The sun had already climbed the facades of the French Quarter buildings when Klaus opened the bedroom curtains. The previous night still throbbed in his muscles, the roar in the Bayou, the pack kneeling, the warmth of Hayley in his arms, and then the dream: purple eyes amid an imaginary field. He took a deep breath, smoothed his shirt over his shoulders, and, with that dangerous serenity that came when a plan was already decided, descended the stairs.
In the last hours, he finished his business: Rebekah settled permanently into the mansion (and, with delicious irony, served as a bridge to calm Marcel's nerves about the wolves), Jackson remained the political face of the Crescent Clan while the pack, deep down, pulsed to the rhythm of his call. It was time to resolve what always rots cities from within: the spells cast in the shadows and the unpunished certainty of those who believe they speak in the name of destiny.
Agnes.
Celeste.
The names came to him like sharp edges. With Celeste, he would be cruel and decisive, with Agnes, he would put an end to the liturgy of cowardice, and he would do it all in front of everyone.
Camille's Apartment.
He rapped on the door with his knuckles, two light knocks. When the chain creaked and the latch gave way, Camille O'Connell appeared, her hair hastily tied back and the sincere surprise of someone who hadn't expected to see, at ten in the morning, the man whose human psyche she had once dissected as if painting light on canvas.
"The man of the painting?"
She said it half question, half reflection.
"How… how do you know where I live? And what are you doing here?"
He lifted a corner of his lips, no hint of threat, just that old-fashioned courtesy he pulled out of his pocket when he wanted the world to breathe along with him.
"In this town, nothing that matters is off my radar, Miss O'Connell."
A respectful step back.
"I have come, for the first time, to introduce myself as I should: Klaus Mikaelson. And I have come to tell the truth about what happened to your brother."
The name hung in the air as if the atmosphere around it had withered. Her eyes hardened, not with anger, but with instinctive vigilance. Still, she opened the door wide.
"Please come in."
The room smelled of coffee and underlined books. He sat on the sofa, waiting for her to do the same. Camille folded her hands in her lap, as if she needed to steady them so they wouldn't tremble.
"Talk."
Klaus didn't stage suspense. He told her about the city as it is: the ancient pact of factions, vampires who survived empires, witches who shape destinies, wolves chained to the moon, and men, like her uncle, trying to keep the lid on an eternally boiling pot. Then he got to the point.
"Your brother didn't go crazy alone."
Klaus said, and his voice lost its edge.
"Witches messed with his head. Not out of random malice, not out of politics, not out of a message. He was chosen because he would be heard. And because he would hurt and distract Father Kieran from the harvest in a way the entire town would feel."
"That's it…"
The word "absurd" rose in her throat, but she swallowed it.
"How do you expect me to believe?"
He didn't stand up, he didn't clench his fists. He simply leaned forward, offering the proofs that the 21nd century calls "impossible" and the rest of the world calls "ancient."
His eyes turned red, the veins stood out beneath his skin, his fangs touched his lip, and in an almost domestic gesture, he dug his own fingers into his arm and watched the flesh close in unison.
Nothing theatrical.
Clinical, restrained.
"This is who I am. This is what lies beneath the legends and whispers."
Camille took a full second to blink. And then, instead of backing away, she leaned in too. She was a psychologist, curious above all else.
"And why tell me? Why not keep…"
She made a vague gesture.
"The farce?"
"Because the lie killed your brother."
He did not spare her the weight of the sentence.
"And because I need your help to prevent another lie from killing my daughter."
The unspoken name, "Hope," hovered between them.
Klaus opened his hand, palm up, and let the words sink into the most human part of him.
"A witch, Agnes, plans to attack an unborn child. In her view, to "restore balance," to warn, to rise above the pain she causes."
He inhaled slowly.
"I could pull her out of the hole she's hiding in and put an end to this with my own hands. But I want something else. I want justice, and I want it to be seen. I want all factions to see it and understand what it means to break the pact."
Camille glanced at the shelf, where a photograph of two smiling young people leaned against a glass vase. Returning to Sean hurt like ground glass in the throat.
"A trial… will it honor my brother?"
The voice failed without asking permission.
"Nothing brings Sean back. Nothing erases the screams."
"It doesn't erase."
