Elijah Mikaelson was not a man to ignore omens. The encounter with the enigmatic stranger—and Rebekah's unsettling experience—left him restless. He knew the usual channels would yield nothing; this was a threat that slipped through memory and logic alike. So he turned to those who still listened to the old ways: the witches.
He traveled to a remote village where a respected coven kept watch over the ley lines. The air was thick with incense and whispered incantations as Elijah entered the witches' circle. Their leader, a sharp-eyed matriarch named Mireille, greeted him with wary respect. Witches and vampires had a long, complicated history, but Elijah's reputation for honor preceded him4.
"I seek your counsel," Elijah began, bowing his head slightly. "There has been a disturbance—something ancient, nameless. My sister and I have both encountered… a presence. One that cannot be remembered, yet refuses to be forgotten."
Mireille exchanged glances with her council. "You are not the first to come with such questions," she admitted. "Since the storm, our magic has faltered. Spells unravel, visions cloud. We sense a shadow, but it has no name in our records."
Elijah produced the rose that Sagar had left with Rebekah. "He gave her this. Its magic is unlike anything I have seen."
The witches examined the rose, their hands trembling. One of the younger witches recoiled. "It's as if the magic itself is… laughing at us."
Mireille nodded gravely. "There are stories, but they are only warnings—taboos passed down from before the Originals. Of a force that was sealed away, erased from memory, because to even speak of it was to invite chaos. We thought it was just myth."
Elijah's jaw tightened. "If this is not myth, then it is a threat we cannot fight with strength alone. I need to know how to protect my family."
The witches began a ritual, drawing a circle with salt and herbs, chanting in an ancient tongue. The air grew heavy, the candles flickered, and for a moment, Elijah felt the presence again—a shimmer at the edge of perception, a sense of being watched and weighed.
The vision that came was fractured: a storm raging over a crossroads, shadows dancing, laughter echoing through the thunder. The witches gasped, some collapsing from the strain. Mireille's voice was hoarse as she spoke: "He is not a man, not a monster. He is a storm given form. You cannot kill a storm, Elijah Mikaelson. You can only hope to weather it."
Elijah left the circle with more questions than answers. The witches had given him a warning, but no solution. As he returned to the estate, the rose in his hand seemed to pulse with secret amusement.
Somewhere nearby, Sagar watched, unseen, delighted by the confusion he had sown. The game was only just beginning.