the limb, it fell lifelessly to the ground with a dull thud. The sound drew the attention of one of the nearby creatures, which quickly scampered over. Without hesitation, it sank its teeth into the flesh and began to feast, blood spilling out and seeping into the soil beneath it.

The sight was so visceral, so sudden, that even the Mikaelsons flinched. Freya took a half-step back without realizing it. Elijah's jaw tightened. Klaus's smirk had long vanished.

And Lucien—Lucien screamed.

It wasn't rage. It wasn't even defiance. It was raw fear.

Supporting himself with his remaining arm, he tried to crawl, dragging his mutilated body across the bloodstained ground, desperate to escape.

But before he could get far, Marcus's voice rang out again, calm and composed.

"Now, Miss Marshall," he said without looking back, "you are free. I have a matter to attend to."

Hayley, still catching her breath, brought her hands to her knees and pushed herself upright with effort. Her body was beginning to heal now, mending slowly but surely. She didn't turn to look at Lucien—she didn't want to. The sound of his agony was enough.

Instead, her focus turned to Marcus, and more importantly, to the small child still playing with his beard as if nothing had happened.

"Sir Marcus… thanks," Hayley said, her voice quieter than usual, filled with real gratitude. She reached out and gently took Hope into her arms, cradling her close. Blood and dirt smeared across her skin, but the child smiled and snuggled in without fear.

Marcus, wordless, raised his other arm and handed her the leather satchel.

"Here are your things," he said plainly.

Then, without pause, he turned his attention to Lucien.

The mangled vampire was still trying to crawl away, his remaining arm trembling as it dragged him inch by inch across the grass. Marcus began walking toward him, slow and deliberate, as if prepared to finish what had already begun. The creatures snarled softly nearby, eager to resume their feast.

But just before Marcus could close the distance, another voice broke through.

"Sir," Klaus called out, his tone uncharacteristically respectful, "can you leave him with us?"

Marcus stopped in his tracks.

He stood silently for a moment, back still turned to them. Then, with a small shake of his head, the creatures abruptly vanished. One by one, they sank into the earth like shadows melting back into the dirt. The clearing grew quiet again, except for Lucien's shallow breathing and occasional choked groan.

Marcus slowly turned his head, not raising his voice but letting it carry just enough.

"Vampire lineage in this realm is getting worse and worse," he said, laced with disdain.

He cast Lucien one final glance, one that felt like judgment itself.

Then, in a blink, the crimson shadow returned—swirling around Marcus's feet, consuming him—and in an instant, he was gone.

Not a trace remained. Not even a sound.

After the old man vanished into the crimson shadow, the clearing fell into silence. The tension that had choked the air slowly began to lift.

Klaus exhaled deeply, finally allowing himself a breath of relief. His eyes moved to the side, where Hayley was seated on the grass with Hope nestled safely in her arms. The baby giggled softly, tugging at her mother's hair, blissfully unaware of the chaos that had just unfolded around her.

From the tree line, Freya and Elijah finally stepped out into the open.

Freya kept her eyes fixed on Lucien, while Elijah, with silent judgment in his gaze, approached the broken creature crawling pitifully across the dirt.

Without hesitation, Elijah kicked Lucien onto his back, then planted his foot firmly on the vampire's chest to keep him down.

Klaus gave them a nod but didn't approach right away. Instead, he made his way over to Hayley. He knelt beside her, checking Hope closely, running a hand gently over her head. She was unharmed.

His eyes met Hayley's, and for a moment, no words passed between them.

Then Klaus quietly said, "We'll talk later."

Hayley gave a slight nod, already understanding what he meant.

She stood and walked away from the group, cradling Hope tightly. She didn't look back. Her clothes were stained with blood and dirt, and her body still ached, but more than anything, she didn't want to be part of what was about to happen. Not this time.

Once she was gone, Klaus turned and walked to where Lucien lay pinned beneath Elijah's boot. Freya stood nearby, her eyes already beginning to glow faintly with magic. Klaus looked down at what remained of their once-powerful adversary.

Lucien was a wreck.

Despite his supposed superiority—the evolution beyond the Original bloodline—he was now lying in the dirt, bloodied and broken. His wounds weren't healing. His breathing was ragged. His skin had gone pale with shock, and even through his pain, his expression flickered with fear.

Klaus crouched beside him, his voice sharp with disdain.

"You see? That family drama you so joyfully derided does have its merits."

Lucien coughed as he tried to rise, but Elijah's foot pressed harder on his chest, forcing him back down. He gasped, struggling through the pain.

"You can kill me," Lucien rasped, "but the prophecy still stands. You cannot outrun it."

Klaus shook his head slightly, his tone now steady, returning to the cold, precise bearing he was known for.

"I've heard about a thousand years too much from you. For a century, you lived with my name, and you never quite recovered from losing it, did you? You became a man of wealth and stature, but you never could crawl from my shadow. And in the end, despite the gift of immortality, you've always known what you truly are."

While speaking, Klaus lowered himself further and reached into the grass, picking up a jagged shard of glass. Its edge glinted faintly.

He looked up and gave a brief nod to Freya.

Freya lifted her hands. Light sparked from her fingers as she began an incantation in a low, focused chant. Her voice echoed slightly, vibrating the air around them. As the spell took hold, Lucien screamed, his entire body convulsing violently.

It was more than physical pain—it was something being torn from his soul. The power he had stolen, the unnatural strength granted by a serum crafted to defeat Originals, was leaving him.

Seconds felt like minutes, and then Freya's voice fell quiet.

She looked up, breathless but steady.

"His power's gone," Freya said, her tone matter-of-fact. "He's nothing but an ordinary vampire now."

Elijah removed his foot and stepped back.

Klaus looked down at Lucien, whose body was trembling. The former beast, the evolved predator, was reduced to a pale imitation of himself. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes. He tried to form words, but only choked whimpers escaped his throat.

Klaus's gaze was cold and final.

He reached forward, grabbed Lucien's face, and tilted it upward. With a slow, deliberate movement, he drew the shard of glass across Lucien's mouth—mimicking the same gesture Tristan once inflicted a millennium ago.

"You are nothing," Klaus said quietly.

Then, with no hesitation, Klaus drove his hand into Lucien's chest and ripped his heart out.

Lucien's body went limp. The light left his eyes.

And with that, Lucien Castle—the upgraded vampire who had once believed himself invincible—was no more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Abattoir Compound — Night.

The Mikaelson compound stood in eerie silence beneath the glow of the moon. Its towering walls, a blend of aged brick and ancient charm, had long been a symbol of both sanctuary and blood-soaked history. Tonight, however, it felt colder. The halls that once echoed with family and festivity now whispered only with unrest.

