The Maison of Minuit stood like a whispered secret in the heart of the French Quarter. A former 19th-century ballroom, abandoned for decades, was now reborn under a veneer of opulence and mystery. French stained-glass windows cast mosaics of ruby, amber, and cobalt over the Italian marble floor, on the ceiling, crystal chandeliers, imported piece by piece from Europe, shed a light that shimmered like ice under fire.
Along the walls, gilded mirrors with carved frames reflected the guests with excessive, almost obsequious fidelity… and, the most attentive said, sometimes they returned a detail that had not been there seconds before: a gesture, a look, a ghost of an expression.
The place had been restored in the last year, but time, capricious as it is, still seemed to spiral around it, the past dancing with the present to the sound of a string quartet alternating with a jazz trio.
Outside, the red carpet was packed with flashbulbs. Professional photographers competed for angles, names were whispered, alliances were evaluated. The event, sponsored by a newcomer named Valerius D'Aubran, brought together all the factions of New Orleans: humans, vampires, witches, and even werewolves. It was a ball, but also a census, a showcase, and, for those with a nose for it, a test.
A limousine glided up to the entrance. Doors opened, muted murmurs, and then Klaus.
He emerged as if the night belonged to him: a deep wine suit of European cut, slim, with precise shoulders, the fabric sculpting his silhouette with authority. A black silk shirt, the subtle sheen accentuating the somber air, and a thin, satin black tie, obsessively focused.
The black handkerchief tucked into his jacket pocket was a comma of elegance, not a shout.
Patent-leather shoes reflected beams of light with every step, and a classic leather-strap watch reminded that the centuries hadn't taught him to flaunt: only to dominate. The contrast between wine and black created an aura of luxury and danger, as if each camera click were a razor's edge.
Katherine followed soon after, his hand offering support with a courtesy that was half habit, half warning. The deep red dress, a treasure from Rebekah's closet, seemed to have been made with her in mind and no other body.
Shiny silk with wine hues, a clean sweetheart neckline, a waist cinched with a gold finesse belt, a layered skirt that skimmed the floor, and, in an inescapable hint, a high side slit. Delicate straps, a V-back, black stiletto heels that made every step a statement. Diamond earrings, a white gold bracelet, and her hair in waves with a shop-window shine, intense red lipstick that spoke before her voice.
If the dress was Rebekah's, it now bore a signature: Katherine Pierce, danger and precision.
The two lined up on the carpet, and the photographers reacted as if a storm had tilted the sky. Measured poses, his, with his chin lifted and the shadow of a smile that disarmed and challenged, hers, her hand on her hip, a sidelong glance that burned and mocked. Clicks. More clicks. And the entrance.
The security guard, a vampire in a dark suit, accepted the invitation. Klaus, staring at the man, noticed an unsettling detail: there was something off about his stillness. Vampires were static, yes, but this silence seemed… organized, almost ritualistic. His deep gray gaze recalled the metallic tone of mercury, and his posture was impeccable. An old scent, not of cologne, but of a closed library and polished silver.
"Stay by my side all night."
Klaus said quietly, without taking his eyes off the man.
Katherine arched a smile, her voice a biting whisper.
"I spent five hundred years running from you… and now the safest place in the world is your arm. Life is an elaborate joke."
"Vampires live many lives."
He returned it, with twilight humor.
"The best jokes have multiple versions."
Inside, the party was alive with music and murmur. Waiters crossed the rooms with crystal trays, champagne flutes sparkling.
Witches watched from the corners, feline, assessing the invisible web of the night. Vampires greeted each other like diplomats who knew war by name.
Wolves, lined up and suspicious, held their own nature in their lapels. And humans… humans were the only ones who smiled without measuring the distance from the door.
That's when Valerius D'Aubran appeared, as if he'd been edited into the frame, not just entered the room. Tall, thin, relentlessly elegant, a dark suit that changed subtly with the light, the charm of a cathedral and a crypt. The same line in the security guard's gaze: polite coldness, politeness that seemed learned in dead languages.
"Mr. Mikaelson."
He said, with an old French accent, more Loire than Paris.
"The honor is mine. And Katerina Petrova… it's rare to find a legend who truly lives up to her legend."
Katherine didn't hide her surprise.
"Funny… I don't remember you. And I usually do."
Valerius smiled with his corners of his mouth, not his teeth.
"I like rooms, not sets. And history… not noise."
