The scene shifted from the claustrophobic witch quarters to the heart of St. Anne's Cemetery. The air was colder here, thick with the smell of damp earth and old stone. Ancient tombs stood like silent sentinels under a sky choked with clouds, the moon a faint smudge behind them.
This was where it had to happen. Where it had always been meant to happen. Among the dead.
The coven formed a wide circle around a central, flat-topped tomb, their dark robes making them look like part of the night itself. Torches driven into the earth cast a flickering, orange light that danced across grim faces and weathered inscriptions. In the center lay Davina, unconscious now, placed gently on the cold stone. Beside her, arranged with a terrible solemnity, were three other girls. They were pale and still, dressed in simple white shifts, their hands folded over their chests. These were the other Harvest girls—Monique, Abigail, and Cassie—their bodies preserved by magic, waiting for this night.
Damon stood apart, leaning against a large, ornate mausoleum, his arms crossed. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by a focused intensity. He was no longer just an observer; he was a witness to a covenant between the living and the dead.
Agnes raised her arms, her voice rising above the wind that had begun to whip through the graveyard. "The circle was broken! The balance was undone! Tonight, we restore it! The four become one, and the one becomes all!"
The chanting began again, deeper and more powerful here, amplified by the sacred ground. It wasn't just the voices of the living witches; it was a chorus that seemed to rise from the very earth, a whisper of countless generations. The ancestral magic was awake, and it was hungry.
The torches flared, their flames turning a ghostly, ethereal blue. The symbols carved into the central tomb began to glow with the same cold light. The air hummed, a low, subsonic thrum that vibrated in the teeth and bones.
One by one, the three dead girls began to glow. A soft, white light emanated from their bodies, rising like mist. It swirled in the air above them, three distinct streams of potent energy, beautiful and terrifying. Then, as one, the streams arced downward and poured into Davina's still form.
Her body convulsed, back arching off the stone. A silent scream was frozen on her lips. The light flooded into her, illuminating her from within, making her veins glow like circuits. The power was immense, a tidal wave of raw magic filling a vessel that had been empty for too long.
Damon watched, utterly still. This was the heart of it. This was the truth he'd been sent to find.
The light from the three girls faded, their bodies crumbling slowly to dust, their purpose fulfilled. Their essence was now inside Davina.
For a moment, there was silence. The chanting stopped. The blue flames died down to a flicker. All eyes were on Davina, waiting for her to open her eyes. Waiting for their Regent to rise.
She did not move.
A frown touched Agnes's lips. Sophie took a hesitant step forward. "Davina?" she whispered.
Then, a tremor passed through the earth. Not a violent shake, but a deep, resonant shudder, as if the cemetery itself had sighed. From the three piles of dust that had been the Harvest girls, new forms began to rise.
It wasn't their bodies. It was their spirits, solidified by the ancestral magic that now rejected its intended vessel. They stood, translucent yet solid, their eyes burning with cold blue fire. They were no longer the girls they had been; they were avatars of the ancestors' will.
Monique, her expression haughty and severe. Abigail, her gaze sharp and calculating. Cassie, whose face held a cruel, mocking smile.
They were alive. They were back.
But Davina remained on the stone, pale and lifeless.
"The ritual… it worked," Sophie breathed, her voice full of awe and confusion. "But… why isn't she…?"
Monique, the apparent leader, turned her burning gaze from Davina to the coven, and then it landed on Damon.
"The ritual was completed," Monique said, her voice a chilling harmony of many, layered with the echoes of the dead. "The power has been returned. But the vessel… was tainted."
"Tainted?" Agnes asked, her voice trembling.
"By him," Abigail stated, her finger uncurling to point directly at Damon. "By his kind. The interlopers. The ones of dead blood and stolen life."
Cassie's mocking smile widened. "The ancestors do not want the Mikaelsons in New Orleans."
The three Harvest witches turned as one, their hands rising. The air crackled, not with the warm energy of life, but with the cold, sharp power of vengeful spirits.
Damon pushed off the mausoleum, his instincts screaming. He'd been around magic long enough to know when a situation had just gone catastrophically wrong.
"Well, this is a twist," he muttered.
The psychic attack didn't feel like Davina's. Hers had been a scalding fire. This was an ice pick. Three of them, driven directly into his mind with the focused, cold hatred of centuries.
He cried out, a short, sharp sound of pure agony, and stumbled back, clutching his head. It was a pain he hadn't felt in a long, long time. It wasn't just damaging; it was violating. He felt his thoughts shredding, his sense of self blurring under the onslaught. Visions of open graves, of hanging witches, of old, bitter deaths flashed behind his eyes.
He fell to one knee, gritting his teeth, trying to erect mental shields that splintered as soon as they formed. This was ancestral power, the weight of history itself, and it was telling him he did not belong.
The coven watched in stunned silence, caught between the miracle of the returned Harvest girls and the brutal punishment being inflicted on the Mikaelson envoy.
"The city was purified in our absence," Monique's layered voice rang out, the psychic pressure intensifying. "It will be purified again. You are a plague. And plagues must be burned out."
Damon gasped, blood beginning to trickle from his nose. He looked up, his vision swimming, and saw the three spectral girls standing over him, their faces devoid of mercy. This wasn't just a rejection. It was a declaration of war.
The message was received. The Harvest had been completed, but the ancestors had chosen their own champions. And their first act was to make their position on the Mikaelson restoration perfectly clear.
New Orleans had new rulers, but the old powers were pushing back. And they had just made their opening move.
A/N
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