After killing Lucien and reducing his corpse to ash, the Mikaelsons had returned—Klaus, Elijah, Freya, and Hayley with Hope—with Rebekah's coffin in tow. What should have been a moment of solemn unity only deepened the divide among them.

But what awaited them back home was not comfort.

Marcel had been waiting. His eyes held no warmth, only quiet fury. The moment they stepped into the compound, he made it clear—whatever bond he once had with the Mikaelsons was gone. Losing Davina had broken something in him, and learning what they had done to her shattered the rest. He didn't yell or raise his voice, but his words cut deep. He reminded them that every time they asked something of him, he did it—loyally, without question. But not anymore. Marcel severed all ties to the Mikaelsons and their name, then walked out of the compound, carrying both his grief and his rage.

Vincent, too, had a final encounter with Freya, one filled with quiet resentment and disappointment. Standing over the place where Davina had been sacrificed, he listened as Freya tried to explain herself, but her words held no meaning for him. In his eyes, she had become no different from the rest of the Mikaelsons—willing to trade innocent lives to protect her own blood. The trust between them was broken. Without forgiveness or understanding, Vincent walked away, severing ties not just with Freya, but with everything the Mikaelsons stood for.

Now, late into the night, one of the rooms flickered with warm lamplight. Elijah sat alone with a drink in hand, silent and still, lost in his thoughts. Across the room, Klaus stood by the window, glass in hand, staring out at the dark city beyond. The silence between them was not unfamiliar, but tonight, it felt heavier.

The door creaked softly.

Hayley appeared, leaning against the doorway. She looked at both men—one brooding by the window, the other lost in his drink—and for a moment, she said nothing.

Then her voice broke the silence.

"So what do you want to know?" she asked.

Though she addressed them both, her gaze lingered on Klaus, who remained with his back turned.

No one spoke at first. Klaus kept staring out the window, unmoving, until finally he turned, walking toward the table to refill his empty glass. He poured slowly, then spoke. His tone was low, but firm.

"For starters," he said, "why don't you explain how you and that old monster—what did you call him again—Sir Marcus? How exactly are you two familiar?"

Elijah, still quiet, looked up from his glass. His attention was now fixed on Hayley.

She stepped into the room, arms crossed, and moved closer until she stood near the edge of the table. Her eyes briefly flicked between the two brothers before settling on Klaus.

"It started about a week after we got Hope back," she said, her voice calm but weighed down by memory. "At first, it was small things. One moment she was in the room, the next she was gone. Then it started happening more often."

She paused, letting the weight of that sink in.

"Every time she disappeared, Sir Marcus would either show up at my apartment, telling me to come get her… or sometimes, he'd bring her back himself."

Hearing this, both Elijah and Klaus fell silent for a moment.

Elijah lowered his glass slowly, setting it on the table with controlled precision. His gaze lifted to meet Hayley's, brows drawn together in a calm but firm expression.

"Why didn't you tell us about something this important?" he asked, his voice level but edged with concern.

Before Hayley could answer, Klaus's tone cut through the air, sharp and rising.

"Didn't I tell you last time?" he said, stepping forward slightly. "If something like that ever happened again, you contact me!"

Hayley didn't respond right away. Instead, she moved around the table and sat down across from Elijah. Without looking at either of them, she reached for the empty glass nearby and poured herself a drink. Her hands were steady, but there was a tiredness in her movements.

"At first, I was going to tell you," she said, finally meeting Elijah's eyes. "But I couldn't find the right moment. You all had too much going on… Lucien, Aurora, Davina. Everything kept piling up."

She paused, then added with more weight in her tone, "And the more I went to that place, the more I realized… it felt safer. For me. For Hope. Safer than this city ever did."

Elijah leaned back slightly, clearly taken aback. His expression tensed as he responded quickly.

"Safer?" he repeated. "Have you seen the creature roaming in those woods? That place may be hidden, but safe is not the word I'd use."

Klaus, still standing and drinking, kept his gaze fixed on Hayley. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his cheek twitching slightly. He didn't speak right away, but it was clear he was holding back his reaction, gathering his thoughts with visible restraint.

In response to Elijah's concern, Hayley looked at him steadily, her tone calm but firm.

"Yeah," she said with a small nod, "I saw those things too. The ones hiding out in the woods."

She paused for a moment, as if remembering the sight of them—strange, powerful creatures lurking just beyond the treeline.

"But Hope and I were careful," she continued. "We made sure never to step outside the fence. Not once."

Her gaze shifted between both brothers before settling on Elijah again.

"Sir Marcus is the one who raised them. He controls them. They don't act without him. He keeps them in line, so I didn't worry. Not about them."

Elijah's expression stayed composed, but his silence said more than words. His fingers brushed the edge of his glass, and the slight tension in his posture betrayed a quiet unease.

Klaus, however, didn't stay silent.

His posture remained tense, his movements tight with frustration. His eyes were sharp, locked onto Hayley with a flicker of something deeper, something personal.

"You sound like you trust that old monster more than you trust us," he said, his voice low but heated. "More than you trust me."

He took a step forward, then another, not in anger, but as if trying to make her hear him more clearly.

"I'm Hope's father, Hayley. Even with everything going on—this cursed prophecy, Lucien, the chaos—we both know I would drop everything if she needed me."

His tone cracked just slightly, not with weakness, but with the weight of everything he was carrying.

"I should be the one protecting her," he said, quieter now, almost to himself. "Not some stranger tucked away in some place, guarding whatever secrets he's hiding, while we're left completely in the dark."

Hayley didn't speak yet. She just looked at him—unflinching, thoughtful—while the air in the room thickened with tension and unspoken feelings.

Elijah glanced between them, silent still, letting the moment hang. He knew better than to interrupt when things ran this deep.

After a moment of silence, Hayley looked down at her glass, her thoughts circling around Klaus's words. He wasn't wrong—not entirely. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quieter, more reflective.

"You know, Klaus… even if I wanted to stop Hope from going to that place, I couldn't," she said, lifting her gaze to meet his. "She kept disappearing—sometimes in the middle of the night—and somehow, she always ended up there. It was like she was drawn to it… or something inside it was drawing her."

Klaus narrowed his eyes slightly, his mind already working through the possibilities.

"Is it that boy?" he asked. "The one inside the crystal?"

Hayley gave a small nod.

"I think so," she replied, though her voice held something back. She didn't mention the truth—that the boy was a vessel.

Hearing this, Elijah sat quietly, his expression unreadable. But there was a flicker of confusion in his eyes. He heard everything, and while the details didn't fully make sense to him yet, he knew now wasn't the time to press.

"So I made a decision," Hayley continued, her tone firmer now. "If Hope was going to keep ending up in that place, then I needed to be there too. I needed to be with her. And thankfully, Sir Marcus tolerated Hope and my presence… even though I could feel it."