Klaus admitted.
"But it prevents another brother, another niece, another mother from going through the same night. And, yes, it's honor. Because justice, Cami, is the only prayer the victims understand."
Silence. The kitchen clock ticked like a polite metronome. She took a breath, filled her lungs, and held his gaze.
"If you're going to do this… it'll be in my uncle's church. In broad daylight. No tricks."
"In broad daylight, with all the lights on."
He nodded.
"And with you by his side. I'll speak only what's necessary. Father Kieran will lead the rest."
Camille held her bottom lip between her teeth, the old mannerism she used when making fate-changing decisions. Finally, she grabbed her purse and keys.
"Then let's talk to him."
St. Anne
The structure of St. Anne's had that particular echo of empty churches: an emptiness that, paradoxically, welcomes. Father Kieran stood at the altar, sleeves rolled up, marking pages in a missal with slips of paper.
When He saw his niece, his hard face softened, and when He noticed who was behind her, the hardness returned with the force of a gate closing.
"Camille."
He hugged her, quickly, as if checking that she was in one piece.
"Mr. Mikaelson."
"Father O'Connell."
Klaus inclined his head, the politeness of a man who had conversed with kings and executioners.
"I asked him to come."
Cami said before her uncle could formulate the admonition.
"He… he has something we need to hear."
Kieran listened. His face betrayed nothing as Klaus, impeccably sober, laid out the facts like a report: the Harvest and the scars it left on the city, the extremes Agnes accepted in the name of "balance." the immediate danger to the child who was not yet breathing air, the need for a public, unequivocal act that would seal the pact between factions before each group decided with its own machete.
"You ask me to invite vampires, witches, and wolves to my church."
Kieran said, and the timbre carried decades of funerals and confessions.
"To judge a witch before God. Do you know what that does to the balance?"
"Straighten up."
Klaus replied simply.
"Every time you humans have swept the dirt under the rug, someone has ended up bleeding. This time, we've lift the rug together and expose the dirt to the sun."
Kieran walked a few steps through the church, hands behind his back, his cassock moving back and forth in a rhythm of thought. He knew the smell of the city. He knew the moral quagmires New Orleans liked to sink into. When he turned back to the two of them, his gaze fell first on his niece.
"Camille?"
She swallowed firmly.
"Uncle… Sean was used as a message."
The words were blades, but she held them in her palm.
"If we pretend we don't know, someone else will be the next message. I don't want that. Not for me, not for anyone else."
The priest closed his eyes for a moment, not in prayer, but in decision. When he opened them, he already had a plan, because men like him never walk without one.
"Very well."
He turned to Klaus.
"You will have what you want, but my way. I summon the leaders: Marcel, the witches' representative... and your "spokesman" among the wolves. It will not be a lynching. It will be a hearing. If Agnes comes, she will hear the sentence from the people themselves or from a joint council. If she doesn't come, she will make the guilt public."
Klaus nodded. There was no triumph on his face, just the quiet satisfaction of a piece falling into place.
"Tomorrow, at sunset."
Kieran concluded.
"Here. No violence outside the sentence. If you break a single church rule, Klaus, I'll ring the bells until the cross falls down."
"Father."
He almost smiled.
"No one wants this roof to stay up more than I do."
Kieran held out his hand, not as if sealing a pact with the devil, but as if tying a tourniquet in battle because someone needed to stop the bleeding. Klaus squeezed. The grip said everything both men preferred not to say aloud: I know what you're capable of, and so do I.
As they exited through the side, Camille touched Klaus's arm, just for a second.
"Thank you for… not lying to me."
"Truth demands courage."
He said, and there was genuine gratitude in his tone.
"Thank you for having her."
She arched a tired half smile.
"You'll need me tomorrow."
"I always need people who remind this city to be human."
They parted in the white light of late morning, each carrying his own burden. Klaus crossed the street with light steps, already mentally composing the semicircle of chairs, the chosen words, the silent music that plays when an enemy is disarmed with the light on.
Tomorrow there would be a full church, names called, eyes in judgment. Tomorrow, the city would see, and, seeing, would understand that there was a new order under the same old sky. Tomorrow, Agnes would no longer be a whisper behind curtains.
