The dusty floor of the abandoned warehouse was cold against Davina's cheek. She was thrown forward, stumbling and landing hard, the impact jarring her bones. She pushed herself up, her hands scraping on the rough concrete, and looked up.
Three figures stood before her, silhouetted against the dim light filtering through grimy windows. The air around them was still and heavy with power. She knew them instantly from Marcel's warnings, from the fear that clung to their names. Viktor. Elijah. Freya.
Viktor's eyes, cold and assessing, scanned her from head to toe. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
"A harvest witch," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of surprise. "But you didn't complete the ritual. I suppose Marcel thought he was saving you." He made it sound like a foolish, sentimental mistake.
Behind them, Marcel was forced to his knees, his body already healing from the hole in his chest, but his spirit visibly broken. "They were going to kill her!" he growled, his voice raw. "They were going to kill all those girls. I only managed to save Davina."
Viktor scoffed, a short, dismissive sound. "And it never occurred to you that the ritual was real? That the power of the four girls would have cycled back, that they would have returned, stronger than before?" He took a slow step forward, his gaze pinning Marcel. "Why did you think interfering in the affairs of witches was a good idea? When we ruled this city, we understood the balance. Witch business belonged to witches. Wolf business to wolves. Ours to us."
His voice grew quieter, more dangerous. "But after we were gone, you… you took it upon yourself to lord over everything. You even banned the use of magic." A humorless smile touched his lips. "How ironic. Your entire existence is a product of magic. You are a child forbidding the very air he breathes."
Marcel glared back, defiance his last remaining weapon. "I kept the peace!"
"You built a prison and called it peace," Elijah cut in, his voice like polished steel. He looked at Viktor, his expression grim. "If it were my choice, I would kill him. It would send a necessary message to all second-generation vampires. It would remind them that they are not unkillable. That their power is borrowed, and can be recalled."
Viktor considered this, a flicker of dark approval in his eyes. "I like that."
"No!" Davina screamed, scrambling to her feet. "Don't you touch him!"
All eyes turned to her. Freya, who had been silently observing, finally spoke. Her voice was calm, almost maternal, but it carried an authority that silenced the room.
"Shhh, child," she said, not unkindly, but with absolute finality. "The grown-ups are talking."
She then glanced at Damon, who was leaning against a pillar, looking bored. "Damon. Take her to the witch quarters. To Agnes and the others. It's time they completed their ritual."
"No! You can't!" Marcel roared, lurching forward.
He didn't make it two steps. Stefan, who had been a silent shadow, moved in a blur. He drove his knee into Marcel's back, slamming him face-first into the concrete with a sickening crack. Stefan pinned him there, a hand on the back of his neck, and looked up at Freya with a playful wink.
Freya allowed a small, knowing chuckle to escape her lips. "Thank you, Stefan."
Damon grabbed Davina by the arm. She fought, her magic flaring uselessly against his ancient strength. "Let me go!"
"Sorry, kid. Orders are orders," he said, dragging her towards the door. Her screams echoed through the vast space before being cut off by the slam of the heavy door.
Marcel struggled under Stefan's weight, his face pressed against the cold floor. "Viktor, please! Don't let them do this!"
Viktor looked down at him, his expression one of cold, judicial consideration. He wasn't angry. That was the most terrifying part. He was simply… delivering a verdict.
"You imprisoned your sworn brothers," Viktor said, his voice low and steady. "You didn't just dagger them. You starved them. You left them in the dark for decades, conscious, feeling every moment of that agony."
He crouched down, bringing his face level with Marcel's. "You thought you were being merciful by saving one witch girl from a temporary death. But you were condemning two of your own brothers to a fate far worse. There is a profound lack of balance in your logic. A hypocrisy I cannot abide."
Viktor stood, brushing a speck of dust from his trousers. He looked at Stefan.
"Bury him."
Marcel's eyes widened in dawning horror. "What?"
"Alive," Viktor clarified, his tone conversational. "In a silver coffin. Deep enough that no one will ever hear him. He should have the opportunity to reflect. To understand what he did to Erik and Alex. To feel a fraction of their suffering."
Stefan's grin was wicked. "With pleasure."
Marcel began to thrash, a raw, animalistic panic seizing him. "No! Viktor! Elijah! Please!"
But the two older Originals had already turned away, their discussion concluded. Freya followed, not even granting him a backward glance. They walked away, their footsteps echoing, as Stefan began to drag a screaming, fighting Marcel across the floor towards a waiting, heavy silver casket.
The last thing Marcel saw before the lid slammed shut, plunging him into absolute blackness, was the indifferent backs of the family he had once called his own. The silence that followed was more terrifying than any sound. It was the sound of a kingdom falling, and a king being erased.
A/N
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