CHAPTER ONE: THE NIGHT HE DIED
New Orleans, 1001 A.D.
Rain battered the earth like war drums, thunder cracking the sky as if the heavens themselves were afraid of what walked beneath them.
Chris Mikaelson stood in the clearing, bare‑chested, blood running down his ribs, his breath steady despite the carnage around him. Dead wolves. Dead vampires. Bodies torn apart—not slaughtered, but ended.
Across from him stood Mikael.
The great hunter gripped his sword with hands that trembled—not from exhaustion, but from fear.
Chris smiled.
It wasn't cruel. It wasn't kind.
It was calm.
"You taught me to fight," Chris said, his voice deep, ancient beyond his years. "But you never taught me how to lose."
Lightning flashed.
For a heartbeat, Chris's eyes glowed gold—then crimson—then something else entirely. Something primal. Something that should not exist.
Mikael took a step back.
That was the moment Klaus realized it.
Watching from the trees, heart pounding, Klaus understood a truth that would haunt him for a thousand years:
> His brother was a god wearing flesh.
Mikael roared and charged.
The blade struck.
Blood sprayed.
Chris fell.
The scream that followed ripped through the forest—Esther's scream. Magic exploded outward, the earth cracking, the sky howling in grief.
By morning, there was only ash… and a story.
Chris Mikaelson was dead.
Buried.
Forgotten
....