Today, he would return home. There was a wolf to embrace, a sister to tease, another to protect, and a promise that, ever since the Bayou, had been breathing in the entire heart of the pack: no one would touch Hope. Ever.
----
The Mikaelson Mansion, even in silence, breathed history. The walls bore the invisible scars of centuries of conspiracies, lost loves, and battles won or failed. That night, however, the heart of the house seemed to beat again, fueled by the heat of a plan that united brothers, enemies, unlikely allies, and specters from the past.
Freya stood in the main room, spreading her mystical ingredients on the oak table. The scent of burning herbs mingled with the powder of burnt dried pomegranate rind, filling the air with a thick aroma, thick with ancient magic.
Klaus, ever watchful, stood nearby, his blue eyes sparkling with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation.
"All the ingredients are ready."
Freya said, her voice firm but filled with concentration.
"The Azel'thar tribe's spell is not simple, Niklaus. It requires absolute precision."
Klaus smiled with that characteristic charm, a mix of arrogance and confidence that was almost comforting.
"And that's why I have the best sister by my side."
He thanked her with a sincere gesture, rare for him. Then, without wasting time, he left to fetch Katherine.
The mansion doors opened, and Katherine walked in as if she owned the place. Her boot heels clicked on the wooden floor, rhythmic and commanding. Her leather jacket molded her body with predatory elegance. Her eyes, encased in striking makeup, sparkled with the venomous glint of someone who never apologized.
Elijah raised an eyebrow, elegant as ever.
"Even human, your theatricality remains intact, Katerina."
Katherine arched a smile, leaning against the wall.
"Honey, it's not theatrics. It's identity."
Hayley watched with her arms crossed, her wolf-like eyes assessing every detail with suspicion.
"Identity or facade?"
She muttered, more to herself than to the others.
Katherine wasted no time in noticing.
"A little of both, dear wolf. That's how we survive."
Before the mood could sour, Freya brought the ritual cup and asked for the blood. Katherine, without argument, cut her palm. A flush of pain crossed her face for a moment, a cruel reminder of her newly inflicted fragility.
Klaus immediately grabbed her arm, absorbing her pain. Dark veins bulged across his arm as Katherine gasped, surprised by the sudden absence of pain.
"What… what did you do?"
She asked, genuinely astonished.
"I took away your pain, darling."
Klaus replied, almost protectively. Everyone looked at him with interest, understanding that this was one of Klaus's skills as a unique Alpha.
"We're not monsters to the point of using you and discarding you, Katerina. Here, you'll be treated humanely."
Rebekah snorted.
"Ah, Nik, always the protective gentleman when you least should be."
Klaus gave her a sharp look.
"She is not an object, sister."
Rebekah, against her will, fell silent. Elijah, in turn, inclined his head approvingly.
"You're right, Niklaus. Katerina deserves to be treated with dignity, especially now that she's chosen to extend her help to us. For that, at least, we owe her respect."
Hayley watched the scene with narrowed eyes, aware that something in Katherine reacted to that gesture of Klaus, although she herself would never admit it.
Freya began to recite the ancient words, mixing the ingredients with the blood in the cup. Her voice reverberated with power, each syllable echoing like a contained thunderclap.
"Sanguis doppelganger, nexus aeternus, iter trans mundum aperiatur…"
Her eyes glowed golden, the cup emitted a silver glow, and the entire room seemed to tremble with an invisible force.
"Who should I bring first?"
Freya asked, without taking her focus off.
"Stefan Salvatore."
Klaus replied without hesitation.
The witch nodded and declared:
"Stephanus Salvator!"
The light intensified, forming an ethereal column that wavered in the center of the room. From the glow emerged Stefan, drenched, pale, his eyes bleary as if trapped in a nightmare.
"No… this can't be real…"
He muttered breathlessly.
Klaus quickly approached, absorbing his pain as he had done with Katherine.
Stefan blinked, focusing his eyes on Klaus.
"You're safe, old friend. You're not in the vault anymore. Breathe with me."
And together, they breathed. Stefan slowly regained consciousness. Klaus offered his wrist. Stefan hesitated, but, exhausted, relented.
As he fed, Rebekah murmured in confusion:
"What happened to him?"
