The black Polo pulled up smoothly along the cobblestone curb of the French Quarter, finally coming to a stop in front of the imposing wrought-iron gates of the Mikaelson Compound. It was the dead of night, the coldest hour before dawn. A frigid, damp air hung heavy over New Orleans, but to Ethan, the weather meant nothing.
In fact, he was burning up on the inside.
Ever since waking up from the "coma," his body felt like a furnace running at full capacity. He was practically suffocating inside his shirt, having to roll down the window just to try to catch a breath of cold air. The whole situation was making his head spin. Twilight. He had always thought those vampire and werewolf movies were pure fiction, a cheap teenage drama—but standing there, feeling his own body temperature in a constant feverish state, with unnatural strength, a short fuse ready to explode, and dealing with all this imprint mess... everything was terrifyingly real.
What the hell is happening to me?, he thought, rubbing his warm palm over his face. Am I really living the story of that bastard Jacob Black?
Ethan shook off the thought, turning in his seat to look at Hope, who was still asleep beside him, her head resting against the cold window glass. He reached out and gently touched her shoulder, shaking it slowly.
— Hope... hey, wake up. We're here — Ethan whispered softly.
Hope blinked slowly, opening her eyes bit by bit. For a fraction of a second, she looked disoriented, but the moment her eyes caught the familiar iron gates and the historic architecture outside, her posture tensed. The fleeting lightness of the car ride evaporated in an instant, replaced by a suffocating, familiar grief.
Freya turned off the ignition, and the hum of the engine died into the silence of the night.
— Let's grab the backpacks — Freya said quietly, stepping out of the car.
Ethan and Hope followed her, meeting at the trunk. As Ethan adjusted the leather backpack on his shoulder, Freya paused for a moment, looking at him with a serious, guarded expression.
— Ethan, before we go in, there's something I need to explain to you — Freya began, lowering her voice as she leaned lightly against the car. — You might notice the house seems... emptier than expected for a family like ours. My siblings—Klaus, Elijah, Kol, Rebekah—none of them can be here together right now. In fact, they can't even step foot in the same city.
Ethan frowned, adjusting his backpack strap. — Why? Is it a security thing?
— It's a curse — Freya corrected with restrained firmness. — A few years ago, to save Hope's life when she was still a child, our family had to make an impossible sacrifice. An ancient, evil force known as The Hollow was threatening to consume her from the inside out. The only way to stop it was to divide that dark magic into four pieces and seal each piece inside four Original vampires—my siblings.
Ethan listened intentively, feeling the weight of that supernatural madness mind-blowing once again.
— Because that dark magic lives inside them — Freya continued —, if any of my siblings get close to each other, or get close to Hope, that dark force awakens. It feeds on their proximity, bringing plagues to the city and threatening to tear Hope's mind apart all over again. They are forced to live miles apart, on different continents, just to keep her safe.
As they crossed through the iron gate and walked across the inner courtyard toward the stairs, Ethan frowned, putting the pieces together.
— But... what about you, Freya? If The Hollow was divided among the Mikaelsons, why can you stay near Hope when your brothers and sisters can't?
Freya slowed her pace slightly, glancing at the boy, and replied:
— As I told you before, the dark magic was never sealed in me — Freya explained, keeping her voice low so as not to echo in the quiet of the night. — The Hollow needed four immortal vessels to contain its essence. I am a witch, Ethan. If that darkness had been placed in me, it would have destroyed my body or corroded my powers. My siblings are Original vampires—immortals. Their bodies act as a permanent prison.
Hope, who was walking a step ahead, turned slightly to add, her voice calm yet weighed down by a heavy, practical tone:
— My Aunt Freya was the one who performed the ritual to separate the Hollow from me and divide it among them. She's the anchor of the family, but she doesn't carry the curse in her own body. That's why she can be here with me... but the personal cost of that for the rest of the family?
Hope stopped in front of the heavy wooden doors leading into the house, keeping her hands buried deep in her jacket pockets. Silence stretched between them for a moment before she pulled in a short, shaky breath.