She looked at both brothers now, her words slower, more deliberate.

"He doesn't hide his prejudice—not just toward vampires, but especially toward the Originals."

Klaus let out a short breath, somewhere between a scoff and an exhale. Elijah's jaw tightened slightly, but neither spoke. They didn't need to. They had felt it too—the old man's quiet disdain, the way he looked at them like they were more curse than legend.

Without a word, they both gave a slow nod, acknowledging what Hayley said.

Elijah, who had remained quiet for a while, finally spoke, his voice thoughtful but laced with concern.

"Is there any way to stop Hope from disappearing like this?" he asked, turning to Hayley.

Klaus didn't answer. He had already started pacing, glass in hand, his mind moving fast. He wasn't about to rely on Marcus for anything. Freya would be the better option. She had to be.

"There is," Hayley said after a pause, but her tone was hesitant.

Both brothers looked at her. She took a breath before continuing.

"Sir Marcus told me there are two ways to keep Hope from entering that place. First, he can strengthen the barrier more in that place. If he does, Hope won't be able to cross—no matter what. Not even unconsciously."

She looked down at her hands before meeting their eyes again.

"But… if she's ever transported herself to that place again when the barrier is reinforced, it could kill her. Her body wouldn't survive the pressure."

Elijah sat forward slightly, the tension showing in the way he held his shoulders.

Klaus had stopped pacing entirely.

"And the other option?" Elijah asked.

Hayley hesitated longer this time.

"He can seal her magic," she said. "That would have severe whatever connection is pulling her there. But it would also cut her off from her magic completely."

Klaus stared at her, his expression darkening.

"That's not a choice any of us should leave to him," Klaus said, his voice rough with emotion. "If that old monster ever decides to keep Hope out of that place for good, we won't be able to stop him."

He turned away slightly, shaking his head. "I'll talk to Freya. Maybe she can find another way."

Then, unexpectedly, Elijah spoke again—his voice even, but his words catching Klaus slightly off guard.

"Wait, brother. Perhaps we're looking at this wrong."

Klaus narrowed his eyes.

Elijah went on, more measured now.

"As long as Sir Marcus doesn't upgrade the barrier or seal Hope's magic, she can still enter the place… and more importantly, she can still leave. Hayley said he tolerates their presence. That means she and Hope can come and go."

He paused, letting the thought land.

"If that's the case, they're not trapped. If danger comes to New Orleans, they can return to that place. And if danger comes there… they can come back here."

Klaus looked at him for a long second, processing what he said. It wasn't ideal—but it was a possibility. One that didn't involve giving up control or risking Hope's life.

Hayley shook her head gently, a trace of frustration in her expression.

"It's not that simple," she said. "Hope's the only one who can reach that place. She doesn't walk into it—she just vanishes. One moment she's with me, the next… she's gone."

She glanced briefly at Klaus, then back to Elijah.

"I can't even follow her. Not unless Marcus comes for me himself."

Elijah's brows drew together, his face tightening with unease.

Klaus let out a sharp breath, jaw clenched, and set his glass down harder than he intended. The dull thud of it echoed through the room.

While the room hung in heavy silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts, a sharp, sudden cry echoed from down the hall. It was the unmistakable sound of a baby waking—loud and distressed.

Hayley stood up at once, already turning toward the door.

"Sounds like Hope's awake," she said, her voice softer now.

"Go check on her," Klaus replied with a small nod.

Without another word, Hayley stepped out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

A moment passed, quiet again but no longer heavy with tension. Then Elijah finally spoke, his tone low and contemplative.

"What do you think, brother? Could that old monster ever become an ally?"

Klaus didn't respond right away. He stared at the spot Hayley had just left, swirling the drink in his glass before answering.

"I don't know," he said. "What I do know is he tried to kill us. He nearly consumed all of us. That's not something I can ignore."

He looked to Elijah now, his voice firm but quieter, more personal.

"I just hope that my daughter doesn't get too close to him. Or to whatever else is inside that house."

He paused, then added with clear unease, "And whatever's been drawing her there… I hope it doesn't have its own agenda."

Elijah gave a slow shake of his head, thoughtful but calm.

"With the kind of power Marcus displayed… if they wanted something from Hope, I doubt they'd need to lure her in."

Klaus didn't respond. He just turned slightly, eyes drifting to the empty hallway, where his daughter's cry had faded. His face was unreadable, but in the stillness of that moment, it was clear he didn't trust Marcus. The unknowns weighed heavily, and for once, Klaus felt more on the outside of things than in control.

Beyond the walls of the room, the compound seemed to reflect that same uneasy stillness.

Outside, the night settled thick over the compound, the air cool and unmoving beneath a dark sky scattered with stars. Shadows stretched long across the courtyard, creeping along the worn stone walls like silent watchers. Though the voices inside had quieted, the weight of unspoken fears and unanswered questions lingered. The silence that returned was not peaceful. It was tense, uneasy, and filled with things yet to come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rousseau's.

Rousseau's had been dimmed for the night, its usual warmth replaced by a quiet reverence. Candles flickered across every table, casting soft shadows on the worn brick walls. A soft, soulful jazz tune played low from the old jukebox in the corner, wrapping the room in a familiar comfort—melancholy, but not without warmth. At the center, a framed photo of Camille stood beside a bottle of Irish whiskey and a single glass, untouched. The air carried a mix of grief and gratitude, the kind only an Irish wake could hold—tears laced with stories, sorrow softened by laughter. Friends raised their glasses in memory, not to say goodbye, but to keep her spirit alive in the only way Cami would've wanted: with love, with honesty, and with a drink.

In the midst of the quiet gathering, Klaus stood still after speaking with Will Kinney, positioned not far from Cami's coffin. The hum of hushed voices and clinking glasses surrounded him, but he seemed untouched by it all—lost in his own thoughts. Then, a subtle shift in the room drew his attention. His gaze followed Marcel as he entered, the younger vampire's expression unreadable at first. As Marcel moved closer, each step carried the weight of something more than grief—there was sorrow, yes, but also a deeper wound beneath it. Something personal. Something that felt like betrayal.

As Marcel reached the coffin, Elijah appeared beside Klaus, calm as ever, though his presence carried its own quiet gravity.

After a short moment, having finished his silent farewell, Marcel turned and walked past them without so much as a glance, as if they weren't there at all.

"Give him time," Elijah said to Klaus.

Klaus didn't look at his brother right away. His jaw tensed, hands buried deep in his pockets, as if holding back the storm that brewed inside him. He wasn't a man easily given to reflection, but this felt different. His choices, always made in the name of family, had cost them more than blood this time.