Klaus held his gaze, studying him as if weighing a dagger in his hand.
"A party like this, when it arrives in a city like this, usually has a purpose."
"Usually."
Agree Valerius.
"Mine is simple: to get to know the most fascinating supernatural community on the continent. And…"
The look flickered, briefly.
"I'm hosting a special event later. I'd be honored if you'd participate."
Katherine raised an eyebrow that said that sounds like trouble. Klaus, without moving a muscle in his face, replied in the same silent language: yes, so what?
"If it captivates me, I'll participate."
He replied in a confident voice.
"It will do more than captivate."
Valerius assured, with a nod.
"I beg your pardon. My guests demand deference."
When he walked away, the music seemed to suffocate for a second, as if the room inhaled and, as it exhaled, marked a new beat.
"What do you think this "event" is?"
Katherine whispered, picking up a glass of champagne.
"The kind of thing that comes with traps and applause."
Klaus replied.
"And I prefer both when I'm the one giving the order. Stay close."
"Bossy."
She teased, but there was warmth in her smile. His concern, that old, stubborn thing, tugged at something inside her that, human again, was dangerously alive.
They moved through the halls like a pair familiar with the choreography. Klaus greeted, probed, and cut. Katherine measured, joked, and took notes. The hors d'oeuvres table was a map of nervous hands: humans in swirls, vampires feigning hunger, witches fingering their cutlery as if experimenting with runes, wolves tasting with exaggerated attention, exercises in self-control.
"Klaus."
The voice came warm, with a smile that hid calculation. Marcel approached, perfectly at ease in his dark suit.
Beside him, Camille O'Connell, a deep blue dress that made her look like a beacon in the room.
"Nice outfit. Are you going to war or the opera?"
"On my best days, to the two."
Klaus returned, shaking Marcel's hand with a camaraderie that held turbulence.
"Cami."
"Klaus."
She said, sincere without naivety. There was in her gaze the mark of someone who faced overwhelming truths and, instead of breaking down, found space within.
"Did you come with him?"
Katherine asked, a corner of her mouth mischievous, but without venom.
"I came as a bridge."
Cami replied frankly.
"Sometimes the city needs translators."
Klaus nodded subduedly.
"And translators save judgments."
"Tomorrow everything is lined up."
Cami confirmed, lowering her voice.
"Father Kieran spoke with Marcel, Jackson, and… Josephine LaRue. They all agreed on the format. He asked that you be… restrained."
Marcel gave a short laugh.
"Which is the priest's charming way of saying: don't turn the church into a battlefield."
"Tell Father Kieran that my word stands."
Klaus replied soberly.
"And my thanks, too."
Katherine and Cami exchanged a few words, the psychologist had that way of looking straight into people with the gentleness of a hand on the shoulder. Katherine returned the compliment with elegant irony, but Cami sensed the humanity pulsing beneath the veneer. A glass of wine, a brief smile. And each had a reading of the other.
"And our host?"
Marcel asked, changing the topic.
"Have you felt him yet?"
"Strange."
Said Klaus.
"The security guard at the door has the same mark. I don't know if it's lineage, discipline… or something that doesn't yet have a name."
"Do you want me to spread eyes?"
"Do what you always do."
Klaus replied.
"And keep Cami within the walls if things go sour."
"I can manage."
Cami cut in, with a calmness that wasn't bravado.
"I know."
He said it, and the way he said it was a compliment.
Across the room, Sophie Deveraux appeared with a small group of witches. Wearing a simple black dress, her hair tied back, and the expression of someone who'd just removed a stone from her shoe and was now looking for the next one. The exchange of glances with Klaus was both fraught with history and thorns.
"A beautiful party to seal bad decisions."
She said dryly.
"Beautiful night for new beginnings."
Klaus smiled.
"Some prefer to do it with blood. When I can, I choose music."
Sophie held her breath, long enough for a witch.
"You don't choose music. You make noise."
"Noise is the trail of those who do not pretend to be small."
He replied, the softness balanced by steel.
"Let's say tomorrow you see the difference between justice and revenge."
"We'll see."
She finished, but already loosening her posture a little.
Near the side columns, Jackson arrived with a Crescent wolf. His suit, his tie slightly askew (a silent protest from someone born for the woods, not for chandeliers), his hand firm on his companion's back, showing respect, not possession.
He caught sight of Klaus and inclined his head, without theatrics. Between them, something new had already taken hold: a difficult loyalty, made of trial and fire.