— It meant growing up without my dad — Hope said, her voice barely above a whisper, heavy with a deep, raw pain. — It meant watching my family tear itself apart just so I could stay alive. The Hollow didn't scatter my family across the world just for the sake of it... it triggered a chain reaction that brought us right to where we are today. To my mother.
She didn't finish the sentence, but she didn't have to. The shadow of Hayley Marshall's death hung over every word spoken there.
Ethan looked at Hope, feeling that inner fire in his chest intensify—not because of the fever, but out of an uncontrollable, instinctive urge to step forward and protect her from the burden she carried. He swallowed hard, keeping a respectful distance, and nodded in silence.
The heavy double wooden doors of the main courtyard creaked as they opened, revealing the quiet grandeur of the Mikaelson Complex's interior. Soft, yellowish light from iron sconces illuminated the second-floor balcony and the central cobblestone area.
As the trio's footsteps echoed through the space, a tall figure emerged from the shadow of the main living room archway.
Marcel Gerard walked slowly toward them, arms crossed. His steady gaze flicked quickly from Freya to Hope, softening as he saw the girl, before turning to the young man beside her.
The moment Marcel's eyes landed on Ethan, the leader of New Orleans froze in his tracks. His expression shifted from an analytical scowl to a shadow of recognition and perplexity. He stared at Ethan's features, the line of his jaw, his posture... That face wasn't unfamiliar at all. There was something about him—an unmistakable resemblance to someone he had seen in the city a long time ago.
Right behind him, Vincent Griffith came down the final flight of the wooden staircase, wearing the stern expression of someone who hadn't slept in days, accompanied by Josh, who carried two bottles of water in his hands.
— You guys took your time — Marcel said, his voice a bit more measured than usual, without taking his eyes off Ethan for even a second. He finally stepped closer and wrapped Hope in a comforting, side-hug. — How are you holding up, kid?
— As well as I can be, Marcel — Hope replied, resting her head on his shoulder for a second before pulling back.
— The Quarter is a nervous wreck with everything that's happened — Vincent commented, stopping beside Freya and greeting her with a respectful nod. — The witches are restless, people are demanding answers, and the energy around here is way heavier than usual, if that's even possible.
Josh glanced sideways at the guy accompanying Klaus's daughter, taking note of his obvious discomfort.
— And who's this guy? — Josh asked, subtly pointing with his water bottle. — Don't tell me you brought another clueless human to New Orleans in the middle of all this mess.
— He's no ordinary human, Josh — Freya replied calmly. — This is Ethan. He's a friend of Hope's from the Salvatore School.
— Friend... — Marcel muttered, taking a step forward. He narrowed his eyes, studying Ethan with analytical intensity. — Do I know you from somewhere, kid? Or at least that face of yours... Because you remind me a lot of someone who passed through New Orleans a long time ago.
Ethan swallowed hard. His body temperature, already sky-high due to the werewolf fever, seemed to spike even higher under the pressure of that stare. The heat in his chest surged, and the wolf instinct in his veins pulsed in alert against Marcel's imposing presence.
— I doubt it — Ethan answered, keeping his voice as steady as he could, though his tone came out a bit sharp from the curse's short temper. — I grew up in California. Never set foot in New Orleans in my life.
— He's the son of that Clark from a long time ago — Freya chimed in, cutting through the tension.
The second the name "Clark" left Freya's mouth, the pieces clicked perfectly into place in Marcel's mind. Clark. The mysterious, steroid-fueled lone wolf who had put fear even into the feared Klaus, who had shown up in New Orleans in the past, helping Hayley through a rough patch. Marcel hadn't been close to the guy, but he remembered his face clearly.
Looking at Ethan and connecting the dots, an ironic realization crossed Marcel's mind: Clark clearly hadn't been faithful in the slightest, keeping other women on the side while roaming around.