"Time will not bring Davina back. The one chance to save her was ruined by us for our ends. Marcel's anger is justified. It's best I reach out to him before that anger hardens into something worse," Klaus replied, still watching Marcel's back until he disappeared from his eyes.

There was no defense in his voice, no arrogance or deflection. Just a quiet, simmering guilt that clung to him like a second skin. Klaus knew loss—he had worn it for centuries. But the weight of Marcel's anger, and Cami's lifeless form lying only feet away, made this one personal in ways he hadn't anticipated. He was speaking from regret, from the fear that what remained of their fractured family would finally crumble, not by war, but by wounds they had inflicted on each other.

A moment of silence settled between the brothers, heavy and unspoken.

Then Klaus looked at Elijah and said, "I need some air, brother. I need to go and walk outside for a short moment."

"You go," Elijah replied calmly. "Hayley and I will handle the wake for the meantime." He understood without needing to ask—his brother needed this moment alone.

Klaus gave a brief nod and quietly walked out of the bar.

From across the room, Hayley noticed and made her way over to Elijah. She gently placed a hand on his shoulder, a quiet gesture of support.

Elijah said nothing. He simply stood there, watching his brother's back as he disappeared through the doors.

Outside, the air was cool against Klaus's face, but it did little to quiet the storm inside him. He walked without direction, the streets of the Quarter stretching ahead in silence, familiar yet somehow hollow. His hands stayed in his coat pockets, shoulders tense, as if bracing against something heavier than the night itself. The sounds of the city faded behind him, replaced by the quiet thoughts he could no longer outrun.

Grief was not new to him. He had buried countless friends, lovers, even family. But this was different. Cami had seen through the monster and challenged the man beneath. She had asked nothing from him but honesty, and in return, he had brought destruction to everything she held dear. He hadn't wept. Not yet. But something in him ached, a raw place no rage or vengeance could soothe. In losing her, Klaus felt not just pain, but absence. The kind that echoes in the quiet. The kind he could never outrun.

Klaus continued walking, his pace unhurried but aimless, as if movement alone could keep the weight of grief at bay. The further he went, the quieter the streets became. Lights from the French Quarter faded behind him, replaced by the muted glow of the intersections and shuttered windows. He hadn't planned to go anywhere. He simply needed space, distance, something to fill the silence pressing in on him.

Then he stopped.

Something—or rather, someone—caught his eye across the street. Outside a modest corner restaurant, an older man sat alone at a small table on the patio, dining beneath the soft hum of string lights. His posture was relaxed, and there was a certain pleasure in the way he moved. Every bite was unhurried, every sip of red wine deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.

Klaus narrowed his eyes, and the edge of unease crept into his chest.

He knew that face. This was Marcus.

Klaus had only met him twice, but each encounter had left a mark. He remembered the night Marcus first stood before the Mikaelsons, not as a guest or ally, but as a force beyond their control. He had overpowered them, nearly killed them, and made Klaus feel something he rarely did—powerless. Since then, that feeling had never fully left him. He never forgot Marcus.

Now, watching him again in this quiet moment, Klaus saw something that didn't align with the memory burned into him. There was a calmness to the man's demeanor, a casual enjoyment in the way he chewed and tasted each bite. It was unsettling. Not because it was threatening, but because it wasn't. Marcus looked too at peace. Too grounded for someone Klaus had always seen as dangerous in ways that didn't announce themselves.

Klaus remained still for a moment, his expression unreadable, though the flicker of caution in his eyes betrayed the tension building beneath the surface. He was not afraid easily, but he respected what Marcus was capable of. And respect, for Klaus, always came with a measure of restraint.

After a few steady breaths, Klaus made his decision. He was going to confront the old man. There was no anger in his steps, only caution and calculation. As he walked toward Marcus's table, thoughts began to race through his mind. He ran through possible outcomes, measuring the risks like a strategist. The worst of them lingered at the edge of his thoughts—he might not walk away from this at all.

Even so, he kept moving until he came to a stop in front of the table.

Before he could speak, he heard the voice. Smooth, low, and familiar.

"Mister Mikaelson, what do I owe you this pleasant evening? I hope it's not to disturb me from my meal," Marcus said calmly, without even glancing up. He continued slicing the meat on his plate with precise, unhurried movements.

Klaus paused. The greeting was enough to throw him slightly off balance. He hesitated, searching for the right words, unsure of how to even begin.

Before he could speak, Marcus cut in again.

"Sit down. I don't like talking while looking up, especially to those who are weaker than me."

Klaus held back a response, suppressing the instinct to assert himself. He said nothing and simply took the seat across from Marcus.

Still, Marcus didn't look at him. He chewed slowly, finished his bite, then lifted his glass for a small sip of wine. Only then did he speak again.

"So. What do you want with me?"

Klaus sat in silence for a brief moment, his gaze fixed on Marcus as he measured every word he was about to say. There was no room for rashness here. He had learned the hard way that speaking carelessly around this man often came with consequences.

He finally spoke, voice steady and composed.

"What do you want with my daughter?"

Marcus tilted his head slightly, not in surprise, but in amusement. He gently swirled the wine glass in his hand, watching the red liquid catch the light.

"What's with that question? Why would I want your daughter?" he replied, his tone casual, as though the accusation barely warranted attention.

Klaus's eyes didn't move from him.

"Then why does Hope always appear in your place?" he asked, the edge of tension beginning to rise in his voice, though it never broke into open aggression. There was a quiet heat behind the words, restrained but undeniable.

Marcus set the glass down with care, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"First of all, it's not my place. It belongs to my master," he said plainly. "Second, your daughter has little to offer beyond her talents in magic. Impressive, yes. Useful, perhaps. But not extraordinary." He paused briefly, then added with a low, amused chuckle, "In your eyes she is special, of course. She is your daughter. A tribrid, born of three bloodlines, full of potential. Some even say she could become the strongest being in existence. But in my eyes, she is merely above average."

The words landed with a deliberate calm, lacking cruelty, but not compassion either. Klaus clenched his jaw slightly, but said nothing to interrupt.

"Then why would she always appear in your master's place?" Klaus asked again, this time slower, more controlled, but still firm.

Marcus leaned back, taking another sip of wine before responding.

"She is simply fortunate. That she finds herself there should be seen as an honor. Not many can claim to be that close to my master's resting body," he said smoothly. His eyes remained unreadable, his tone untouched by emotion. "And if the day comes when my master wakes up and walks in this world, perhaps your daughter will be the closest being at his side."

He offered no further explanation. The truth remained half-buried, as Marcus had no intention of revealing the real reason. Hope's presence had nothing to do with his master's vessel by design. In truth, it was the nature of her being—something within her essence—that was unconsciously drawn to it. That was why she always appeared at his master's side. But as always, Marcus spoke just enough to satisfy the question, never enough to expose the whole truth.

