Mystic Falls, 1864
Smoke curled from the old church roof as Aleksandr Mikaelson watched from the treeline. The townsfolk had rounded up Katherine Pierce and her fledgling vampires — and now the flames devoured both truth and myth alike.
Rebekah stood beside him, wide-eyed at the screams echoing through the forest. "They're killing them."
Aleksandr's arms folded behind his back, coat brushing the ground like the hem of a funeral shroud. "Yes."
"You promised—" she hissed.
"I promised you would be safe," he said, voice as cold as the grave. "And you are."
Rebekah's fists clenched. "Those boys — the Salvatores — they didn't deserve this."
Aleksandr's eyes flicked to the burning church. "And yet, they will survive. Death is only a door, sister. Sometimes you need to burn the house down to build it stronger."
Rebekah's lip trembled. "What about Katherine?"
Aleksandr tilted his head. In the flames, he saw the shimmering outline of her face — smirking even in death, eyes like polished onyx. He could almost taste the threads of fate wrapping around her neck.
"Let her burn," he said softly. "The line will return."
Days later
In the cold shadows of the Salvatore mausoleum, the two brothers clawed their way back to life. Damon, fangs bared, collapsed over an empty blood bag, eyes red with rage. Stefan sat opposite him, trembling, the veins beneath his skin writhing like serpents.
Aleksandr watched them from the shadows, Rebekah at his side.
"They're monsters now," she whispered.
Aleksandr's eyes narrowed, unblinking. "No. They're seeds."
He stepped forward. The brothers froze — feral animals trapped in new skin.
"Hello, Stefan. Damon," Aleksandr said, voice smooth as silk.
"You did this," Damon snarled, blood dripping from his chin. "You let her turn us."
Aleksandr raised a brow. "No. You let her."
Stefan's eyes shimmered with grief and guilt. "Why? Why didn't you stop her?"
Aleksandr knelt, so close they could see the runic glow flicker behind his irises. "Because your bloodlines are important. Because your children's children will one day be the key to something greater."
Damon spat at his feet. "What are we to you — livestock?"
Aleksandr's smile was almost kind. "No. You are the reminder that the serpent's coil never breaks. Live. Die. Kill. Be killed. You belong to this town now — and to me."
months later
The Alpha Stigma's runes danced in the damp cave, drawing the shape of a woman's face in pale, spectral lines. Katherine's lineage. The Petrova blood. Doppelgänger after doppelgänger — Tatia, Katherine, and the next one yet unborn.
Kol leaned against the cave wall, bored. "You're obsessed with that girl's line."
Aleksandr never looked up from the glowing runes. "The doppelgänger is a loop in nature. An echo that calls power back to us. Esther bound it to us the day she made us."
Kol scoffed. "She did it to bind Klaus's hybrid curse, not feed your snake cult."
Aleksandr's eyes flashed — and Kol flinched as he felt the Stigma press into his mind, an ancient pressure that made him shudder.
"I don't feed my cult, Kol," Aleksandr said softly. "I am the cult."
He pressed his palm into the stone. Magic rippled through the ley lines, anchoring the Petrova blood to Mystic Falls for another century.
"Each time the bloodline is reborn, it comes back to us," Aleksandr murmured. "Klaus will try to break the curse. Elijah will try to love them. Rebekah will envy them."
Kol tilted his head. "And you?"
Aleksandr smiled — a serpent's grin. "I will watch the wheel turn."
New Orleans, 1899
By the end of the century, Aleksandr's influence stretched far beyond Mystic Falls. The Ættar had grown into a clandestine syndicate that made the rising American elite bow their heads. New Orleans, full of witch blood and Creole secrets, became the second coil of his serpent.
Aleksandr stood in a private parlor overlooking Bourbon Street, violin music drifting up from the streets below. His newest acolytes — witches, werewolves, humans desperate for immortality — knelt in a half-circle before him.
One of them, a Creole witch named Seraphine, raised her head. "Master Mikaelson… what is it you wish for us to guard?"
Aleksandr lifted a hand, revealing a small vial of Petrova blood, swirling like liquid rubies.
"This," he said. "When the doppelgänger rises again, she will be drawn here. To us. To me."
Seraphine shivered. "And if the witches of the Quarter resist?"
Aleksandr's eyes gleamed. "Then the Quarter will drown in blood."
Paris, 1901
Brother,
Your network grows. But so do the cracks in our family. Klaus grows restless in Europe. Kol plots in shadows I can no longer reach. Rebekah longs for a mortal life you keep pushing further away. I know you believe in your purpose — in the Stigma's promise — but I fear you see us as pawns now. Even me.
If I must remind you: we are family first, Aleksandr. The serpent must never devour its own tail.
Yours, always,
Elijah
Aleksandr read the letter beneath the moonlight of the New Orleans courtyard. When he finished, he tucked it into his coat pocket — next to a new map of Mystic Falls, where the next Petrova child would one day be born.
His eyes closed, lashes brushing his cheek as the Stigma flared behind them. For a moment, the runes burned so bright they cast his shadow across the entire garden wall.
"Family first," he whispered.
But beneath the words, the serpent's voice echoed back:
Power first. Always.
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