The walk to the witch quarters was silent, save for the scuff of their feet on the pavement and the occasional hitched breath from Davina. Damon's grip on her arm was like iron, casual and unbreakable. She had stopped struggling, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a cold, sinking dread. The image of Marcel being forced into that silver box was burned behind her eyes.
They entered the narrow, shadowed alley that led to the heart of the witch territory. The air changed, growing thick with the scent of drying herbs, candle smoke, and old magic. It was a smell that had been suppressed for years, now breathing freely again.
The door to the main gathering place was open. Inside, the coven was waiting. Candles flickered, casting dancing light on anxious faces. Agnes stood at the front, her expression grim and resolute. Sophie was beside her, her arms wrapped around herself, looking both hopeful and deeply afraid.
Damon gave Davina a slight push, sending her stumbling into the center of the room. She caught herself, straightening up and glaring at him, a final spark of defiance in her tear-filled eyes.
"Special delivery," Damon announced, his voice cutting through the tense silence. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He looked utterly out of place—a predator in a sanctuary, yet completely at ease.
Agnes stepped forward, her gaze moving from Damon to Davina. "Thank you," she said, her voice tight.
Damon shrugged. "Don't thank me. I'm just the errand boy." His eyes, sharp and curious, scanned the room, taking in the prepared circle, the specific herbs, the charged atmosphere. "So," he began, his tone deceptively light. "What's the plan here? What are you gonna do with her?"
"That is witch business," Agnes replied, her tone firm, a clear dismissal.
"Yeah, I got that part," Damon said, not moving an inch. A faint, knowing smile played on his lips. "The whole 'it's witch business' thing is why we're all here, isn't it? Why Marcel's kingdom is currently a smoking crater." His eyes flicked back to Davina, who stood trembling but proud. "The kid looks scared out of her mind. I just dragged her from her only friend getting a one-way ticket to a dirt nap. Humor me. What's the grand design?"
He wasn't asking for permission. He was a force that had entered their space, and he wouldn't leave without some kind of answer. The witches exchanged uneasy glances. They knew what he was, the power he represented. Defying the Mikaelsons was what had gotten them into this mess. Cooperation, however reluctant, was now the only path.
It was Sophie who finally spoke, her voice soft but clear. "We're going to complete the ritual. The Harvest."
Davina flinched as if she'd been struck. "No," she whispered.
Damon's eyebrows rose. "The Harvest? Sounds festive. Involves a big pumpkin and candy? Because I could go for some candy."
"It is not a game," Agnes snapped, her patience thinning. "It is a sacred rite. Four chosen girls… their power is offered, their lives given, to fuel the ancestral magic. Their strength returns to the coven, and in return, they are reborn into the one who survives, stronger than before. It is a cycle. A renewal."
Damon's smirk faded, replaced by a look of genuine, analytical interest. He pushed himself off the doorframe, taking a slow step into the room. The witches tensed. "Hold on," he said, his voice losing its playful edge. "Let me get this straight. You kill four girls… but they come back? In the one who lives?"
"Their essence returns," Sophie clarified, her eyes pleading with him to understand. "Their power, their knowledge, it cycles back. It makes the surviving witch the vessel for generations of power. It's how our line survives. How we stay strong. Marcel interrupted it. He thought he was saving us from a massacre, but he was starving us of our future."
Damon was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on Davina. He was centuries old. He'd seen every kind of magic, every brutal sacrifice, every twisted loophole. This was a new one. A death that wasn't permanent. A murder that was, in its own horrific way, a baptism.
He looked back at Agnes. "So you're telling me you're going to… what? Slit her throat? And then she pops back up good as new, with a magical upgrade?"
"It is not that simple, but yes," Agnes said, her jaw tight. "The magic will bring her back. She will be the Regent. The heart of our power restored."
A slow, appreciative smile spread across Damon's face. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of someone who had just seen the beautiful, terrible logic of a bomb. "Well, I'll be damned. That's one hell of a retirement plan." He looked at Davina, who was shaking her head, tears finally streaming down her face. "And you're sure she comes back?"
"The magic does not lie," Agnes stated.
Damon shrugged again, a fluid, effortless motion. "Alright then. Don't let me stop the party." He walked over to a rickety wooden chair in the corner, spun it around, and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. "I'll watch."
A ripple of discomfort went through the coven. They had expected to be left to their sacred, private rite. They had not expected an audience, especially not from him.
"This is a private ceremony," Agnes protested.
"And New Orleans was Marcel's city," Damon replied coolly, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. "Things change. Consider me a… cultural observer. The Mikaelsons are back. That means we take an interest. So go on. Harvest away."
There was a long, charged silence. They could not make him leave. His presence was a statement, a reminder of the new world order. Finally, with a resigned nod from Agnes, the witches began to move.
Davina was led to the center of the room, to a circle painted on the floor in intricate, ancient symbols. She fought them now, a fresh wave of panic giving her strength. "No! Please! You don't understand! I don't want this!"
"It is not about want, child," Agnes said, her voice sorrowful but firm. "It is about duty. It is about survival."
Sophie helped hold her, her own face streaked with tears. "It'll be over fast, Davina. I promise. And then you'll wake up. You'll be so much more. You'll understand."
Damon watched, his expression unreadable. He saw the raw, human terror in Davina's eyes. He saw the grim determination in the witches. He saw the whole messy, brutal machinery of power at work. It was, in its own way, fascinating.
The chanting began, a low, rhythmic hum that seemed to vibrate in the very bones of the building. The candles flared, their flames burning a sudden, violent blue. The air grew heavy, pressing down on them, humming with gathered energy.
Davina was forced to her knees inside the circle. She was crying openly now, her shoulders shaking. She looked over at Damon, her eyes begging for help from the most unlikely of places.
He just watched, his head tilted.
Agnes raised a ritual dagger, its blade black and polished. The chanting reached a crescendo.
"From death, life," Agnes intoned, her voice echoing with power. "From sacrifice, strength. The circle must be closed."
For a split second, everything seemed to hang in the balance. The fear, the hope, the ancient magic. Damon's gaze was fixed on the scene, every sense alert, analyzing the flow of power, waiting to see if the promise of return was real.
Then the dagger fell.