Klaus narrowed his eyes slightly, feeling the weight of something unspoken in Marcus's words, but for now, he held his tongue. There was no use in pressing further—not yet.

Still, unease coiled in his chest. He didn't like the feeling stirring in his chest. The thought of his daughter getting too close to someone—or something—he barely understood made his blood run cold. Even now, sitting across from this old man, he was beginning to piece things together. He had a strong suspicion that Marcus's so-called master was none other than the male infant inside that amber crystal. That alone was enough to deepen his concern.

The thought settled heavily in his mind. He would need to speak to Freya soon. They had to find a way to prevent Hope from being pulled back to that place, to that presence. He couldn't allow it to continue, not when he knew so little about what they were dealing with.

Across the table, Marcus watched him in silence. The change in Klaus's expression was subtle, but telling. Marcus could already guess where his thoughts had gone, but he made no effort to comment. Instead, he calmly finished chewing his food, appearing unmoved.

The silence between them stretched for a moment until Marcus finally spoke, his voice steady and quiet, yet enough to break Klaus's focus.

"You know, if you don't want your daughter coming to my master's place, I already have a solu—"

Before he could finish, Klaus interrupted sharply.

"I already know what you're about to say. Can you please not continue with your solution and let us find our own way to keep Hope from returning there?"

His voice wasn't forceful, but there was a plea beneath it—something rarely heard from Klaus Mikaelson. He wasn't just rejecting Marcus's offer. He was protecting his daughter. Because whatever solution Marcus had in mind, Klaus already knew it wouldn't be one a father could accept. Not for Hope's life, and not for the future he wanted for her.

While Klaus and Marcus were talking, across the street, a man sat quietly on a bench, half-hidden by the shadow of a streetlamp. With his dark, curly hair and warm brown skin tone, he blended easily into the scenery, overlooked by most who passed by.

He hadn't planned to stop here. His destination was Marcel's loft, and he had intended to go straight there. But something had drawn his attention as he passed this part of the district.

On the other side of the street, he spotted Klaus Mikaelson seated at a small patio table outside a quiet corner restaurant. He wasn't alone.

That sight alone might have sparked passing curiosity. What made the man pause, however, was the presence of the one sitting across from Klaus. The older gentleman exuded calm, with an unshakable composure and a quiet authority that set him apart. The contrast was striking. Klaus wasn't yelling or pacing, as he often did when things turned tense. He was still. Focused. There was a clear sense of restraint in his posture, something uncharacteristic of the hybrid he thought he understood.

Leaning slightly forward, the man continued to observe. It became even clearer that Klaus was not in control here. He wasn't asserting dominance or issuing demands. Instead, he carried himself with deliberate care, a kind of measured respect that raised more questions than answers.

He remained there, watching silently as the conversation drew to a close. Klaus stood, but he didn't turn away at once. He took a moment to adjust the chair he had used, then gave the older man a subtle bow of the head. The gesture was brief, but unmistakable.

In response, the old man gave a small lift of his hand, a signal of dismissal—or perhaps acknowledgment. Without another word, Klaus turned and walked away, eventually vanishing into the shadows of the quiet street beyond.

The man followed Klaus with his eyes until he disappeared. But when he shifted his gaze back to the table, his breath caught in his throat.

The old man was staring straight at him.

For a moment, the world seemed to narrow. Under the dim streetlight, a faint red glow shimmered in the man's eyes. There was no frown, no visible threat. Just a calm, piercing awareness that locked him in place.

The chill that crept up the observer's spine was immediate. He stood quickly, heart racing, and slipped into the nearest flow of pedestrian traffic. Each step carried urgency, and he glanced over his shoulder more than once to be sure he was no longer being watched.

Back at the table, Marcus simply smiled to himself. He reached for his glass, took a slow sip of wine, and turned back to his meal—unbothered, unhurried, as if nothing at all had taken place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marcel stood by the window, staring out at the city that pulsed with life beneath the cloak of night. New Orleans shimmered under the streetlights, but its charm shadowed by the weight of what was coming.

Since taking the serum, something inside him had shifted. Power coursed through his veins, but so did unease. He could feel it—like a clock ticking down. He didn't know when or how, but death was waiting for him. And when it came, it wouldn't just be his end. It would be the beginning of the Mikaelsons' downfall.

Despite everything, Marcel still felt a flicker of something for them—for the family that had once embraced him. Especially Rebekah. But no matter how deep those feelings ran, the betrayal cut deeper. What they did to Davina shattered any hope of peace. That was the moment everything changed. That was the moment he decided they had to go.

And if it came to it—if standing his ground meant killing an Original—then so be it.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door opening behind him. He didn't turn around. He already knew who it was.

A familiar voice followed, casual but edged with concern.

"I just dropped by to check on you," Vincent said as he stepped inside.

Marcel didn't answer right away. He kept his gaze on the window for a moment longer, then turned and walked over to the table where a half-finished bottle of wine waited. He poured himself a glass.

"You know how this works, Vincent," he said quietly. "I have to die before I become something else."

Vincent watched him closely, lowering himself onto the couch. "I get that. I just wanted to make sure you're still in this. No second thoughts?"

Marcel raised the glass to his lips but didn't answer. The silence stretched between them as he took a slow drink, letting the wine settle the storm brewing inside him.

Vincent didn't push. He knew Marcel well enough to recognize the look in his eyes. The decision had already been made.

Marcel stayed quiet, still holding his glass. The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside. But then, Vincent leaned forward slightly, a shift in his expression drawing Marcel's attention.

"You know," Vincent began, voice low and thoughtful, "I witnessed something weird tonight."

Marcel glanced over at him, brow lifting. "Weird how?"

Vincent rubbed his hands together, recalling the moment. "I saw Klaus earlier. He was talking to someone… but there was something off. Klaus looked different. Quiet. Tense. Like he was holding something back."

Marcel narrowed his eyes, intrigued. "Tense? Klaus doesn't exactly do subtle unless it's strategic. Who was he talking to?"

"That's the thing," Vincent replied. "It was an old man. British, I think. The way he carried himself—poised, composed. Like he walked out of some royal portrait."

Marcel's interest sharpened. He took another sip of his drink, eyes locked on Vincent. "British and composed. There aren't many people who can rattle Klaus, let alone make him afraid. But this man… I've never heard of him."

Vincent nodded slowly. "Exactly. And here's the part that really got to me. After Klaus walked away, the old man turned and looked right at me. Like he knew I was watching the whole time."

Marcel stiffened just slightly. "You sure it wasn't just a coincidence?"

Vincent shook his head. "No. It was direct. Focused. And his eyes… they turned red. Just for a moment. But it wasn't like vampire red. It was deeper. The kind of red that makes you feel like you're about to be swallowed whole."