Marcel didn't say any of that out loud. Instead, he just let out a short chuckle through his nose and shook his head slowly, finding it almost unbelievable how ghosts of the past always found a way to resurface at the complex's front door.
Vincent looked the boy up and down, frowning.
— Whatever the case, this kid's magic aura is a mess — the witch commented. — He's radiating heat like he's burning up with a fever.
— It's the wolf curse... it was just triggered — Hope explained, stepping forward to stand beside Ethan, instinctively shielding him from those inquisitive stares.
Marcel finally relaxed his posture, though an amused, experienced glint remained in his eyes.
— If you're Hope's friend and came to support her, you're welcome in my complex, Ethan — Marcel said. — But stay sharp. New Orleans isn't like backwoods Virginia. The problems here run a lot deeper.
— I've noticed — Ethan replied, holding Marcel's gaze without backing down.
— He'll be staying in the upper floor room, right next to mine — Hope announced. — Come on, Ethan, I'll show you where you can drop your stuff.
Josh offered one of the cold water bottles to Ethan with a friendly, faint smile:
— Here you go, man. Looks like you need this.
Ethan took the bottle, feeling the icy relief against his hot palm.
— Thanks — he appreciated.
As Hope and Ethan walked up the first flight of stairs, Marcel remained standing in the center of the courtyard, following them with his eyes. He gave another quiet chuckle to himself, shaking his head at the thought of Clark.
— What is it, Marcel? — Freya asked, catching his reaction.
— Nothing... — Marcel replied, crossing his arms with a smirk. — Just thinking that the supernatural world is way too small. And that this kid's father definitely liked to stir up trouble wherever he went.
— Yeah, tell me about it... Let's go inside. I want to talk to you guys about him — Freya said, gesturing toward the main room as Hope and Ethan's footsteps echoed upstairs.
They settled around the dark wood table in the center of the room. A heavy silence fell for a moment until Freya leaned over the table, clasping her fingers together with an extremely serious tone.
— I analyzed Ethan before we left and during the drive — Freya began. — He is a completely different kind of werewolf. I have no idea what kind of curse or bloodline he carries... All I know is that absolutely everything about him is different from any wolf I've ever encountered, seen, or heard of in my thousand years of life. His body temperature, magical aura, the speed of his body's adaptation... It doesn't follow the pattern of any known packs.
To Freya and Vincent's surprise, Marcel didn't look shocked. He leaned back in his chair, letting out a heavy sigh while spinning a glass between his hands.
— I'm not surprised — Marcel said, his voice calm and thoughtful. — From what I knew about his father... and from what Klaus himself told me years ago, Clark was unlike any other werewolf to ever set foot in this city.
Vincent frowned, curious:
— What do you mean? Wolf transformations around here have always followed the same pattern: bones breaking, the body hunching over until it becomes an actual four-legged wolf. The "canine-wolf" type.
— Not Clark's — Marcel corrected with a dark glint in his eye. — His transformation had nothing to do with turning into a regular animal. When Ethan's father transformed, he became a bipedal monstrosity. A massive hybrid, a beast over eight feet tall, broad shoulders covered in thick, dark-as-night fur, grotesque, looming muscle capable of tearing through steel with his bare hands. He kept the posture of a man, but with the hunched legs of a predator, silver claws, and a bestial jaw filled with sharp fangs, with yellow eyes that glowed in the dark like live coals. He was the pure definition of a nightmare... A true bipedal beast, like a monster out of ancient legends.
Josh swallowed hard, looking toward the staircase Ethan had just walked up.
— Holy shit... So the guy upstairs isn't gonna turn into some super monster, right?
— If he inherited his father's genetics — Marcel concluded, looking at Freya —, Ethan isn't just another werewolf trying to survive his first full moon. He is a potential bipedal beast. And if he loses control in here... New Orleans is going to have a massive problem on its hands.
Freya placed her hand on her chin, her gaze distant as she processed every detail of Marcel's description. The pieces didn't seem to fit.
— That's strange... — Freya muttered, frowning. — Because it's completely different from what my niece told me, and from what I was able to analyze myself.
