The year was 1720. After centuries of shadowed travels, we came to the New World — to New Orleans, a city young but already dripping with ambition, greed, and blood. To humans, it was opportunity. To us, it was destiny.
It was there that we found him.
A boy.
He stood in the square, no more than ten years old, ragged, bloodied, and half-starved. Soldiers dragged him through the dirt, laughing as they whipped him. But even broken, he did not cry. He glared at them, defiant, fists clenched though he had nothing to fight back with.
Aurora's crimson eyes flared, her voice sharp with fury. "They torment a child for sport."
My rage boiled hotter than fire. In a blur, the soldiers fell, their screams cut short, their blood spilling into the earth. When the dust cleared, the boy stood trembling — but unafraid — staring at me as though daring me to strike him too.
A Nameless Bastard
Aurora knelt, her voice soft. "What is your name, child?"
The boy's lips trembled. "…I have none."
Aurora frowned. "None?"
His eyes dropped to the ground, shame mixing with fury. "My father is a noble. My mother… a slave. He used her, then cast her aside. When I was born, he called me a mistake. He would not name me. He said I was nothing."
Aurora's jaw tightened, fury burning in her eyes. She reached for his cheek, but he flinched away, too used to cruelty.
I knelt before him. I knew that pain all too well — the sting of being called a bastard, of being rejected by the man meant to protect me.
I met his eyes, fierce and unyielding. "You are not nothing. And from this night forward, you are mine. You need a name. And so I give you one."
I placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and proud. "You will be called Marcellus. It means little warrior. For that is what you are — a fighter who stands even when the world tries to break you."
The boy's eyes widened, tears welling not from pain but from hope. "Marcellus…" he whispered.
I smirked faintly. "Marcel, for short."
For the first time, he smiled. And in that moment, he was no longer nameless.
The Confrontation
But a name was not enough. The man who had cast him aside still lived in luxury, while his son starved. That night, I sought him out.
He was seated in his richly furnished office, wine in hand, arrogance in every line of his face. "You presume to enter uninvited, stranger?"
I did not sit. I stood over him, my eyes burning. "I've come to speak of the boy."
He sneered. "That bastard? The mistake I sired on a slave? I should have drowned him at birth."
My fists clenched. "You dare call him a mistake? You left him nameless. You let men beat him because of his blood. You are a despicable human being."
The noble scoffed. "And what of you? Do you not own slaves? You are a noble, are you not? You should understand."
The word understand lit my fury ablaze. In a flash, my hand shot across the desk, seizing him by the throat. My eyes blazed red, fangs bared inches from his skin.
"You think I understand? No. I was a bastard myself, despised by my father. But even he gave me a name. You gave your son nothing."
I dragged him from his chair. "You will come with me. Tonight, you will face what you created."
The Torture
I threw him to the ground in the courtyard of our compound. Aurora, Elijah, Rebekah, Kol, Henrik — all gathered as Marcellus stepped forward, his small fists clenched.
"Do you know who this is?" I asked him.
Marcellus's jaw tightened. "My father."
The man spat blood. "You are no son of mine. You are filth. Born of a slave's womb. You will never be a Gerard."
I placed a whip in Marcellus's hands — the same one the noble had once used on him.
"Then prove him wrong," I said. "Show him you are stronger."
The boy's hands trembled. "He used this on me."
"Yes," I said firmly. "And now it is yours. Take your vengeance, little warrior."
The crack of leather silenced the night. Marcellus struck again and again, each lash echoing, each scream tearing through the air. Aurora's eyes glistened with a strange pride, Rebekah turned away in anguish, Elijah stood rigid, unreadable.
When at last Marcellus dropped the whip, his chest heaving, he whispered, "Am I like him now?"
I knelt, seizing his shoulders. "No. You are stronger. You chose to fight back. You are no mistake. You are Marcellus Gerard. Marcel, my son. And you will never be powerless again."
With that, I turned on the noble. My fangs sank into his throat, ripping it open. His body fell limp to the stones. His legacy ended with his final scream.
Spoils of the Dead
The next day, I returned to his estate. Behind his silks and portraits, I found a great iron safe. I tore it open with my claws and found riches beyond measure — gold, silver, bonds, deeds. By mortal reckoning, millions.
But it was not the gold that came first. It was the slaves.
They gathered in the yard, their eyes wide with fear.
"Your master is dead," I told them. "You are free. Leave and never return… or stay and work for us. But you will not be slaves. You will be paid, clothed, and fed. Serve me, and you will never fear again."
Some fled at once, vanishing into the streets. Others stayed, hope sparking in their eyes. The Mikaelsons had their first loyal human servants — not slaves, but followers.
Riches and Power
That evening, I returned to the compound with carts of gold and treasure. My siblings gathered as I dragged a chest of coins into the hall. Without a word, I hurled it at Elijah's feet.
The lid burst open, coins spilling across the floor.
"Put that into the safe," I said with a smirk. "Tell me, brother… what are we now? Are we still the richest family in the world?"
Elijah bent, his eyes widening slightly despite his calm demeanor. "By mortal standards, yes. By immortal ones… perhaps unrivaled."
Kol whistled low, flipping a coin between his fingers. "Nik, you certainly do know how to make an entrance in a new world."
Rebekah arched a brow, smiling faintly. "And here I thought we came to New Orleans for peace. Trust you to bring a fortune and a war in the same breath."
Aurora stood with Marcellus at her side, brushing his hair gently. "Not war, sister. A kingdom. And every king needs his crown."
I looked down at the boy — no longer nameless, no longer powerless.
"Yes," I said quietly. "And together, we will build it."