Marcel set down his glass, now fully engaged. "So, what are you saying? He's not a vampire?"

"I don't think he is," Vincent said. "At first glance, he looked human. Just a regular old man. But when I focused on him—really focused—my magic flared. It told me whatever he is… it's not human, not a vampire. Something else."

Marcel leaned back against the table, arms folded, brow furrowed in thought. "You're telling me there's something walking around New Orleans that can shake Klaus Mikaelson and trigger your magic senses—and we don't even know what it is?"

Vincent gave a small, grim nod. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room felt colder somehow, as if the presence Vincent described had left a residue that still lingered in the air.

Marcel, however, didn't spend much time thinking about the stranger. Whoever that old man was didn't matter to him. Not right now. There were more important things demanding his focus.

He believed that once the transformation was complete, once he fully became an Upgraded Original Vampire, there would be no force—not Klaus, not Elijah, not even this red-eyed stranger—that could stand in his way. The prophecy wouldn't be a warning anymore. It would become a path he would shape, a future he would claim, and a power he alone would command.

He took another measured breath, steeling himself.

"Well," Marcel said, brushing off the tension in the room, "let's not waste time worrying about that old man. I need to be ready for what's coming."

Vincent studied him for a second longer, sensing the shift in Marcel's energy—focused, unwavering, dangerously confident.

"Alright," Vincent said quietly, not fully convinced but knowing Marcel had made up his mind. "Just don't forget—power doesn't always come with clarity."

Marcel gave him a short nod, then turned back toward the window.

Taking that as his cue, Vincent rose from the couch and adjusted his coat. He lingered for a moment near the door.

"If things get out of hand… you know how to reach me," he added.

Marcel didn't look back.

With that, Vincent left the room, footsteps fading into the silence. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Marcel alone once more—staring into the night, already picturing the city under his rule.

A city free from the Mikaelsons.

A city that would finally be his.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After Cami's funeral, a heavy silence settled over the Mikaelson compound. Each of them coped in their own way—Klaus remained withdrawn, Hayley lingered near Hope, and Elijah, ever composed, wandered the halls with a quiet intensity.

But beneath Elijah's calm exterior, his mind was racing. Hope's issue of disappearing needed a solution. At the same time, the prophecy still loomed over them like a storm on the horizon, threatening to tear their family apart. The pressure was building, and Elijah knew they were running out of time. If there was any chance of keeping Hope safe and preventing whatever fate awaited them, they needed answers. And to find those answers, Elijah knew he had to speak with Freya regarding this.

He made his way through the corridor and into the chamber where Freya had been tirelessly working for days. The air inside the room was thick with incense and old magic. Candles burned low, casting flickering shadows across spellbooks, runes, and crystal formations spread across the wooden table. Freya stood at the center of it all, her back to the door, her frame tense and hunched slightly over her work.

Elijah stepped inside without announcement, and upon seeing this, he immediately knew what was going on, his voice low but laced with urgency.

"Anything?"

Freya didn't turn to face him. Her shoulders were rigid, hands clutching firmly at the skull on top of the table as she leaned over it, her voice barely above a whisper.

"There's too many pieces," she said. "Every time I get close to seeing something… they all just fade away."

Elijah moved closer, his expression unreadable, but his eyes scanning her form with quiet concern. He reached out, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder.

The moment his hand made contact, a sudden jolt of energy surged through both of them. It wasn't violent, but it was sharp—electric. Both of their bodies stiffened. Elijah's breath caught in his throat, and Freya let out a small gasp. Their eyelids fluttered closed involuntarily as they were pulled into a shared vision.

In their minds, fragmented flashes began to appear—like shards of memory, but twisted and unclear. They saw flickers of chaos: blood, shadows, and finally, the silhouette of a man. The image grew sharper. The figure was standing amidst carnage, calm and soaked in blood. As the face came into focus, both Elijah and Freya felt a spike of cold dread—it was Marcel.

The vision ended abruptly. Both of them snapped their eyes open and staggered back a step, gasping. Freya clutched the edge of the table for balance. Elijah's chest rose and fell rapidly, his usually calm composure cracking at the edges.

Elijah circled the table quickly to face her, his voice tight and commanding.

"Finish it."

Freya looked up, eyes wide but resolute. She reached out and took Elijah's offered hand without hesitation.

As soon as their skin touched again, their eyes shut and the vision came roaring back—stronger, deeper, and far more vivid.

Freya's voice whispered through the darkness, echoing softly through the images as they played out.

(You will all fall… one by friend, one by foe, and one by family.)

They saw Marcel standing alone on a bridge at twilight, his figure motionless against the fading sky. Elijah appeared next—wounded, swaying, a festering bite on his arm spreading like ink under his skin. Then Hayley came into view, blood on her face, eyes hollow, staring into a broken mirror as she cradled Hope. Another flash—Klaus writhing in agony, pinned to the floor of the Abattoir, while Marcel loomed over him, plunging a glowing object into his chest.

A brief, surreal image followed: Elijah and Marcel seated in the loft, raising glasses in a toast. But that peace shattered just as quickly. Marcel drove a stake straight into Elijah's back, his expression unreadable. The final image lingered—a row of closed coffins, lined like tombs beneath the pale glow of candlelight.

Both Elijah and Freya gasped as the vision released them. They broke apart instantly, reeling, their bodies shivering from the magical backlash.

Freya stumbled back, breathless and pale.

Elijah remained standing, though visibly shaken. A tremor lingered in his posture, and the tension in his jaw betrayed the storm of thoughts racing through his mind.

They looked at each other—no words spoken, but both understanding the gravity of what they had seen. The future they feared was no longer just a threat. It had a face now. And it was Marcel.

Suddenly, Freya began to convulse.

Elijah, startled by the sudden shift, rushed to her side. He grabbed her arm over the table, instinctively trying to steady her, as if his touch alone could stop whatever was overtaking her.

The moment his hand connected with her, another surge of magic pulled him in—but this time, the sensation felt different. This wasn't like the fragmented flashes of the prophecy. There were no bursts of symbols or cryptic warnings. Instead, this vision unfolded with eerie clarity, as if they were no longer just seeing it, but standing within it.

(Inside the vision.)

Their surroundings gradually came into focus, revealing a forest bathed in quiet stillness. The air was cool and unmoving, carrying with it the crisp scent of morning dew. Above, soft light filtered gently through the dense canopy of trees, casting dappled patterns along the forest floor.

As the vision settled into place, Elijah and Freya found themselves standing in the middle of a narrow wooded path. Though everything appeared calm, the world around them felt unnaturally silent—almost suspended in time.

