Marcel was in his bar celebrating something with his vampires when suddenly he blacked out.
"That's not possible," he snarled in shock. "Damn it, it's been so long."
He almost cried. He had already let his guard down—the attacks hadn't been happening anymore.
Then he felt something burning his skin and opened his eyes in shock, finding himself tied to a chair with vervain ropes.
"Well, if it isn't Marcel."
The familiar voice made Marcel shudder.
"KOL?" he nearly whimpered in fear.
KOL pulled up a chair and sat in front of Marcel.
"I heard you stole our kingdom," KOL asked very calmly.
"Go to hell, you and your family and that cursed tree," Marcel roared furiously, struggling against the chair. "You think you can take my city from me? You can't."
"Ohhh, so the brat is tormenting you?" KOL laughed in amusement. "You're mentally strong to still have that attitude after he made you a target."
"You know him?" Marcel was stunned. Every Original vampire knew that bastard Marcel had been targeted by, but no one had ever managed to see him.
"Of course. Let's just say he tormented me too and even kidnapped me once," KOL said as if it were an old and amusing memory.
"You were kidnapped? How?" Marcel was shocked. How the hell had an Original been defeated?
"Very simple. You're just a child to vampires. Anyone over 800 years old can give an Original a good fight," Kol said sharply. He didn't overestimate himself.
Marcel stared at Kol Mikaelson as if he had heard the greatest blasphemy in the world.
"Lie." He spat on the floor. "Originals are invincible."
Kol let out a short, dry laugh.
"Invincible? No. Hard to kill? Yes. Annoying to fight? Extremely." He crossed his legs with careless elegance. "But you confuse legend with reality, Marcel."
Marcel pulled at the vervain ropes, his skin smoking where they touched him.
"So that monster... defeated you?"
Kol tilted his head.
"Defeated is a strong word. Let's say he had a special talent for appearing where no one expected, wounding the right pride, and disappearing before revenge arrived." His eyes flashed with old irritation. "Personally, I think that's rude."
Marcel swallowed hard.
"Who is he?"
Kol smirked.
"If I tell you, it ruins the fun."
"Kol!"
"Watch your tone. You're tied up. I'm sitting comfortably." He tapped the chair arm. "Clearly there's a hierarchy here."
Marcel snarled, but fear was stronger than anger.
"Why did you come after me?"
Kol leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"Because I heard you've been calling yourself king." His voice suddenly turned cold. "And I hate usurpers. Especially those who confuse temporary possession with legacy."
"This city is mine!"
"No," Kol replied immediately. "This city belongs to whoever can keep it. Today it's yours. Tomorrow it may be someone else's. Next week maybe some bitter witch with too much free time."
Marcel tried to laugh, but it came out weak.
"Did you come to kill me?"
Kol seemed to seriously consider it.
"I did think about it. But then I thought... why waste an educational opportunity?"
In a movement too fast for human eyes, Kol appeared behind the chair and whispered in Marcel's ear:
"I want to see how much of this king remains when the fear returns."
Marcel froze.
Kol reappeared in front of him holding a small object wrapped in dark cloth.
"Recognize this?"
When he opened the cloth, Marcel turned pale.
A dagger—not a normal dagger. It was something Marcel trembled just looking at.
Kol smiled when he noticed the reaction.
"Ahhh... you feel it, don't you? The energy it gives off." He spun the blade between his fingers. "Excellent."
Marcel breathed heavily.
"What do you want?"
Kol slowly stood.
"I want you to send a message." KOL looked into Marcel's eyes and moved the dagger in his fingers. "You were attacked by the Archduke. The nobility is in New Orleans."
"The nobility is in New Orleans," Marcel repeated robotically. "I was attacked by the Archduke."
Kol drove the dagger into Marcel's leg. Marcel screamed with so much force and desperation it sounded like he was dying in agony.
The screams didn't stop even though Kol wasn't moving the blade inside the flesh.
Kol vanished, and a second later Rebekah appeared in front of Marcel.
"Damn it, who did this to you?" Rebekah yanked the dagger from his leg. "Damn, this weapon is cursed."
But Marcel didn't answer. He simply passed out from the pain.
Rebekah Mikaelson caught Marcel before he completely collapsed from the chair. His body trembled as if he were still burning from the inside.
"Marcel. Marcel, look at me."
Nothing.
His eyes were open, but empty for a few seconds, trapped between unconsciousness and terror.
The wound on his leg finally began healing after the blade was removed, but far too slowly for a vampire of his age.
Rebekah looked at the cursed dagger in her hand and felt a rare discomfort.
"This didn't come from any witch in New Orleans."
She smelled the metal.
Ancient blood.
Ashes.
Something vegetal, but not ordinary wood.
Something ritualistic.
When she looked up, Kol Mikaelson was already standing in the bar entrance, adjusting his sleeves as if he had just returned from a stroll.
Rebekah lunged instantly.
"Kol!"
"Yes, dear sister, still me."
She raised the weapon.
"Explain this."
Kol looked at the blade and arched an eyebrow.
"Ugly. Unbalanced. Poor craftsmanship. Whoever made it had no sense of aesthetics."
"Stop joking," Rebekah snarled. "Marcel was attacked."
"I noticed. He's moaning dramatically on the floor."
"With a cursed weapon."
Kol approached, took the dagger between two fingers, and turned it under the light.
Inside, he almost smiled.
Perfect.
The mark engraved at the base remained intact: a crest split in half, symbol of the old vampire nobility. A dead language ran along the blade's side.
No one there would know how to read it.
"Curious..." he said aloud. "Very curious."
Rebekah narrowed her eyes.
"You recognize it?"
"Recognize is a strong word. Let's say I've read legends about similar things."
A lie spoken so lightly it sounded true.
Marcel coughed on the floor and muttered in a trance:
"The nobility... is in New Orleans... I was attacked by the Archduke..."
Rebekah froze.
"He repeated that twice."
Kol slowly turned his head, pretending surprise.
"Archduke?"
Marcel repeated, weaker:
"The nobility has returned..."
Rebekah stared at Kol.
"What the hell does that mean?"
Kol sighed theatrically.
"It means, my sister, that while you were playing little war games with Marcel and letting him think he had a chance of winning, someone arrived in the city who has far less patience."
She crossed her arms.
"You're speculating."
"I'm being the only useful one in the room."