The old plantation house stood silent under the moon, a monument to a past the Mikaelsons had long outlived. Damon moved toward it like a wounded animal returning to its den. His head still throbbed with a phantom echo of the ancestral assault, and the taste of Agnes's blood was a coppery stain in his mouth, a temporary balm that couldn't wash away the humiliation.
He didn't go to the grand front entrance. He headed for the side veranda, a shadow drawn to another. And there she was, as if she'd been waiting. Katherine Pierce, leaning against a white column, her dark eyes missing nothing.
She took one look at him—the disheveled hair, the bloodstains on his shirt, the grim set of his jaw that had nothing to do with his usual smirk—and she knew.
"They tried something, didn't they?" she said, her voice a low, knowing murmur. No greeting, no pleasantries. Just the sharp recognition of a kindred spirit who knew the scent of betrayal.
Damon didn't answer with words. He closed the distance between them in three long strides, his hand cupping the back of her neck, and kissed her. It wasn't gentle or playful. It was a desperate, claiming thing, an anchor in the chaotic storm of his rage. It was a reminder of what he fought for, who he was.
When he finally pulled away, breathing heavily, he rested his forehead against hers. "I love you," he breathed, the words raw and stripped bare.
A small, knowing smile touched Katherine's lips. "I know," she whispered back. It was all that needed to be said.
Damon managed a faint, tired smile of his own, the first genuine expression since the cemetery. Then the mask of the soldier slid back into place. "I need to see Viktor. Now."
Inside, the grand parlor was a tableau of predatory elegance. It wasn't a casual gathering; it was a war council. Viktor sat in a high-backed chair, a king holding silent court. Elijah stood near the fireplace, a glass of bourbon in his hand, his posture ramrod straight. Freya was examining an ancient text on a side table, her fingers tracing the lines of a spell. And Kol was sprawled on a chaise lounge, looking bored, but his eyes were sharp, missing nothing.
Klaus was notably absent, likely sequestered with Hayley, his world narrowed to the promise of his child.
All eyes turned to Damon as he entered, Katherine a silent shadow at his side. The air in the room shifted, grew heavier. They saw the blood, the lingering tremor in his hands, the cold fire in his eyes.
"Report," Viktor said, his voice flat. It was not a request.
Damon didn't sit. He stood in the center of the room, the story pouring out of him in clipped, brutal sentences. The completed ritual. The three Harvest witches resurrected as spectral avatars. Davina, left lifeless on the tomb. The ancestral message: The Mikaelsons are not welcome.
He saved the worst for last. "They attacked me. A psychic assault. The kind that shreds your mind from the inside out. They thought they'd finished me." His lip curled. "Agnes learned otherwise. The rest of the coven now understands the price of betrayal."
A deadly silence fell upon the room. It was broken by a slow, dramatic sigh from Kol.
He swung his legs off the chaise, sitting upright. "Oh, for the love of… I leave them alone for a few decades and they get ideas." He shook his head, a teacher disappointed by his star pupils. "This is my fault, in a way. I taught their grandmothers half the tricks in their grimoires. Taught them the fun stuff, the messy spells that really get a point across. It seems they've forgotten who provided the spark for their little flame."
He stood, rolling his shoulders, a dark, gleeful energy crackling around him. "I'll handle this. Personally. It's only right. I need to remind them where their power comes from. And more importantly, where it ends."
"No."
The word came from Freya. She closed her book with a soft thud and turned to face them, her expression one of cool pragmatism. "This isn't a job for reckless vengeance, Kol. This is a strategic problem. The ancestral magic is now actively hostile. This requires finesse, not a tantrum. I should be the one to deal with them. I can speak their language. I can dismantle their connection to the ancestors from the inside. You'll just make martyrs."
Kol's eyes flashed with indignation. "Finesse? They just declared war on our family! They attacked one of ours! This isn't a time for 'finesse,' it's a time for a object lesson! I made them! I can unmake them!"
"Your idea of 'unmaking' involves leveling city blocks, brother," Elijah interjected calmly, taking a sip of his bourbon. "Freya has a point. An all-out assault on the witches now, when their power is at its peak, could be costly. We have other concerns." His gaze flickered meaningfully toward the stairs, where Hayley was.
"Other concerns?" Kol laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "They drew first blood! Or did you miss the part where our messenger was nearly turned into a vegetable? This isn't just about territory anymore. This is about respect. And they have none."
The debate swirled around him, but Damon's eyes were locked on Viktor. The Tribrid had remained silent through it all, his gaze distant, processing every variable.
Kol turned to him, his voice dropping to a persuasive, venomous purr. "Brother, think about it. They used the magic I gave them against us. It's an insult. A personal one. Let me go. Let me remind them of the hierarchy. Let me show them the true face of the monster who used to sing them to sleep with stories of carnage."
Viktor's eyes finally focused, moving from Kol's passionate face to Freya's resolute one. The room held its breath.
"Kol is right," Viktor said, his voice quiet but absolute. The words landed with finality. "The insult is personal. The response must be personal. It must be memorable."
Kol's face split into a triumphant, terrifying grin.
"However," Viktor continued, cutting his eyes toward Freya, "Freya is also right. Brute force alone is wasteful. The ancestral well is now poisoned. It needs to be capped."
He stood, his presence instantly dominating the room. He looked at Kol. "You have your wish. Go. Remind them of their place. Make it a lesson their grandchildren will whisper about."
Then he turned to Freya. "And you, sister. You will go with him. While Kol provides the… distraction… you will sever their connection to the ancestors. Permanently."
It was the perfect, brutal solution. A two-pronged attack that played to each sibling's strengths. Kol would be the firestorm, and Freya would be the silent frost that killed the roots.
Kol gave Freya a wide, mocking bow. "Well, sister? Shall we go teach some witches why you never bite the hand that feeds you darkness?"
Freya's lips tightened, but she nodded. It was not the plan she would have chosen, but it was a plan that would work.
As they moved to leave, the air in the old plantation house crackled with impending doom. The Mikaelsons were not just pushing back. They were preparing to erase a part of the city's very soul. And New Orleans, for all its magic, had no defense against a wrath this ancient and this coordinated.