"Nice dollhouse."
Katherine murmured, taking a tiny sip.
"Enough to hide a guillotine on stage."
"There is always one."
Klaus replied.
"The trick is deciding who pulls the rope."
The host moved with perfect diction between groups, greeting, listening, cataloging. Each time Valerius passed in front of one of the large mirrors, there was a split-second delay in the image, subtle enough to blame the light, unsettling enough for memories to linger.
"Dance with me."
Klaus said, extending his hand.
"Invitation or order?"
She joked.
"The best invitations sound like orders, and the best orders sound like invitations."
Katherine placed her hand in his. In the secondary hall, the quartet took up a string walker, couples glided, and the two fell into step as if they'd rehearsed for centuries. Klaus led without crushing, Katherine followed without yielding. Eyes turned: power has its own rhythm, and theirs marked the ground.
"You are more… careful"
She said, half turn executed with precision.
"I'm busy."
Klaus replied.
"With a future that does not accept amateurs."
"And what am I in that future?"
"Smart enough to ask the right question."
He smiled, pulling her into a brief spin.
"And free enough to choose the answer."
"Do you want me close by necessity or by pleasure?"
"In my case, Katerina, necessity and taste have learned to dance together."
She tried to utter sarcasm, but the word wouldn't come. Her body remembered what her mind always tries to deny: the way he surrounds her with danger, ridicule, emptiness. In his eyes, for an instant, there was no strategy, there was complete attention.
The music died away with applause. The main hall vibrated, conversations increased by half a tone, and the staff began rearranging small things that laymen wouldn't notice: slightly drawn curtains, shifted pedestals, two closed service doors. The air changed density. Something was approaching.
Valerius reappeared in the center of the room, an empty crystal glass in his hand, an ancient symbol of proclamation. The quartet fell silent, the jazz trio hushed their double bass strings. The murmur fell like dust.
"My friends."
He said, without raising his voice and yet reaching the corners.
"Later, we will offer a show that honors both the memory of this house and the greatness of this city. Before that, I ask that you enjoy what it offers: music, good conversation, and the certainty that reflection sometimes reveals more than the eye."
The room smiled out of politeness. Klaus didn't smile.
"Is this about you?"
Katherine whispered.
"Today, everything is about me."
He returned it calmly.
"And who thinks they can use me as a mirror."
"Marcel."
Klaus called him with a gesture, he was already approaching with Cami.
"When the curtain opens, stand behind the first pillar on the left. If there's movement, I'll close the night before it bites."
"Reinforcements?"
Marcel asked.
"They're already here."
Klaus glanced at two of his werewolves, unobtrusive, standing like shadows on the mezzanine.
Cami leaned in:
"Are you sure about the host?"
"I am sure I do not like riddles in other people's houses."
Said Klaus.
"And the way he arranges the mirrors, he wants to see more than show."
Sophie reappeared, now without the group, as if confirming a note:
"There are old runes on the mirror mounts."
She murmured, barely moving his lips.
"I knew there was a reason for our truce."
Klaus replied.
"Thanks."
Jackson, on the other side, noticed the staff rearrangement and exchanged glances with Klaus, an "I see" that was enough. He adjusted his tie again, as if testing his own patience.
And in the middle of the hall, beneath the largest chandelier, Klaus and Katherine stood side by side, untouched, with the complicity of silent predators. The piano clock chimed eight small chimes. The central mirror, the one with the oldest frame, worn gold, and tiny acanthus leaves, trembled a breath, only for those who were looking.
"Don't walk away."
Said Klaus.
"Not even if I wanted to."
Katherine replied, eyes fixed ahead.
"Eh… Nik?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you for today."
He turned his face just enough for her to see him smile the part of a smile that almost no one gets.
"It's too early to thank you, Katerina. The night hasn't begun yet."
And then the lights dimmed, the jazz returned like a feline circling the guests' legs, and the Maison of Minuit held its breath, waiting for that special event that promised applause... or blood.
----
The announcement came with the delicacy of a violin flourish and the precision of a decree: Valerius, microphone in hand, invited Marcel to open the "sensual dance with couples phase." The hall maintained a polite silence, ready for the King of New Orleans's choreography. For a moment, however, Marcel hesitated, a half-smile, a measured decision, and, in a gesture that needed no translation, he relented.
"This night belongs to those who make it breathe."