Marcel and Vincent looked at her immediately.
— What do you mean? — Vincent asked, leaning forward.
— Hope told me she saw Ethan transform — Freya explained, keeping her voice low and focused. — He didn't turn into a monstrous bipedal beast like his father. His form is indeed that of a canine wolf... but he was surrealistically huge. Gigantic, almost the size of a full-grown horse, with an intimidating physical presence.
Josh let out a soft whistle, but Freya raised a finger, cutting off any jokes.
— And that's not all. There are two things about him that should be absolutely impossible — the Mikaelson witch continued, her tone growing heavier. — First: Ethan has never killed anyone. His curse wasn't triggered by taking a human life. And second... he can use magic.
A deathly silence fell over the room. For a second, it felt like even the air in the compound had stopped circulating.
Vincent nearly jumped out of his chair, his eyes wide in a mix of shock and pure disbelief. Marcel froze in place, his relaxed posture vanishing instantly, while Josh looked up from Freya to the ceiling, as if trying to absorb the weight of that information.
— Hold on... Stop right there — Vincent blurted out, his voice raised. — A werewolf who didn't need blood on his hands to trigger the curse... and who practices witchcraft on top of that?! Freya, that goes against every law of nature and supernatural blood! A witch loses their connection to ancestral magic the second they become an active wolf. It's a biological rule!
— Unless he's a natural hybrid — Freya concluded, looking at all three of them. — A direct heir of two pure bloodlines that don't cancel each other out, but merge instead.
Marcel and Vincent's minds made the connection at the exact same millisecond. Everyone exchanged silent, stunned looks.
They weren't just looking at a troubled kid with werewolf fever. They were thinking about the exact same person upstairs in the bedroom.
Hope.
— He's just like Hope... — Marcel whispered, his voice heavy with gravity. — A freak of nature. A born hybrid, not created by a spell or vampire blood.
— A natural witch-wolf... — Vincent added, rubbing his hands over his face, visibly shaken by the scale of it. — If the outside world, if the Quarter witches or the Faction find out what this boy is... Hayley's funeral is going to be the least of our problems. New Orleans will turn into an all-out war.
— And there's one more thing... which I think is the most important of all — Freya added, her grim, focused look silencing everyone around the table instantly. — He might not say anything out loud, but I've already noticed. Ethan is deeply connected to Hope.
Marcel frowned immediately, his gaze turning dangerously sharp.
— Connected how? — the vampire asked, his voice hardening. — What kind of connection, Freya?
— I felt the energy between them during the entire drive — the Mikaelson witch explained, leaning her elbows on the table. — It's not ordinary. It's an unnatural force, as if magic itself is pulling the two of them together magnetically. I had my doubts at first, but seeing them together in the car and analyzing it the whole way, I became certain.
Freya looked at the three of them, weighing her words before continuing.
— Hope mentioned this to me a while back... It's something Ethan and his mother call an imprint. It's a biological and magical mark etched into the wolf's soul. When a werewolf of his bloodline goes through this process, his entire existence comes to revolve around a single person. He becomes their protector, their shield, their unconditional partner. It's not a rational choice or a teenage whim; it's an ancestral, visceral, permanent bond that he simply cannot break.
Vincent covered his mouth with his hand, staring at the ceiling as he absorbed the absurdity of the revelation.
— My God... — the witch whispered, stunned. — A gigantic, natural witch-wolf hybrid who didn't have to kill anyone to trigger the curse, and who also shares an involuntary soul bond with the only Tribrid in the world?
— You mean the kid is biologically wired to die for Hope if he has to? — Josh asked, eyes wide.
— More than that — Freya replied, looking Marcel straight in the eye. — It means that as long as Hope is in danger in New Orleans, neither all the magic in the universe nor the strongest ancient wolf army will be able to tear Ethan away from her side.
Marcel remained silent for a long moment. He let out a deep sigh, leaning back in his chair with the grave expression of someone who knew exactly how massive the storm ahead was going to be.
