Mystic Falls, 1864
The war had drained the color from Mystic Falls. Soldiers came and went like ghosts, leaving behind widows and burned fields. The founding families gathered in shadowed parlors and church basements, whispering about vampire attacks on patrols, strange disappearances in the night.
None of them knew the real predator was the man standing at the edge of the old Lockwood crypt, pressing his palm to the stone altar.
Aleksandr watched the blood drip from a carved runic channel into a silver bowl. Each drop pulsed with magic, the Stigma weaving it into the ley lines beneath the town.
Beside him, Elijah stood, suit immaculate even in the damp crypt. "Brother, the humans are restless. The war has them suspicious of everything. Even we can't hide forever."
Aleksandr didn't look up. "Then we adapt. We remind them what they owe."
Elijah's jaw tightened. "Or we let them live their lives."
Aleksandr's eyes flickered, Stigma runes dancing through his irises like wildfire. "And if their lives threaten Rebekah's happiness? Or yours?"
Elijah didn't answer. He never did, when Aleksandr asked that question.
Lockwood Manor, that same night
Rebekah danced barefoot across the marble floors, humming under her breath as she stitched a torn hem. She looked up when Aleksandr entered, muddy boots leaving wet prints.
"Don't track that filth in here, Alex," she chided, soft but firm.
He only watched her, a shadow at the doorway. "You should pack your things."
She raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"The Council is preparing to round up the vampires turned by Katherine Pierce," Aleksandr said. "Your name is on their lips, Bekah. They'll come for you next."
Rebekah's eyes flashed. "So we run, again? You promised—"
"I promised you'd be safe." Aleksandr stepped closer, voice a blade wrapped in velvet. "And you will be. We'll go north until the flames burn out."
"I don't want to run anymore!" Rebekah slammed the needle down, tears brimming. "I want to live. I want to love, Aleksandr."
His face softened — for her, only for her. He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. "And you will, sister. One day."
She looked up, eyes wide, desperate. "When? In another hundred years? Another thousand?"
Aleksandr said nothing.
The caves beneath Wickery Bridge
Kol leaned against the stone, arms crossed as Klaus paced like a caged beast.
"They're hunting our kind in the streets," Klaus growled. "Children with torches and pitchforks. Humans. We could slaughter them all in a night."
Kol gave him a lazy grin. "And yet our dear eldest keeps us on a leash."
Klaus snarled. "I am not an animal to be caged."
Kol's eyes glinted. "Then why do you stay, Nik? You could run off with your little werewolves and witches — build your own kingdom."
Klaus bared his teeth. "Because he'll find me."
Kol's laughter echoed in the stone chamber. "Exactly."
Meanwhile, the founding families' 'secret' council
Zachariah Lockwood stood at the pulpit of the church, voice quivering as he addressed the room.
"They're monsters. Demons. Abominations. The Salvatore brothers — turned by that Pierce girl — they're proof the Originals' leash is slipping."
Thomas Gilbert rose. "And if Aleksandr finds out what we're planning?"
Zachariah's eyes were sharp, cold. "Then we die. But if we do nothing, our children die. Their children. Mystic Falls becomes their farm."
The oldest Fell cousin whispered, "There's a story that says he can see through walls — that his eyes glow red with runes."
"Then we don't speak of this again," Zachariah said, voice trembling. "Not in the open. Not to anyone not here tonight."
They didn't know the shadow already listening from the rafters, fangs bared, runes glowing beneath his irises.
Aleksandr's eyes burned through the dark, watching the seeds of betrayal bloom in the very soil he had nurtured for centuries.
A few days later
Klaus leaned over the dead body of Zachariah Lockwood, throat torn out, blood painting the ancient stone.
Aleksandr wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. His eyes, utterly calm, flicked to Klaus. "Do you doubt me now?"
Klaus met his gaze — a flicker of fear, respect, hatred mingled together. "They will rise up again. They always do."
Aleksandr tossed the bloodied cloth aside. "Then they will be reminded, again."
Klaus smiled, the feral grin of a wolf that knows the cage door is always open. "You're not the only serpent in this family, brother."
Aleksandr's smile was thin as a knife. "No. But you are the only one stupid enough to think you can bite the head off and still survive."
Rebekah watched the smoke drift from the Lockwood crypt. She felt no triumph, no safety — only the hollow chill of endless flight.
Elijah appeared beside her. "You could run, you know."
She turned to him, tears streaking her cheeks. "Would you?"
Elijah's eyes went distant — memories of centuries, of fire and ash and blood. "Not while you're here."
Aleksandr's shadow fell across them both as he emerged from the crypt. He looked at Rebekah, but his words were for them all.
"The world is changing. The Council will always rise, and I will always remind them why they fear the dark."
He took Rebekah's hand — gentle, almost fragile, but the weight of it was iron. "We will endure. We will adapt. We will rule."
Rebekah squeezed his fingers, not because she believed him — but because she had no one else to believe in.
Above them, the old oaks whispered in the wind. In their roots, the runes pulsed — binding family, town, and blood into one eternal promise:
The serpent coils. The serpent waits.
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