Klaus coldly replied:
"Silas locked him in a safe at the bottom of a deep river. And took his place, fooling the Mystic Falls fools."
Fortunately, this time, Stefan had been saved earlier, sparing him the more traumatic experience of spending the entire summer drowning.
Silence fell.
Freya and Hayley looked at the young Salvatore with pity. No one should have to go through something like that.
Katherine just watched him.
And Elijah commented:
"A cruelty worthy of the first immortal."
When Stefan finished, Klaus pushed him away.
"That's enough."
Stefan stared at him, surprised.
"I… thank you. I didn't think you would be the one to save me."
A crooked smile crossed Klaus's lips.
"I've been having that effect on people lately."
He then gave a brief summary of the overall situation to Stefan, who, as Klaus had predicted, agreed to help with the resurrection spell in return for Klaus helping him.
Klaus didn't even mention reviving Lexi, he figured it would be a pleasant surprise for the Salvatore.
Finally, without wasting any time, Klaus ordered:
"Now sister, bring Tom Avery."
Freya immediately repeated the ritual and said:
"Thomas Albericus!"
The same light shone, bringing Tom from Atlanta, stunned and surprised. His eyes scanned the faces around him.
"What the hell… is this a kidnapping?"
Elijah calmly took the lead.
"No, Thomas. It's a summons. And we'll explain everything."
While Stefan looked at his human copy strangely, Katherine said ironically:
"It seems the Elena version of you has arrived, Stefan."
Klaus smirked, finding the comment spot on.
"I believe this must be the man originally destined for lovely Elena, before you intervened and changed fate, old friend."
Stefan was stunned to hear this, looking intensely at Tom who was receiving the general explanation from Elijah.
Salvatore was convinced, that really must have been the guy destined for Elena, before he messed everything up.
This only increased the bitterness in Stefan's heart at the thought of Elena choosing Damon.
Freya wondered if they were finished.
However, Klaus denied and the atmosphere changed when he asked for the impossible: Qetsiyah.
"Are you crazy?"
Rebekah exclaimed.
"You want to bring the witch who created immortality into our home? And shouldn't she be dead?"
Klaus just smiled slyly.
"It's madness, sister, to waste unique opportunities to gain powerful allies. Our beloved ancient witch returned to the world of the living when Bonnie Bennett tore down the veil between worlds in Mystic Falls. Qetsiyah was once part of the Travelers, Katerina is descended from the Travelers, so we combine business with pleasure. Freya, trust me, cast the spell."
Reluctantly, Freya performed the spell. The room glowed one last time, and Qetsiyah appeared, haughty and disdainful. Her eyes swept the room, settling on the Doppelgangers.
"Two faces of Silas… how ironic."
Everyone tensed in the presence of the ancient Witch of the Bennett line.
Klaus took a step forward.
"Nice to meet you, I'm Niklaus Mikaelson. The Original Hybrid."
She laughed derisively.
"Ah yes, the original family… The cheap copies of my greatest achievement."
"Perhaps."
Klaus didn't deny it.
"But as you well know, even copies can be useful."
So he made his proposal:
They had the cure, meaning they could kill Silas. The plan was simple: with the same spell, they would summon him under the right circumstances, cure him, and kill him.
Additionally, Klaus offered Qetsiyah a chance to live again, a fresh start in New Orleans, and leadership of the Witches faction.
The only thing the Hybrid wanted in return was her alliance, her help, and her expertise with complex spells.
Klaus also gently inspired confidence in her through his power.
Qetsiyah pondered, intrigued by the hybrid who spoke with such conviction.
Finally, she extended her hand.
"We have an agreement, and call me Tessa, Klaus Mikaelson. But if you break your word…"
"I never break a useful agreement."
Klaus replied, squeezing her hand.
As Stefan got used to the presence of Qetsiyah or Tessa, Klaus quietly encouraged him:
"Use your familiar face to win her over, or at least appease her."
Stefan protested, embarrassed, but Klaus just laughed and encouraged him more.
Elijah had just finished his conversation with Tom Avery. The young man seemed less shaken than he should have been, considering the weight of the revelations he had received.
Instead of the shock or terror any reasonable human would feel at the exposure of a world where vampires, witches, and immortals coexisted, Tom displayed an almost disconcerting calm.