He said, lifting his chin towards Klaus.
"Show them how to dance, Klaus Mikaelson."
The simple phrase swept through the room like a sea change. Its sound was small, its subtext enormous: power is also choreography, and Marcel had just given the first measure. A new center of gravity had been established at the Maison of Minuit.
Klaus responded with a long look, a long-held gratitude, and a promise that he understood. Then he turned to Katherine, offered her his hand with princely courtesy, and led her to the heart of the hall.
The circle of guests parted like velvet around them, witches stopped conversations mid-syllable, wolves straightened their shoulders, vampires held their breath out of habit.
The quartet gave way to a bachata requinto that seemed embroidered in silver: a melodic opening phrase, a güira marking the beat, bongos marking a pulse of blood. The choice fell on "Propuesta Indecente." insinuating strings, a rhythm that neither hurries nor forgives.
Klaus fit the frame: his left hand holding Katherine's right as if holding a secret, his right hand resting firmly on her shoulder blade, low enough to command, high enough to respect. She moved a half step closer, close enough for his scent, cedar, wine, and a shadow of rain, to envelop her without siege.
1–2–3–tap.
They started small, Dominican, the basics precisely defined: side, joint, side, touch. The cadence of their hips was mathematical and yet naturally cruel. In the second measure, Klaus introduced a gentle counter-beat, his hand guiding her shoulder in a micro-turn that her dress followed like a flame in a draft. The room was already watching, and with each beat of the güira, they watched even more.
Katherine responded with her signature: razor-sharp eyes, a wry smile, a figure-eight hip that seemed to write her name in the space between them.
He "breathed" her through the back of his hand, without rushing, guiding through the center.
1–2–3–tap.
An inside turn on the fourth beat, her hair described an arc and shone under the chandelier, she returned to the embrace as if the axis of the world was in that hand on her back.
He changed the height slightly, bringing it to a closed position. His chest dictated the next wave: a body wave that began at his interlaced fingers, moved up his forearm, shoulder, collarbone, and died down in a minimal, perfectly sustained cambré.
No excess, just the absolute control of a man who learned to dance with the same devotion with which he learned to master nature itself.
"Katerina…"
He murmured, voice low, vibration felt more than heard.
"Lead."
She answered, and the word came like a biting thread of laughter.
Sideways. Klaus wove a slide from foot to foot, dragging his own weight with feline refinement. As he paused in the tap, he leaned in a centimeter, enough for the air between them to shrink, so that her human heartbeat could be heard in the bones of his wrist.
His hand moved up a notch, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade line, and the world felt smaller.
Double spin. Preparation in 1, release in 2–3, collection on tap with the palm in the center of the back, Katherine spun twice with a flawless axis, her dress unfurling like liquid crimson.
Finally, she fell into shadow position, her back aligned with his chest, his right arm across her waist, his skin touching, just presence. There, sensuality became architecture: he guided the figure eights of her hips as if directing a constellation, and the room forgot to blink.
The requinto climbed, the güira nailed: 1–2–3–tap.
Klaus switched sides with a cross-step, reclaimed the front frame, and drew a ribbon of air across the curve of her neck, not a touch, but a promise.
Katherine tilted her chin, accepting the insinuation with eyes that laughed at all the wars that had yet to happen.
He delivered a subtle head roll: driving high off the shoulder, shaft protected, Katherine's hair snaking along her jawline like silk with electricity.
The audience, even the vampire audience, reacted with a calculated sigh. Sophie crossed her arms, unable to hide her slight technical fascination. Jackson, from the back, nodded once, that masculine nod that admits: the man dominates the floor. Cami leaned toward Marcel, the small smile of someone who sees psychology and politics in the same beat.
"He just took over the hall."
Marcel said quietly.
"No. He just showed that it was already his."
Cami replied.
Returning to the center of the circle, Klaus slowed down without breaking time, a trick used by someone who relies more on tension than on the trick.
His hand on her upper back became an anchor, his left, with hers, became a compass. Katherine moved a grain closer, and her dress briefly brushed his pants, the friction of the fabric sounding like an extra note in the music.
He rode a wave up and down, and at the pause of 4, he caught her eye.
There was fire and command. Not the cruel glow of transformation, but an aura that surged like liquid amber beneath the skin, a warmth that didn't burn, but possessed. Katherine felt it wash over her body like the gentle weight of a winter coat draped over her shoulders: protection, dominance, a pleasure that began at the nape of her neck and ended at the floor.
