Mystic Falls, 1983
The summer air was heavy with honeysuckle and secrets. Two fresh graves sat at the edge of the Salvatore estate — the ink on the headstones barely dry. Giuseppe Salvatore, long dead. His sons, thought to be lost for good.
Aleksandr stood at the treeline, hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored coat. Rebekah lingered beside him, arms crossed, dark eyes fixed on the ancient manor.
"You're sure they'll come back?" she asked.
Aleksandr's eyes glowed faintly, Stigma runes shifting as he peered through time's thin skin. "Stefan was never one to stay buried. Damon… he'll claw his way out just to spit in the face of God."
Rebekah scoffed. "I liked them better dead."
"Everyone comes back, little sister. That's the point."
Rebekah glanced at him. "Are we so desperate for allies that we need two miserable brothers who can't even stand each other?"
Aleksandr's smile was thin as a razor's edge. "Allies? No. They're pawns. Beautiful, reckless, loyal to the right lies."
He gestured for her to follow. "Come. Let's greet the world's worst love story."
Two days later
The scent of fresh blood drifted through the tomb like incense. Damon Salvatore awoke first — gasping, tearing at the velvet-lined coffin with raw claws. He stumbled into the moonlight, shirt clinging to his ribs, skin pale as old parchment.
Aleksandr was waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on a marble slab. He looked like a phantom from a war Damon barely remembered — ageless, unblinking, the Stigma burning behind his irises.
"Welcome back, Damon."
Damon's fangs dropped, eyes flashing. "Who the hell are you?"
Aleksandr rose. "Your new beginning. Your old nightmare. Choose whichever story you'd like."
Stefan stirred next — eyes fluttering open, confusion turning to horror as he realized what he'd become. Aleksandr crouched beside him, pressing two fingers to Stefan's temple. The Stigma hummed — not to control, just to taste. The rippling chaos, the buried guilt.
"Hello, Ripper," Aleksandr murmured, a serpent's lullaby. "Hungry?"
Rebekah, watching from the shadows
She leaned against a tomb wall, arms folded, her gaze locked on Damon's sharp grin as he rose to his feet, already plotting. Stefan's trembling horror. She could smell the story brewing — and she hated how well Aleksandr played this game.
"They'll betray you," she called out to Aleksandr.
He didn't look at her. "Everyone does, eventually."
She pushed off the wall, stalking past him. "Maybe that's because you make it so easy."
Aleksandr only smiled. "Run if you want. You always come home."
New York, 1990
In a loft above a graffiti-stained alley, Kol Mikaelson poured wine into two chipped mugs. The witch across from him was young — maybe nineteen — tattoos of protective runes spiraling up her arms like ivy.
"You know what your problem is, Kol?" she asked, twirling her hair around a finger.
Kol raised his mug. "Do enlighten me, darling."
"You're terrified of your brother. But you'd rather taunt him than kill him."
Kol's grin was all teeth. "Kill Aleksandr? Now where's the fun in that? He's the dragon at the heart of the labyrinth. You don't kill the dragon — you lead the heroes to its lair."
The witch's eyes widened. "You're going to expose him?"
Kol downed his wine in one swallow. "No, no. I'm going to feed him just enough lies that he hangs himself with his own coils."
Outside, thunder cracked. The Ættar had found them.
Kol's eyes glowed faintly — runes of his own, stitched into his soul by a long-forgotten druid.
"Time to run again, love," he purred.
Mystic Falls, 1995
The boarding house was empty except for the fire in the hearth and the old records spinning on the gramophone. Damon poured bourbon, humming to himself — already half-drunk on blood and heartbreak.
Then the door creaked open.
Katherine Pierce stepped through the threshold like a ghost made flesh — same coy smile, same hair falling around her shoulders like a noose waiting to tighten.
"Hello, Damon."
His glass hit the floor, shattering.
"Katherine."
She stepped into his space, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't speak. Just listen."
And in the shadows beyond the window, Aleksandr watched — runes spinning behind his eyes. Katherine was never part of his design. She was a wildfire that refused to be snuffed out.
Yet in every wildfire, he found new embers to twist.
New Orleans, 1997
Rebekah stood in the courtyard of an old convent, surrounded by witches whose grandmothers had sworn blood oaths to the Ættar. Now they turned their magic against her brother.
"You really think your hexes will bind him?" she asked the high priestess.
The woman's hands trembled. "He is not a god, Rebekah. His Stigma is old, but the world's magic has changed. We can lock him away — forever."
Rebekah touched the dagger hidden in her sleeve — an old relic, forged by the Five, reworked with runes that flickered like dying embers.
"If he finds out—"
"He won't."
But Rebekah knew better. Somewhere in the world, the Alpha Stigma's eye twitched open in the darkness.
Aleksandr already knew.
Dearest Serpent,
One century down, four more to go. Still the eldest, still the warden of a prison you built with your own hands. Do you ever wonder what happens when the prison doors swing open?
When Rebekah stabs you in your sleep? When Elijah lets the dagger stay in your heart? When Klaus burns your little cult to ash?
I'll be there, of course. Laughing. Dancing. Free.
The Ouroboros devours its tail. Perhaps it's time you taste the bite.
Ever yours,
Kol
Aleksandr crumpled the letter in his fist, eyes burning with runes that cracked the glass window of his penthouse. Outside, the city lights of New York flickered like candles in the wind.
The world spun forward — toward Mystic Falls. Toward the doppelgänger reborn. Toward the coil tightening one final time.
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