CHAPTER 1: BETWEEN LIVES AND LIES
Rain hammered the crosswalk like machine gun fire. Aiden squinted through the droplets on his glasses, shoulders hunched against the October wind cutting through his thin jacket. The traffic light cast bloody reflections on the wet asphalt, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled a warning he didn't hear.
His earbuds pumped The Vampire Diaries soundtrack into his skull—season four finale music, all strings and tragic piano. He'd been rewatching the series for the third time this year, procrastinating on his thesis about folklore mythology in modern media. Klaus had just saved Caroline from Tyler's bite, and the show was building toward—
Headlights exploded across his vision.
I never finished season five.
The thought cut through everything else—fear, pain, the screaming of brakes on wet pavement. Not I love you, Mom or I'm sorry for wasting my life. Just the mundane regret of an unfinished story.
Then the world ended.
He floated.
The void around him wasn't dark—it was the absence of dark, the place where concepts like light and shadow had never been invented. Stars wheeled overhead, but they weren't stars. They were holes punched through reality, bleeding impossibilities.
"Hello, Aiden."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, composed of stellar wind and the echo of dying galaxies. Aiden—or what remained of him—turned toward its source.
The Entity defied description. It was geometric patterns that hurt to perceive, shifting between forms his mind couldn't process. Sometimes it looked like a constellation arranged into something almost human. Sometimes it was just the idea of presence, pressing against his consciousness with the weight of eons.
"You're dead," the Entity said, and its voice carried the gentle finality of entropy itself.
Aiden tried to speak and discovered he had no mouth. No body. Just the core of himself, whatever that meant in this place.
"I know," he thought, and the Entity somehow heard.
"The drunk driver will live. Twenty-two years old, three previous DUIs, a father of two who won't learn until he kills someone else. Justice is a luxury the universe rarely provides."
The Entity shifted, and Aiden caught glimpses of what it might be—vast beyond comprehension, ancient beyond measure, amused in the way gods might be amused by mortal suffering.
"But stories," the Entity continued, "stories are different. Stories hunger for change. Crave resolution. Demand that someone, somewhere, pay the price for meaning."
"What do you want?" Aiden managed to think.
"I want to offer you a bargain. Five wishes, freely given, for a story hungry for change. But know this—every gift carries weight. Power without price is simply chaos."
Hope bloomed in whatever served as Aiden's chest. "Five wishes? Anything?"
"Within reason. I am not omnipotent, merely... influential. Think carefully. Choose wisely. Regret accordingly."
Aiden's mind raced. He'd read enough fantasy to know the rules. Be specific. Avoid monkey's paw territory. Think through consequences. But the Entity's presence pressed against him, vast and patient, and he felt his thoughts crystallizing with desperate clarity.
"First," he thought. "I want to be born as the third Saltzman child. Alen Saltzman, triplet to Josie and Lizzie, son of Alaric and Caroline. Full family history, memories, relationships—everything real and unquestionable."
The Entity made a sound like cosmic approval. "Interesting. A place in their world, not merely visitation. Continue."
"Second. Intuitive Spell-Crafting. I want to understand magic at a fundamental level—how spells work, how to create them, how to improve them. Not just copying what I've seen, but genuine understanding."
"Power over the very language of reality. Dangerous. Noted."
"Third. Word of Command. The ability to speak words that reality must obey. Nothing broken, nothing ultimate—just... absolute authority when I need it most."
"The universe bends to will, when will is strong enough. Fascinating choice."
"Fourth. Ranged Siphon with Imbuement. I want to drain magic from anything I can see and store it in objects, people, whatever I need. Distance shouldn't matter if I can perceive the target."
"To steal power and gift it freely. A conduit for forces beyond yourself. I begin to see the pattern of your desires."
Aiden hesitated on the fifth wish. This was the one that mattered most, the one that could save everyone he was already beginning to care about despite knowing they weren't real.
"Fifth. Soul-Forged Coins of Revival. I want the ability to harvest the souls of true villains—murderers, torturers, monsters—and forge them into coins that can resurrect the dead. Perfect resurrection, no monkey's paw bullshit. Start me with one coin."
