Mystic Falls, 2007
Elena Gilbert laughed as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her friends sprawled around her on the warm grass of Wickery Bridge. High school innocence, bright futures whispered in every giggle. She didn't see the man watching from the trees — didn't feel the eyes that had seen centuries slip by like pages in a book.
Aleksandr Mikaelson stood beside the ancient oak, his coat blending into the dusk. He'd watched Katherine's line twist and bleed, yet this girl was different. The Stigma runes flickered faintly as he peered into the seams of her soul.
So much light. So much ruin waiting to bloom.
Rebekah's voice startled him — a rare thing these days. She leaned against the tree beside him, arms folded.
"You're really going to drag her into this? She's just a girl."
Aleksandr didn't take his eyes off Elena. "So was Tatia. So was Katherine. So was every girl that looped this curse around our necks."
Rebekah's lip curled. "She doesn't deserve to bleed for your war."
He turned, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "And you deserve to run forever? To lose every lover, every child you dream of? No, Rebekah. This is the last time the wheel will spin."
She slapped his hand away. "Don't lie to me."
Aleksandr's eyes glowed — Stigma runes swirling like coiled serpents. "I don't lie. I build truths sharp enough to cut the world open."
He vanished into the night, leaving Rebekah with the echo of her brother's promises.
Mystic Falls High — 2008
Stefan Salvatore walked the hallways like a ghost among the living. His eyes lingered on Elena's laugh, her kindness, the hope she stirred in his dead heart. But in the parking lot, under the glare of buzzing lights, Damon waited — leather jacket, crooked smile, chaos in his veins.
"You're doing it again, little brother." Damon's voice was a drawl, fangs just beneath the surface. "Falling for a Petrova face. Must we really dance this dance again?"
Stefan slammed him into a car, rage boiling beneath his calm. "Stay away from her."
Damon only laughed, shrugging him off. "You think you're the only one who wants to taste the girl's blood? There's bigger monsters sniffing around, brother."
A voice behind them, smooth as silk: "You're both children squabbling over the same bone."
They froze.
Aleksandr stepped into the flickering lights, hands in his pockets. Neither had heard him approach.
"Who the hell are you?" Damon spat.
Stefan felt a chill run down his spine. "I know you. You're one of them. The Originals."
Aleksandr's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The eldest, actually. Older than your petty grudges. Older than your sins."
Damon's fangs dropped, but the Alpha Stigma flickered — and pain knifed through his mind. He crumpled to his knees, gasping.
Aleksandr leaned closer, voice cold as a tomb. "The Petrova is not yours. She never was."
Stefan stepped in front of his brother, trembling with rage. "Why are you here?"
Aleksandr's gaze drifted past him, to the hallway where Elena's laughter still echoed.
"Because the world is about to turn, Ripper. And I intend to decide where it lands."
Kol lounged on a rooftop in London, feet dangling over the edge as rain fell around him. A witch sat beside him, her lips blue from the cold.
"Your brother is here. In Mystic Falls," she murmured.
Kol grinned. "Of course he is. The doppelgänger is there, the Salvatores, the witches — it's his perfect chessboard."
The witch shivered. "Why don't you stop him?"
Kol's eyes glowed faintly with his own runes, carved long ago in defiance of the eldest. "Because one day, the serpent will choke on its own tail. And I want a front-row seat."
That night, Rebekah stood over Elena's sleeping form, brushing hair from her forehead. The girl looked so much like Tatia, like the echo of a thousand broken promises.
Rebekah whispered to the shadows: "I'll protect you. Even if it means burning him."
In her pocket, the old dagger — runes etched by the witches who still dared to dream of freedom from Aleksandr's coil.
Meanwhile, the Council of Founders met in secret — never suspecting that the new Salvatore boarding house caretaker, the kindly Mr. Greene, was an Ættar operative. That the antique shop selling grimoires was laundering spells for Aleksandr's cause. That every whispered rumor about the Original family was planted carefully, like seeds waiting to bloom.
Aleksandr watched from his penthouse above the Lockwood estate — the serpent beneath the town's skin. He saw every move, every tear, every broken vow. And the Alpha Stigma drank it all in, a godless eye that would never sleep.
That night, Elena wrote by the glow of a tiny lamp:
"I don't know why I keep dreaming of him. A man in shadows, with eyes like old runes burning through fog. He doesn't speak — he just watches. I don't know if he's a nightmare… or if he's trying to protect me.
Either way, I'm afraid. I feel like my life isn't really mine. Like something old is about to wake up and swallow me whole.
Dear diary, if this is the start of my story, I hope I'm ready to write the ending."
Outside her window, Aleksandr's silhouette lingered at the edge of the woods. The serpent coiled tighter, waiting.
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