She bit her lower lip, involuntary, human, alive. The gesture, simple, set the perimeter ablaze. The güira accelerated by microseconds, the bongo responded, and they entered the final seam: cross-body with a counter-current turn, a retrieve, a short, perfectly secure dip.
Her spine described a careful arch, his pulse in her lower back controlling the axis as if holding a crystal glass. No showmanship: just control and promise.
Klaus brought her back slowly, a centimeter per beat, undoing the dip like someone returning a secret to a safe. They stood there, a breath away from each other, his face leaning just a step from her mouth. The world shrank to the sound of the requinto and the pulse of two breaths that seemed synchronized even before the music began.
The last sentence died on the string, the final tap sounded like a period. For a long second, no one dared break the spell. Then came the applause, first from the edge of the room, then from the whole room, warm, eliciting whistles that mixed enthusiasm and nerve.
Vampires clapped with troubled politeness, witches exchanged glances that acknowledged: this was art, wolves lifted their chins in primal respect. Valerius applauded lightly, his eyes narrowing as he weighed new pieces on the board.
Klaus didn't bow. He simply lingered on Katherine's waist a moment longer than etiquette would have allowed, a small, terribly eloquent gesture, and then released her as gracefully as he had taken her.
Their gazes locked, a tense thread. She smiled, still with the shadow of her bite on her lip, and he breathed like someone savoring a victory that doesn't require a head-to-head match.
The band resumed, the dance floor opened to everyone, and the Maison of Minuit became a mosaic of couples: nervous laughter, shoulders meeting, hands trying to imitate the drawing they had just seen.
Marcel crossed the room with Cami on his arm, the first two beats already on the body, Sophie gave in to an invitation and tested the frame of a vampire who didn't know how to lead, corrected him, of course, Jackson led his wolf to spin, simple and honest.
The special event hadn't even started yet, but the excitement was through the roof, and the buzz of conversations took on a new color: those who saw it will never forget it.
In the center of the dance floor, still surrounded by a trace of space no one dared violate, Klaus and Katherine exchanged one last wordless confidence, a promise that when the night decided to exact its toll, they wouldn't pay in fear. They would pay in rhythm, iron, and fire. And for now, they would dance.
----
The Maison of Minuit breathed a sigh of anticipation. Valerius D'Aubran took up the microphone again with the serenity of a conductor on the verge of an opera.
"Ladies and gentlemen, what an extraordinary evening."
He said, his voice projecting throughout the room.
"Music, wines, illustrious companies… But we finally arrive at the main event."
The conversations died down. The carpet of murmurs curled inward. Klaus gave Katherine 's hand a light squeeze. She looked at him with a smile that held more steel than sweetness. She anchored herself to him like someone choosing the only rock in a stormy sea.
In the background, Marcel lifted his chin attentively, Cami fixed her eyes on Valerius with restless curiosity, Jackson was already reading the air like a hunter, two of his wolves positioned themselves at either end of the track, arms crossed, golden eyes flashing.
Sophie and the witches recited silence, but their pupils revealed calculations that only they knew how to do.
Valerius raised his hand. The row of gilded mirrors adorning the walls glowed with an ancient glow, the runes etched beneath the gold leaf igniting like cold embers.
The room shed its skin. The curtains vanished like smoke, the floor formed a perfect square, clear lines marking the boundaries of a ring that seemed more real than the eye would have liked.
"Illusions of the 19th century."
A witch murmured, skeptical and fascinated.
"The runes of…"
She didn't finish. The runes changed as she looked.
Valerius made a short gesture, summoning someone. A man stepped out of the crowd with the ease of someone who always belonged on stage.
He had the body of a functional athlete, the posture of a fighter, and a face that could have stepped off a movie poster, the resemblance to Scott Adkins was striking. He took the microphone with confidence etched in his voice:
"I'm Johnny Mars! I've come to challenge, and kill, your candidate to divine champion."
The room froze in place. Vampires exchanged glances, wolves clawed at the floor with their heels, witches pressed their lips together. The sentence made no sense to anyone except Klaus. The pieces that didn't exist in "known" history fell into place like the sound of fate.
"Valerius, this party… none of this happened in the series because it's not part of this universe."
He thought dryly. Jack. Veydrassil . The dream was true.
Klaus leaned towards Katherine.
"Stay with Marcel."
