Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
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It started as a hum—a burning ache I was familiar with after a couple of daggerings. I didn't know where I was. Hadn't I already died? Twice, no less. Someone was removing the dagger from my chest. As it left, I felt my magic surge—raw and untamed. It was familiar, but echoed strangely. Comforting, yet like molten fire and burning ice in my veins.
When I was mortal in the other world, I was always drawn to fantasy—though I never understood how I could create cursed objects from the shows I watched. Now I know better: blood and runic magic. I can feel it pulsing through me. Time to look into siphoners. Let's see if I can strip and apply that particular ailment to someone.
Myself whispered my madness.
To think I'm not plotting anything is like saying Nik has turned good. I couldn't bear to watch the shows after a few iterations. I liked that Claire witch. But me? I don't think I'd form such a bond. I loved many in my thousand years of existence—but when I loved, it was wholly, fully. And when things got too serious, they either died or moved on. Because I was such a gentleman. Ha. Just thinking like that makes me cringe.
Such power. It's been a while. As I open my eyes, I see Bekah and Elijah standing there. I flash to stand before Bekah.
"Well, darling, it seems age does eventually catch up to us," I say, scrutinizing her from head to toe.
I always treated her like a gem. We brothers were very protective of her. I would've taken her to my lands if Mikael hadn't been such a pain in the ass—if I didn't fear him, especially with Esther backing him. Even as an accomplished warlock, I couldn't fight an enhanced warrior and his psychopath of a wife.
Then I glance at Elijah.
"Well, Elijah, how have you been? Is the stick still firmly lodged?"
He was always the father figure for Nik and me. I hate to admit it, but he was also the big brother Nik needed. For Nik, Elijah was the adult worth looking up to. That's why, when it came to Henrik, I treated him like my own. When Henrik was born, I was already raiding and learning magic—magic not taught by Mother or Ayana, who held their secrets close and didn't hand out power so easily.
So. Where do I hunt?
I'm bloody hungry. Nearly a hundred years locked away—again. This will be the last time. I was never caught during my centuries of gallivanting. I even hunted Mikael down and tortured him for years. That man was an abusive control freak. He never kept the stake with him until he was sure he could kill me in one of his twisted plans.
Oh, the torture he suffered.
"We have blood bags, Kol," they say.
"And what are these?"
I drink. But I can't let them know about the other life—the show, or whatever foolishness was accessed by someone who could tap into the astral plane. They got so many things wrong. The idea that Nik could be outplayed? Laughable. We were outplayed many times—fooled by Mikael. That paranoid bastard. We survived by honing ourselves in the shadow war with our father.
The only reason I died in the first place was because of my foolish siblings. Once they were sure no father or mother remained in this plane, they let their guard down—relaxed their vigilance, which we had upheld for nearly a thousand years. They forgot we still had enemies in the shadows from that long war.
And when I was frantic about bloody Silas, they thought I was crazy—throwing a tantrum. I don't throw tantrums. I do what needs to be done. They knew that, but couldn't accept it. After our parents passed, they believed themselves unstoppable—when they should've been cautious. We had faced too many horrors to grow complacent.
The fact that this little town stood after my death is a testament to their ever-present delusion of "always and forever."
And how I was not in it.
Finn? I understand him. He was our parents' heir—stoic, self-deluded, always trying to emulate them. He blamed us, and himself, for the curse Mother placed on us using dark magic. The thought of what she did still makes my blood ignite. I want to burn and salt this place to the ground.
Bekah? I could forgive. She was lost for a long time. The idea of a cure was irresistible to our little sister. She forgot there was no need to fear Nik's tantrums anymore.
The ever-hanging blade above our necks passed away with our bastard of a father. She could've loved freely. She would've had support. Even when we bickered, I couldn't bring myself to hate her.
The only time I was hurt was because of Marcel. Many in the other world assumed it was some attention-seeking nonsense. They didn't understand.
I live as I breathe—effortless and without care. I don't grow attached. I would kill children just to spare them the misery of surviving me. That would only breed hatred—and the cycle would repeat. So I left the infants and certain children alive after the massacres, placing them with unsuspecting men through compulsion.
But they daggered me… to raise a child. All because of their tantrums.
When I was alone, I always rid myself of enemies—overtly or covertly—and sent chilling messages through my massacres.
Many feared even mentioning my name near their own families, lest I retaliate.
But when I was with my siblings for a decade or two? I'm daggered again. They always toy with their prey. Oh, I enjoy the hunt—any good predator does. But it gets boring after a while.
My siblings? They go too deep into planning, forget the basics. By the time they send a message, it's too late. The damage is done. The slights delivered.
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Author's Note:So I was actually writing my finals and attending clinical exams, and afterward I got swept into clinic duties. I'll be free for most of the week now. I'll start posting again, and my new schedule will be fixed starting from the beginning of next month (which is in a week). Until then, I'll be editing and writing this fic, as well as working on my new Stark fic. The Daemon fic will also be edited.