His eyes held no fear, but a quiet curiosity, as if a missing piece in his life had finally been found.
He looked up, his voice firm, clear enough for everyone in the room to hear.
"What's so great about being a vampire?"
The silence lasted only a second, before it was broken by the unison response of Klaus and Katherine, both uttering the same word with an almost predatory intensity:
"Power."
Their eyes met immediately. There was something playful about that moment: a mutual reflection of their own ambitions and the nature they shared.
Katherine arched an eyebrow with a lopsided smile, while Klaus held the exchange of glances with a shadow of satisfaction on his lips.
Tom, however, remained silent. The weight of that answer didn't frighten him, but it did make him reflect more deeply on the nature of what it meant to be in the same space as such distinct creatures.
Klaus, practical as ever, quickly gave orders for the guests to be accommodated. Rooms were provided for Qetsiyah, Stefan, and Tom. The Mikaelson Mansion, imposing and steeped in history, would be their temporary home, a decision that, to anyone else, might have sounded like an invitation to their own doom.
Tom remained thoughtful, walking down the dark wood corridor, taking in the Gothic details of the place, as if absorbing not only the architecture but also the weight of the legacy these walls held. It was Rebekah who approached him, curiosity evident in the blue gleam in her eyes.
"You're awfully quiet for someone who just discovered they're part of something so… extraordinary."
Her voice carried a hint of lightness, but there was also a genuine intention to understand him.
Tom took a deep breath before answering, his fingers absently running along the polished banister.
"The truth is… I have lived a lonely life."
His lips curved into a brief but melancholy smile.
"As far as I know, my parents abandoned me. I grew up in an orphanage in Atlanta. I didn't have much other than books and the struggle to build something of my own. I studied, fought for every opportunity. I became a paramedic, and in a way, I loved it. Saving lives gave me purpose. But still... there was always something missing."
He looked up at Rebekah, as if confessing this was liberating.
"And now, suddenly, I discover I'm a doppelgänger. That there's a whole hidden world, and that I'm not just another face lost in the crowd. It makes sense, somehow. But I don't know what to do with it. Sure, I'll help with the resurrection spell you mentioned. But…"
He hesitated, as if the words were hard to come out.
"Part of me doesn't want to leave."
Rebekah tilted her head, studying him. His sincerity, his vulnerability, and, above all, his lack of fear set him apart from so many other humans she'd met. There was something almost naive, yet also admirable, in his calm acceptance.
"And what exactly is waiting in Atlanta?"
She asked, her voice soft, but with that natural charm of someone who always knew how to play with words.
"A job that can be replaced? People who don't know the truth about who you really are?"
Tom smiled, recognizing the cruel yet true logic in her words.
"Losing my job would be bad… but you're right. There's not much waiting for me there."
Rebekah then let out a confident smile, typical of her when she had a practical solution to something.
"Then maybe you should consider New Orleans."
Her eyes glinted mischievously.
"My family's connections are vast. If you want to continue being a paramedic, we can... make things easier. Compulsion has its benefits, and I guarantee a job wouldn't be a problem."
The idea, which to anyone else would have sounded absurd, drew a low, genuine laugh from Tom, which briefly brightened his expression, which had been full of doubts until then.
"Are you saying you could just get me a new job… manipulating people?"
"I'm saying…"
She replied with an amused smile, almost innocent in its wickedness.
"That you could have a new life, a fresh start, without the weight of the past you left behind in Atlanta."
Tom stared at her for a moment, absorbing the implied proposal. There was a sincere gleam in his eyes as he replied:
"Thank you, Rebekah."
His smile, discreet but genuine, had a certain warmth that few were capable of awakening in him.
Rebekah returned the gesture, surprised to find herself smiling too. He was, after all, adorable in his simple, honest way. Perhaps more so than she cared to admit.
Katherine, watching, commented to Klaus:
"The charm of Doppelgangers is truly irresistible."
Klaus raised his eyebrows in amusement.
"The last person who should say that is you, Katerina."
She just smiled, venomously.
Hayley, who had been watching until then, shrugged and commented:
"Well, at the very least it will be interesting to see a vampire doppelgänger, a vengeful witch, and Katherine trying to share a roof without killing each other first."
The Petrova rolled her eyes at the comment.