He said quietly, without giving up his calm.
"Jackson , eyes on everything. Protect her."
Jackson nodded. Katherine narrowed her eyes, annoyance and a hint of heat behind them: his protectiveness was never neutral, but she complied, gliding to Marcel and Cami's flank like a feline with its own territory.
Klaus stepped forward. The ring of guests parted. The air grew thick , not with fear, but with instinctive alertness, as if every creature there sensed that the natural order was about to be remembered.
Johnny smiled with teeth that promised pain.
"Were you looking for me?"
Klaus asked, stepping into the ring.
"I was ready to kill you."
Johnny returned.
Klaus replied with a burning serenity:
"Look closely at me and capture every detail of this moment, because it's the last time you'll see anything so beautiful in your life. I'll break every bone in your body, one by one, and feel your body writhe beneath my hands. When your eyes begin to glaze over with fear, I'll rip out your still-beating heart and place it before you, so you can watch each beat slowly cease, as I smile. And then, only then, will you understand that nothing, nothing , in this world can save you from me."
Johnny laughed, a short, insolent sound. He dropped the microphone, stepped into the center of the ring, and changed.
The nails snapped into claws, the teeth lengthened into fangs, the ears became pointed, and the eyes lit up a predatory yellow.
"No wolf in this world does that, besides me."
Klaus arched an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued.
"I am not of this world."
Johnny growled dangerously, his voice deepening with the transformation. And then fire, fire that burst from his skin as if his body were a fuse, his clothes burning until only his pants remained, and the flames licked at his shoulders, arms, and torso. The heat beat down on the faces of those nearby like the mouth of a furnace.
"And I'm not just a wolf. I'm a hybrid. Half wolf…"
The flames curled, turning blue in the center.
"…Half Hellhound."
A muffled "oh" swept through the front rows. Marcel tensed. Cami held her breath. Sophie blinked in disbelief. The vampire security guard at the door watched with a stillness that seemed… foreign.
Klaus smiled as if he had tasted a rare wine, a hybrid from the Teen Wolf universe, one he had never seen before.
"New. Interesting. But you're just a beta. I'm an Alpha, and the Original Hybrid."
He transformed himself.
Klaus's eyes flared red, black veins pulsing like tribal designs beneath his skin. His fangs advanced, his jaw jutted, the lines of his face shifted, his body growing fierce without losing control.
Hair stood on end at his temples, his hands lengthened into claws that shone like obsidian. There was no hysteria in the movement, just the sense of a nature remembering itself.
The hall watched. Vampires recoiled a step reflexively, witches remembered, as every story remembers why they fear that name, wolves straightened their backs with that rare mix of pride and submission.
Katherine bit back a smile: power looked obscenely good on him.
"Come, puppy."
Klaus said, with a gesture of his fingers that would be an insult in any language.
Johnny roared and came like a shot.
He made the first lunge: a straight leap, claws high, fire ripping through the air. Klaus didn't flinch, he shifted his hips half an inch, his foot slid, his body spun on its axis.
Short feint, parry on the burning fist (the skin singed, he didn't care ), left elbow embedded in Johnny's temple.
Dry impact. Johnny staggered a step. Klaus didn't chase, he smiled.
"You fight like a wildfire."
He commented.
"Noise and heat… no technique."
Johnny growled, spun, and attempted a red-hot uppercut. Klaus let it pass in front of his nose, a low savate kick to the supporting side. Johnny's knee bent at an awkward angle.
Before the howl, Klaus stepped on the instep of Johnny's foot and twisted his heel. Ligaments screamed. Johnny fell to the side, jerking upright and spitting flames from his mouth, the jet of fire swept across the ring. Klaus passed through.
The flames licked at the suit for a blink, but the black mesh beneath the blazer held as if it had been sewn with contempt.
Klaus's skin cracked and healed in the same beat. He appeared within Johnny's reach, almost shoulder to shoulder, and punished him with three short blows: a hammer to the mastoid, a knee to the edge of the sternum, a claw hook to the cartilage of the floating rib.
"One."
Klaus heard the crack and counted in a low voice.
Johnny tried to grab him with both flaming hands, Klaus fished out his fist, twisted the radio against his humerus , and made the curve grate (the sound was like a dry twig snapping). He dropped his arm in the air like someone discarding a flower stem.
"Two."