— One miracle of nature was already hard enough to protect... — Marcel muttered, letting out a weak, humorless laugh. — Now we have two under the same roof.
Marcel let out a dry laugh and shook his head in near disbelief, releasing a long sigh as he tapped his knuckles lightly against the wooden table.
— This is going to be an absolute shitshow... — Marcel said, his tone shifting between irony and pure apprehension. — When Klaus finds out about this, his first instinct is going to be wanting to rip this kid's head off. You know Klaus. Hope has been through way too much lately—she lost her mother, carries the burden of The Hollow—and now some random kid shows up out of nowhere? A kid who is a walking anomaly, bound to his daughter by magic no one fully understands?
He stood up from his chair, walking over to the window overlooking the inner courtyard, staring up at the second floor in silence for a moment.
— Klaus is already an overprotective father on a good day. With everything happening in New Orleans, a wild card of this size is only going to trigger problems that are even harder to control — Marcel continued, turning back toward the group. — The last thing we need right now is Klaus losing his mind on the other side of the world because he thinks some unknown hybrid is taking advantage of Hope's vulnerability.
— Klaus can't come close because of the curse, but his influence and his eyes are still everywhere — Vincent reminded them, crossing his arms with a worried look. — If news of this bond leaks to the city's factions or reaches Klaus without the proper context, this compound's courtyard will turn into a battlefield before the sun even comes up.
— Which is precisely why this topic doesn't leave this table — Freya declared, her voice taking on the unyielding firmness of a Mikaelson matriarch. — Ethan came to support Hope during the darkest moment of her life. While we're dealing with Hayley's funeral and the threats surrounding New Orleans, we are going to protect them both—from the city's enemies and from my own brother's wrath, if necessary.
While that intense conversation unfolded downstairs in the courtyard, the atmosphere on the second floor was one of near-sacred silence.
Hope led Ethan down the hallway lit by soft yellow sconces until she stopped in front of a heavy, carved wooden door. She turned the knob and pushed it open for him to enter. The room was spacious, decorated with classic furniture and a large canopy bed in the center.
— This is your room... it's right next to mine — Hope said, keeping her voice low. She took a few steps inside, looking around before turning back to him. — We still have a few hours before...
Hope froze mid-sentence. Her words caught in her throat. She closed her eyes for a second, drawing in a shaky, deep breath, fighting the lump forming in her chest before finally managing to speak:
— ...before the funeral.
Ethan instantly noticed her hesitation and the raw pain in her eyes. That inner fire in his chest flared up again, pulling him to be her safe haven in that moment of grief. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and looked at her with a calm, genuine gaze.
— Everything's going to be okay, Hope. I'm right here with you — Ethan said softly.
Hope looked up at him, feeling the steady, comforting presence emanating from the boy. A faint, grateful smile touched the corners of her lips—a tiny respite amidst so much mourning.
— Thank you, Ethan — she whispered, taking a step back toward the hallway. — Try to get some rest.
— Okay — Ethan nodded.
— If you need anything, I'm right next door. See you in a bit.
As soon as Hope stepped out and the door clicked softly shut, Ethan let out a deep breath that felt like it had been trapped in his lungs for hours. The weight of the day, the tension of meeting Hope's "family," and the overwhelming werewolf fever finally hit him with full force.
Without wasting any time, he tossed his backpack near the bed. The heat inside his body was unbearable, making his skin burn. Ethan took off his shirt and pants, stripping down to just his boxer briefs.
He walked over to the room's large window and pushed open both wooden shutters, allowing the cold, damp early-morning air of New Orleans to flood the space. The chilly breeze hitting his bare chest brought immediate relief, even though his body continued radiating heat like a heater set to maximum.
Ethan walked over to the bed and let himself fall onto the soft mattress. He stared at the detailed ceiling for a few seconds, listening to the distant sounds of the city and the rustling of the wind through the courtyard trees, until his eyes finally grew heavy and he gave in to a much-needed rest before sunrise.