Freya had already placed the cup and ingredients in a carved wooden box, sealing it with runes that glowed softly before disappearing. The air in the hall felt lighter, and for a moment she allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. The first part of the resurrection spell had gone off without incident, and that, for a Mikaelson, was already a victory.
Elijah appeared next, impeccably dressed as always, carrying a cream-colored envelope sealed with red wax. The engraved crest was of a lily entwined with thorns, sophisticated and ancient. Without ceremony, he handed it to his brother.
"It was left at the door earlier."
Elijah explained.
"A butler brought it, without further explanation."
Klaus arched an eyebrow, breaking the seal with a sharp snap. The paper exuded a faint scent of jasmine and cedar. The handwriting was refined, arrogant in its perfection:
> To Mr. Niklaus Mikaelson,
Representative of House Mikaelson,
It is with great honor that we invite Your Honor to an exclusive reception, bringing together all the factions that share this city. A special event will mark the occasion.
Location: Maison of Minuit, a historic salon in the heart of the French Quarter, restored with colorful stained glass windows and crystal chandeliers from Europe.
Time: eight o'clock at night, sharp.
Suit: formal.
The presence of a pair is required.
— V. D.
Klaus folded the letter slowly, his eyes narrowed. His instincts screamed immediately: this wasn't just an invitation, it was a carefully crafted provocation.
The mention of a "special event" sounded like a trap.
"That never happened in the series."
He thought, aware that there was something out of the ordinary moving behind the scenes.
"At Maison of Minuit."
Elijah murmured, as if analyzing a board.
"Former 19th-century ballroom. Abandoned for decades until restored last year. French stained glass, Italian marble, and the gilded mirrors are said to reflect more than just images."
"It sounds like a stage."
Freya commented, closing the cloth she was wiping her hands with.
"And stages demand spectacles. 'Special event' rarely means anything good."
Katherine, sitting languidly on the sofa, twirled a strand of hair between her fingers, bored.
"I can already see it... endless speeches, crystal glasses, and dirty looks. The part where someone tries to kill someone else is always the funniest."
Hayley, who had been watching silently until then, narrowed her eyes, her arm resting on the stair railing.
"You will go, won't you?"
She asked, even though the answer was obvious.
"Naturally."
Klaus put the invitation in his pocket.
"If they want a show, I'm not going to watch from backstage."
The heavy silence was broken by his continuation, in a grave tone:
"But I'm not taking you, Hayley."
The wolf widened her eyes, surprised and upset.
"What?"
"This night smells like danger."
His voice was firm, with no room for reply.
"My priority is your safety."
She took a deep breath, frustrated, but instead of arguing, she reluctantly gave in. Then she shot a meaningful look at the doppelgänger.
"Then take Katherine."
Katherine arched an eyebrow in surprise and chuckled softly.
"How generous. But… I don't have a dress."
Klaus's gaze immediately slid to his sister.
"Rebekah…"
"Don't even think about it!"
The blonde appeared almost as if she had been summoned, arms crossed and an indignant expression.
"I'm not lending one of my dresses to Katherine."
"It's just for one night."
Klaus insisted, using the smile that combined menace and charm.
"A single night."
"And risk seeing one of my Diors destroyed in a vampire fight?"
Rebekah stared at him as if she had just heard nonsense.
"I'd rather be impaled."
"Come on, sister. You know I won't let that happen, Katerina will be under my protection…"
Klaus softened his voice, appealing to the bond he knew existed.
"You wouldn't let your brother enter a hall without proper representation from our family, would you?"
Katherine, for her part, smiled with false innocence.
"I promise to take good care of him. The dress, I mean. Klaus is already beyond saving."
Rebekah huffed loudly, her eyes rolling in exasperation.
"You guys drive me crazy."
She ran her hand through her blonde hair, surrendered.
"One dress. Just one. And I choose which one."
"Deal done."
Klaus said, satisfied.
Katherine tilted her face provocatively.
"I can't wait to shine."
Rebekah just muttered bitterly.
"Just for one night. One."
And so it was decided: at eight o'clock, at the Maison of Minuit, Klaus Mikaelson would make his entrance. And everyone knew that, whatever the "special event" was, he wouldn't just be a spectator.