Johnny roared, thrusting his body into a brutal tackle. Klaus let it happen and used it: one arm around the back of his neck, the other around the waistband of his pants, a short suplex that sent the fiery hybrid crashing to the ring floor. The impact echoed off the wood.
Before Johnny could breathe, Klaus had grabbed him by his intact forearm and, with a silat twist, he slammed his knee into his back and pulled his arm back, his shoulder popping out of place with a nasty crack.
"Three."
Klaus tilted his head in amusement.
"You're not doing well with math, Johnny."
The hybrid flared higher, daring the air to hurt. Hellhound 's aura boiled. He opened his jaws to bite and was met by an uppercut that rose from the ground.
The jaw trembled, teeth clashed, flames flickered. Klaus didn't stop: a downward elbow to the trapezius, a knee to the side of the hip, an ankle lock with a body twist. The foot turned backward. Johnny screamed.
" Four. Five. Six."
Attempted clawing: Klaus caught the fist in midair, squeezed it. The bones creaked under the force that he had no shame in existing. He spoke softly, intimately:
"You are slow. And fearful. The fire gave you courage, but not judgment."
He tightened his grip until the square of his fist gave way, radius and ulna cracking like ice from a pond. Johnny's scream died away in a hiss. The smell of bone and smoke mingled with expensive perfume and melted candle. Vampires grimaced, wolves smiled inwardly.
Cami blinked as if forcing herself to watch.
Johnny, pathetic and ferocious, gathered what momentum he had left and lunged forward in a desperate leap, flames trailing in the air.
Klaus patiently turned his hips, grabbed his waist with his arm, and in mid-flight, converted the attack into a flawless tomoe-nage: the hybrid hit the ground in an arc and lost the air. Upon landing, Klaus landed with his knee on his sternum.
" Seven. Ribs break in odd numbers."
He murmured, almost didactic.
Johnny tried to summon more fire. Klaus slowly rose, grabbed him by the neck with one hand, and lifted him off the ground. Johnny's feet skidded in the void, the flames dancing and flickering. His yellow eyes flickered.
"You came from far away to die so close."
Klaus said, his red eyes calm as cold blades.
Johnny tried to breathe fire in his face, that was all he could do. Klaus responded with what no one else in the room could: a ROAR.
It wasn't sound. It was pressure. It was power compressing instinct until it became pure submission. The air vibrated, the ring floor groaned, the mirrors intoned harmonics that sounded like forgotten Latim.
The roar rippled through the Maison of Minuit, through the columns, through the bones. Wolves bowed without thought, eyes alight with reverence, vampires felt their bodies want to yield to a reflex that wasn't theirs, witches suspended spells in a pulse of ancient fear.
In front of Klaus, Johnny's flames withered like a candle in a storm. His claws retracted, his eyes lost their light. He fell, barely human, hanging by his throat.
Absolute silence.
Klaus held him there for a second, a tableau: predator, prey, king, and subject, before lowering his arm enough for him to speak.
"How did you end up here ?"
He asked, not harshly, but without a shred of mercy.
Johnny gasped. His voice was hoarse and exhausted.
"Halo of the Veil … a ring. Enchanted with archangel grace. Opens… rifts between universes."
"And a piece of trash like you got this… how?"
Klaus's irony was a blade smeared in honey.
"From my guardian … my advisor. Every candidate has one."
Klaus didn't need to look at Valerius to know. The visiting "vampire." the strangeness on his skin, the security guard at the door with the same signature as outside, were not of this world.
Like Veydrassil in the dream: a guide.
Two boards played with similar pieces, in different rooms.
"How many like us?"
Klaus asked.
"And who are they?"
Johnny closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the hand on his throat loosen enough to give a reply.
"Many… What I know … the strongest: the Zombie Werewolf… an ancient white Weretiger… the Chimera… the Blue Phoenix … and a Nephilim."
The hall didn't understand the names, it understood the gravity. Klaus understood everything. Jack didn't need just any champion. He was sifting through the multiverse.
Klaus nodded once, as if receiving a coded message and accepting it. The red in his eyes darkened a shade.
"Understood."
And he fulfilled the promise.
His hand entered Johnny's chest with the precision of someone who understands anatomy and destiny. The heart came out whole, warm, beating twice in the air before stopping in front of its owner's eyes.
Klaus smiled, small, satisfied, not with the death itself, but with the coherence of a plot that knew where it would end. Johnny's body slumped, silent.