Silence stretched across the void. When the Entity spoke again, its voice carried something that might have been surprise.
"To judge. To execute. To play with the fundamental forces of life and death. You would make yourself psychopomp and executioner, arbiter of who deserves a second chance and who deserves to be unmade entirely."
"The world I'm going to... it needs someone willing to make those choices."
"Indeed." The Entity's form shifted, geometric patterns rearranging into something almost resembling approval. "Your wishes show wisdom and terrible purpose. I grant them gladly. But I add a sixth gift—a curse to balance the scales."
Dread pooled in Aiden's consciousness. "What kind of curse?"
"Future knowledge dies on your tongue. You know what will come, but you cannot speak it, write it, or communicate it directly. Some truths must be lived, not told. You will watch disasters approach and be unable to warn. You will see friends choose paths to darkness and be helpless to stop them with words alone."
The curse settled into him like ice in his veins. He could already feel it—the knowledge of Hope's struggles, of Josie's descent into darkness, of all the deaths and disasters to come, locked away behind barriers in his mind.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because knowledge without consequence is not wisdom. Because you must earn the right to save them through action, not merely by knowing what is to come. Because stories require struggle, and struggle requires ignorance."
The Entity began to fade, or perhaps Aiden was fading from this place. Reality bled back in at the edges—sensation, time, the promise of flesh and bone and beating heart.
"Go now, Conduit. Be born into their world. Carry your burden with grace. And remember—every gift carries weight. Yours will be heavier than most."
The void shattered into golden light, and Aiden Sinclair—student, nobody, dead boy from the wrong side of existence—died completely.
Alen Saltzman opened his eyes.
The first thing he felt was drowning.
Fifteen years of memories crashed through his skull like a tsunami of someone else's life. Playing in the sandbox with Josie and Lizzie at age three, chocolate smeared on chubby fingers. Caroline's laugh as she tucked him in, her vampire-warm skin and the way she hummed old songs. Alaric teaching him to throw knives in the backyard, steady hands guiding small ones.
Christmas mornings. Birthday parties where Lizzie demanded to be the center of attention and Josie quietly made sure everyone felt included. The taste of birthday cake and the smell of Caroline's perfume and the weight of Alaric's hand on his shoulder the first time he'd gotten in trouble at school.
And Hope.
God, Hope.
The memories of her hit hardest. Hope at twelve, braces and attitude, rolling her eyes at his terrible jokes but smiling anyway. Hope at thirteen, growing into the angles of her face, the way she'd started looking at him like he was more than just Josie and Lizzie's brother. Hope at fourteen, summer before freshman year, sitting on the dock at the school's lake, talking about everything and nothing while fireflies painted the darkness.
The almost-kiss. Her leaning in, blue eyes bright with possibility, her breath warm against his lips—
And then Klaus.
Three years ago. The hybrid appearing like a storm front, all barely contained violence and paternal fury. Klaus Mikaelson—Original vampire, apex predator, Hope's father—materializing in the school hallway with murder in his ancient eyes.
"Touch her again, boy, and I'll make you beg for the mercy of death."
The memory felt real—Klaus's hand at Alen's throat, lifting him off the ground with casual strength while Hope screamed in the background. The absolute certainty that Klaus meant every word, that crossing him meant pain beyond imagination, death if he was lucky.
And Alen—fifteen, terrified, desperately in love—had made the choice that would haunt him for years.
He'd run.
Not physically. Emotionally. Completely. He'd stopped texting Hope. Stopped sitting with her at lunch. Stopped meeting her eyes in the hallways. When she'd cornered him, demanding explanations, he'd stuttered excuses about being busy, about needing space, about how they were better as friends.
He'd watched her face crumble. Watched confusion turn to hurt, hurt turn to anger, anger finally settle into cold indifference. By the time Klaus left Mystic Falls again, the damage was done. Hope looked through him like he was glass. Like he didn't exist.