Their focus shifted when movement caught their eye. Not far from where they stood, three figures moved steadily through the trees. They walked in a loose line, with one man in the center and two women flanking him on either side.

The man had long, silver-white hair that flowed freely down his back, catching the light with each step as he moved.

Walking alongside him on either side were two women, both with dark auburn hair that hinted at some shared origin. The one on his right was dressed entirely in black; her leather jacket was stiff against her frame, giving her a presence that felt controlled and commanding. In contrast, the woman on his left wore softer, more natural tones—earthy hues layered beneath a worn brown leather jacket that gave her a warmer, more grounded appearance.

Elijah and Freya stood still, watching, their presence unnoticed by the trio ahead. The scene remained silent, tense, and strange—clearly not a memory or a warning from the prophecy. Whatever this was, it was something else entirely.

Without warning, the man in the center came to a stop. His sudden halt caused the two women beside him to pause as well, their steps slowing in perfect sync. Elijah and Freya remained still, watching from a distance, trying to make sense of what they were seeing.

Now that the trio had stopped, the angle of their stance gave Elijah and Freya a better view of the women's profiles. Though both women were facing slightly toward the man, their side views revealed more than just clothing or posture—it revealed something strange. Their faces.

Freya narrowed her eyes, leaning slightly forward as if to confirm what she was seeing. Elijah took a slow breath, equally focused. The two women looked nearly identical. At first glance, it could have been mistaken for coincidence—a resemblance between sisters, perhaps. But this was more than that.

Their features matched in every visible detail. The shape of their brows, the curve of their noses, the cut of their jawlines. Even their expressions, subtly concerned as they looked toward the man in the middle, mirrored each other perfectly.

Freya whispered, mostly to herself, "They're the same…"

Elijah didn't respond right away. His eyes remained fixed on the pair, thoughts racing. Identical twins, even at their most alike, often showed differences over time—small changes in structure, expression, or even the way they held themselves. But these two women didn't just resemble one another. They were exact copies. As if they shared not just a face, but a single origin.

It was unnatural. And deeply unsettling, but looks familiar.

For a moment, the forest remained completely still, as if the entire world was holding its breath.

Then, cutting through the quiet, came a voice. It was calm and deliberate, yet there was a weight behind it that was impossible to ignore, pressing into the silence like a presence of its own.

"It seems we're being watched."

The two women exchanged a brief glance, their expressions mirroring a flicker of amusement.

"Really?" they said in unison, their tones curious, almost playful.

The man in the center didn't move at first, but his voice remained steady, carrying a cold edge.

"Tell me, Andrea… Hope. What do we do when someone spying on us from the shadows."

The woman in black answered without hesitation, her voice low and serious.

"They need to be punished."

The second woman, dressed in lighter tones, gave a single, measured nod in agreement. There was no hesitation in her expression, only quiet certainty.

A beat of silence passed. Then, all three figures slowly turned towards behind them.

Their eyes fixed directly on Elijah and Freya.

It was as if they had seen them the entire time.

Elijah felt his breath catch, and Freya stiffened beside him. With the trio now fully facing them, the vision sharpened, and their faces became clear. Every feature was visible—their eyes, their expressions, the uncanny familiarity between the two women, and the cold, composed presence of the man who stood between them.

As Elijah and Freya continued to observe the two women, an uncanny sense of familiarity began to settle in. It wasn't just in their faces—it was something deeper, something that tugged at memory. The longer they looked, the more certain they became that they had seen these women before, or at least… some features of them.

Then their eyes dropped slightly, drawn to the glint of metal at the base of the women's throats. Each wore a necklace, and hanging from the chain was a symbol neither Elijah nor Freya could mistake. It was the crest of their bloodline—an emblem tied to the Mikaelson name.

A rush of questions flooded their minds, but there was no time to think. In the next instant, a flash of silver tore through the air, slicing across their field of vision with impossible speed. It wasn't just a weapon—it felt alive, its sharpness cutting not only through space but through presence itself.

Elijah reacted first, lunging to the side. Freya followed instinctively, both of them throwing themselves out of the blade's path. The vision around them shattered like glass under pressure.

They barely had time to register what had happened before the force of their escape severed them from the vision entirely.

But just before it ended—just before the darkness took hold—one final image locked into their minds.

A pair of glowing green eyes, slitted and inhuman, stared directly at them through the fading haze. Cold, watchful, and knowing.

And then, everything went black.

(Vision end.)

Opening their eyes, Elijah and Freya stared up at a familiar ceiling. The cool, steady patterns above confirmed it—they were back inside the Mikaelson compound. Or more accurately, they had just awakened from the vision that had pulled them somewhere far from here.

Still disoriented, both of them pushed themselves upright, bracing against the floor to regain balance. But the moment their eyes shifted toward the table between them, they froze in stunned silence.

The heavy table, once solid and untouched, was now split cleanly in half. More than that, a deep gash stretched beyond it, cutting across the floor and up into the wall—an almost surgical slice, as if something had passed through the very center of the chamber with terrifying precision.

Elijah took it in quickly, jaw tightening, but said nothing. Instead, he moved without hesitation to Freya's side, his instinct overriding his shock. He reached down and helped her to her feet with careful hands.

A short while later, Freya sat on one of the couches in an adjacent room, staring blankly ahead. Her posture was still, but her thoughts were clearly racing. Elijah sat across from her, his silence heavier than the room around them.

"Freya, what do you think happened?" Elijah asked at last, his brows drawn tightly together.

Freya blinked, slowly returning from her thoughts. "I don't know. I had a guess, but… it feels like it wasn't a vision. It felt like we were actually transported to that place. Maybe the far future?"

Elijah lowered his gaze, processing her words. Something about what they saw had shaken him deeply. His thoughts lingered on the two women, and a quiet suspicion began to form. He didn't want to say it aloud just yet, but something about them felt… familiar. He could almost name them. But how? As far as he knew, there was only one person who resembled them—and it certainly wasn't twins.

Freya, noticing Elijah's silence and the weight behind it, snapped herself out of her own spiral.

"Brother, forget that weird vision for now. We have a pressing matter," she said in a low voice before rising quickly and heading out of the room.

Elijah watched her leave, then stood up and followed, still trying to shake off the remnants of what they had just witnessed.

As they moved briskly through the compound halls, Freya spoke without looking back.

"Vincent told me he found a way to extract the serum from Aurora. I was busy at the time, but… Vincent stole the serum. If—if he gave it to Marcel…"

She trailed off, breathless, just as they reached the end of the hallway.

"We're in trouble," Elijah said quietly, his expression turning grim as he stopped beside her.

"Yeah," Freya replied without hesitation. Then she turned and walked away with purpose, already forming a plan for the crisis they were about to face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Late at night, near the city limits of New Orleans, a lone truck sat parked at the edge of an empty road. The surrounding woods stood quiet and still, shadows draped over the trees as if the world itself had paused to mourn.