A sigh ran like wind through wheat. No one applauded. No one would dare desecrate the rite.
Valerius was the first to move. He descended the steps as if crossing a finished stage, his expression impenetrable, his hands clean of guilt.
"No need to be upset, Niklaus."
He said, now without a microphone, but perfectly audible.
"The goal was accomplished."
Klaus's eyes cut to him.
"Your goal."
He corrected, placing the heart on the floor of the ring with almost courteous delicacy.
Valerius smiled with the civility of someone who has centuries of experience in salons and secrets:
"Johnny insisted on hunting down a candidate. I brought him in to try… and fail. Some people need to learn the difference between fire and light."
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a dark metal ring, engraved in bas-relief with glyphs that seemed to change in the light of the chandelier.
"Halo of the Veil. Not every advisor has one of these to give. But you have one now. You deserved it."
Klaus held out his hand. The ring touched his palm, and the metal felt alive for an instant, a chill reminiscent of the taste of first snow and a whisper of doors opening to places the mind prefers not to name.
He turned it between his fingers, read the curves, understood the raw power of the object and put it in his pocket like someone keeping a key to war.
"How will you go back to your world without it?"
Klaus asked, more out of probing than curiosity.
Valerius laughed, a low laugh, of bad habits that never paid taxes:
"I have several."
He straightened the cuff of his sleeve.
"We're done here. The illusion will be shattered, my men…"
"men" the word had an ironic sheen.
"They will sweep the floor, and I will return to my home. Good luck, Niklaus. May you deserve it."
He turned unhurriedly. The runes on the mirrors faded one by one, like stars knowing their time to die. The curtains returned to their rods, the ring dissolved into the floor.
Within seconds, the Maison of Minuit was once again a party hall, with a body in the middle and the smell of sweet iron that no one could deny.
Klaus stepped down from the "ring" that was no longer a ring. Marcel approached with Cami and Katherine two strides away, Jackson standing firm as a wall.
"That was…"
Marcel searched for a word that didn't sound subservient.
"Definitive."
Klaus tilted his head, his red gaze already giving way to human amber.
"It was necessary."
Katherine arrived first. She was too beautiful for such violence, and perhaps that was exactly why they worked. She placed her hand on his lapel, fingers light, her eyes saying more than they were saying.
"You have an insane taste for big entrees "
She whispered, a laugh on the edge.
"And exits."
"And you have an enviable talent for surviving both."
He returned it, biting the talent vowel just to tease.
Cami took a deep breath, the psychologist and the woman trying to walk together in heels:
"What… was that, exactly?"
Klaus didn't lie.
" Competition."
Said, simple.
"And a reminder that New Orleans needs order."
He turned to Jackson.
"Take your men. Watch the edges of the French Quarter tonight. If anyone else crosses a veil, I want to know before I breathe."
"Yes, King."
Jackson replied without irony, his eyes shining a fraction.
Klaus stared at Sophie for a second, she raised her hands a quarter of an inch, I didn't, but she held his gaze: a witch who knows when a king hasn't yet chosen her as an enemy.
Then the hybrid touched his jacket pocket where the Halo of the veil weighed more than gold.
"Archangel's grace." Johnny said. Rifts. Candidates. Veydrassil was right: it wasn't enough to be an Alpha, he needed to be a Delta, not a beast under a leash, but the synthesis that rules the moon itself.
The room began to breathe again, noises returning in minor keys. Valerius vanished like dust, the mirrors retaining the shine of someone who saw more than reflected. The photographers, too human to understand, lowered their cameras, uncertain if it would make sense on paper.
Klaus looked at Katherine and, in a small gesture, offered her his arm. She took it like one accepting fortune. Marcel led Cami away from the body, already calling for two men to clean up the damage with practiced discretion. Jackson whistled two low commands, and the wolves fanned out.
At the landing, before they left the hall, Klaus paused for a moment. The Halo in his pocket seemed to vibrate, or maybe it was just his heart, resolved.
"Let the others come."
He said, quietly, to no one and to everyone.
"When you arrive, you will find a king. And when the time demands, you will find the one who comes after the king."
He and Katherine continued on, the night redrawing maps around them. Outside, the French Quarter air tasted like a storm waiting to be announced. And for the first time since the dream, Klaus felt a solid certainty: he wouldn't just be Jack's chosen one. He would be the criterion. The test.
The path to the Delta was open. And he already had the key, he just needed to figure out how to use it.