Three years of silence. Three years of regret eating him alive from the inside. Three years of loving her from a distance while pretending he didn't care.
Alen gasped, pressing his palms against his eyes as the false memories settled into place. They felt absolutely real—more real than his actual life had been. Aiden Sinclair, the college student who'd died on a crosswalk, felt like a fading dream. This was who he was now. This was who he'd always been.
I hurt her, he thought, heart breaking for sins he'd never actually committed. I destroyed the best thing in my life because I was a coward.
But that was then. This was now. And Aiden—Alen—had power the original boy had never dreamed of.
He sat up in bed, muscles protesting. The dorm room came into focus around him—two beds, one perfectly made (Josie), one looking like a tornado hit it (Lizzie), and his own with its dark blue sheets and the NASA poster Caroline had bought him for his sixteenth birthday.
This is my life now, he realized. These are my people. My family. My responsibility.
The weight of it should have been crushing. Instead, it felt like coming home.
Alen stood and walked to the window. Outside, the Salvatore School for the Young and Gifted spread across perfectly manicured grounds. Virginia autumn painted the trees in shades of fire, and students moved between buildings with the casual confidence of the magically gifted.
Somewhere in this place was Hope Mikaelson, probably avoiding him as she had for three years. Somewhere were threats he needed to face, disasters he needed to prevent, friends he needed to save.
But first—
"Hope's going to—" he started to say aloud, then choked as the words twisted in his throat.
"Hope's going to adopt a sentient waffle!"
The words that emerged were complete gibberish. Alen blinked, tried again.
"The monsters will attack because Landon—"
"The monsters will attack because Landon is secretly a magical cheese emergency!"
Panic shot through him. He grabbed a pen and paper from his desk, tried to write it down.
The knife will summon Malivore and—
The ink formed meaningless symbols, swirling patterns that hurt to look at. Even thinking about directly warning someone about future events sent spikes of pain through his skull.
The Entity's curse was absolute.
Alen sank into his desk chair, head in his hands. "I know everything and can say nothing. Perfect."
A knock at the door interrupted his crisis. "Alen? You okay in there? You sound weird."
Josie. Sweet, insecure Josie who would eventually be corrupted by dark magic unless he found a way to stop it. And he couldn't just tell her don't touch the evil artifacts—the curse wouldn't let him.
He'd have to be smarter. More subtle. More—
His hand went to his pocket and found something that shouldn't have been there. His fingers closed around metal, and he drew out the coin.
It was beautiful in the way only impossible things could be beautiful. Perfectly round, heavy as a star, made of gold that seemed to contain its own light source. Ancient symbols covered both faces—not quite any earthly language, but somehow Alen understood their meaning.
Resurrection through sacrifice. Death transformed into life. The price paid in villain's souls.
He knew, with the certainty of gifted knowledge, that this coin could bring back anyone who had died within the past year. He knew the ritual, knew the costs, knew the moral weight of what he carried.
Stefan Salvatore. Caroline's lost love, the man whose death had driven her to throw herself into work, traveling constantly to avoid the pain of staying home. Alen could bring him back. Would bring him back, when he had enough coins, when he'd harvested enough monsters to pay the price.
But first he needed to harvest those monsters. And for that, he needed to survive long enough to find them.
The knock came again. "Alen? Breakfast is starting. Lizzie's already claiming she's going to hex the cook if they serve those gross eggs again."
"Coming!" he called, tucking the coin back into his pocket. It felt warm against his leg, a promise and a burden in equal measure.
He checked his reflection in the mirror—same face he'd always had, brown hair that couldn't decide if it wanted to be straight or wavy, green eyes that Caroline said came from her side of the family. But behind those eyes was a different soul now. One with purpose.
"Hope's here," he whispered to his reflection. "Hope's here, and she hates me, and Klaus will kill me if I go near her again. But I'm not the same person who ran away."
He straightened his shoulders, checked that the coin was secure, and walked toward the door.
Time to begin earning redemption he didn't deserve for sins he'd never actually committed.
Time to start saving everyone he loved.
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