Inside the truck's cargo bed, four coffins lay in a perfect row. Three were already sealed shut, their smooth lids hiding the broken bodies within. Only one remained open.

Leaning over that final casket was Hayley, her eyes locked on the man resting inside.

Elijah.

The prophecy had been fulfilled, and the Mikaelsons had fallen. Marcel became the instrument of their downfall, striking with a vengeance rooted deep in pain. Kol and Elijah had both been bitten, their lives hanging by a thread from the deadly venom. Klaus had been taken, locked away in an unknown place, his fate uncertain and his freedom gone. Rebekah still carried the curse, and Freya, weakened and poisoned, had only just managed to cast the spell that bound them all before she collapsed.

In the chaos, it had fallen to Hayley.

She gathered what was left of the family: four bodies barely holding on. She hid them, just like Freya told her to. The spell connected their lives, keeping them in a state between life and death until a cure could be found.

A fragile hope, passed on to Hayley, now rested entirely on her shoulders.

And here, in this quiet, hidden place far from the city's noise and grief, she stood over Elijah one last time before the long silence began.

She didn't cry. Her grief had settled into something quieter—heavier. A burden she would carry alone.

After a moment, Hayley leaned in. She pressed two fingers to her lips, then gently touched them to Elijah's, a final goodbye.

Then, with trembling hands, she reached for the coffin lid… and closed it.

After locking the cargo bed, Hayley lingered for a moment beside the truck, her hand resting briefly on the metal as if saying one last goodbye. Then she turned and made her way to the front, her boots crunching softly on the gravel. The cool night air brushed against her skin, a quiet reminder of the weight she now carried.

Climbing into the driver's seat, she paused for a moment when she saw Hope awake in the passenger seat, small and sleepy-eyed beneath the soft glow of the dashboard light.

Hayley offered her a tired smile.

It wasn't much, but seeing Hope's face brought a flicker of comfort—like a sliver of sunlight breaking through thick clouds. For a moment, the weight on her shoulders felt just a little lighter.

She settled behind the wheel, adjusting the rearview mirror out of habit. Before starting the engine, she scanned the cab to make sure she hadn't left anything behind.

That's when her eyes landed on the folded letter resting inside her open bag besides Hope.

Klaus's letter.

Written for Hope.

Her fingers hesitated before reaching for it. She unfolded the paper carefully, the edges still crisp, the ink unmistakably Klaus's. In the stillness of the truck, with her daughter beside her and the family she loved sealed behind her, Hayley began to read.

(The Letter)

My dearest Hope, I do not know how this will find you.

As a child full of wonder, a teenager full of opinions, or as a woman with the world at her feet. I write to tell you I love you, and to explain that in our family's darkest hour, I was called upon to save my siblings, and so I did.

Please do not mourn me, whatever pain I endure, I do so in service of those I love.

My sole regret, is that I will be away from you.

Be good to your mother. I draw comfort knowing that she will protect you. And I know she will not rest until our family is united.

Until then, my sacrifice will allow you to grow. To become the beautiful daughter I can now only imagine.

Please remember you are the legacy this family has always desired.

The promise we fought to protect.

You are, and always will be, our Hope.

Hayley sat in silence as her eyes moved across the final lines of Klaus's letter.

Every word felt heavy—soaked in emotion, layered with love, fear, and the kind of regret only a father who had lost everything could express. It wasn't long, but it was enough. Enough to remind her what he felt for his daughter. Enough to remind her why she couldn't give up.

He had written it for Hope. For the future. For the part of his world he would die to protect but couldn't save with his own hands.

As she reached the end of the letter, Hayley exhaled quietly. Her thumb brushed over the words, as if to hold on to them just a little longer. Then she folded the paper neatly and leaned over to Hope, who was now resting her head on the side of her stuffed wolf, still drowsy but watching her mother with calm, trusting eyes.

Hayley tucked the letter beside the toy.

"From your dad," she whispered, her voice thick but steady.

Hope didn't made any sound, but her tiny fingers clutched the edge of the letter and held it close.

Hayley stared at her daughter for a moment, memorizing the curve of her face, the softness in her gaze. All of this—everything that had happened, everything she was about to do—it was all for her. The Mikaelsons may have been a broken family, scarred and scattered, but if there was one chance to rebuild them, to bring them back, it started with this child. With this drive. With this promise.

She turned back to the wheel and started the engine. The truck rumbled to life beneath her, headlights casting long beams into the darkness ahead.

Outside, the night was still. No one followed. No one stood in the distance to say goodbye.

New Orleans was quiet.

The city of the dead, once filled with music, magic, and war, now sat behind her like a chapter closed. The streets had seen too much—too much blood, too much betrayal, too much loss. And now, with the Originals buried in the back of her truck, the city felt like it had finally exhaled.

Hayley didn't look back.

Her fingers gripped the steering wheel as she pulled the truck onto the road. The tires rolled over gravel, then onto pavement, then forward into the night. One mile at a time. One breath. One beat.

Hope watched the lights pass through the window, her small face framed by shadows and moonlight. She sat quietly, eyes tracing the movement of the world outside.

Hayley who notices this just stay in silence and focus on the road.

With determination. Even if it took years, even if the odds were impossible, she would find the cure. She would bring them back.

Elijah. Kol. Rebekah. Even Freya.

They were family. Messy, broken, cursed—but still family. And Klaus, wherever he was, would one day be free to see the daughter he loved. That much she owed him. That much she owed all of them.

The headlights cut through the dark, the trees growing denser as the truck moved farther from the city. New Orleans shrank behind her, swallowed by the shadows and silence. It would continue on without them. Marcel had claimed it now. And though he had taken the Mikaelsons down, Hayley knew the war wasn't over. Not for her. Not for Hope. Not for the family resting in the cargo bed.

Her reflection in the windshield was faint but clear enough to see the lines of worry, the exhaustion in her eyes, and the fire still burning quietly beneath it.

She wasn't just running away. She was moving forward.

This was survival.

This was hope.

After a while, Hope fell asleep again, curled against her stuffed toy with her father's letter pressed gently beneath her hand. Hayley glanced over, her heart aching at the sight, but also filled with something steadier now. Resolve.

She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter's forehead.

"Hang in there, sweetheart," she said softly. "We're gonna fix this. I promise."

She turned her eyes back to the road, the distant horizon pulling them further and further from the past.

No more looking back. There was no time for regret, no room for hesitation.

Only forward.

With that, the truck disappeared down the empty road, taillights fading into the dark—leaving behind the ghosts of New Orleans, and carrying the last chance of the Mikaelson family into the unknown.

---End of chapter---