Chapter Text
The door slammed shut in Kol's face. The sound hammered in his ears, louder even than the silence that swallowed the room after. Nik hadn’t even let him finish and Elijah’s look had said it all. Kol’s eyes burned into the dark wood, but it didn’t budge. Not like it used to when he would’ve ripped the damn thing off its hinges, just to make a point. Now, the wood held firm under his stare, the silence hollowing him out as the seconds dragged by.
Beyond the door, his brothers’ voices rose again, loud and self-important. Talking about their family’s future, his future, without him.
His fists curled so tight his nails bit into his palms. Again. Left outside the circle. Just the shadow they tolerated, the mistake they couldn’t admit to. Some things never changed. Not for him. The same door, same voices, the same damn feeling crushing his chest, reminding him where he really belonged: beneath them all.
Kol’s fingers twitched, desperate for action. A floorboard groaned as he turned sharply and cursed. His jaw flexed.
Fine.
Let them have their precious adult conversation. They could keep their little council of kings, scheme like rats behind the walls, and pretend they were not winging it like the rest of them. Like any of it meant something without the groundwork he’d already laid. The long nights, the half-deciphered texts, the trail of whispers only he had bothered to follow.
How the hell could they be so fucking blind? The mirror was out there: a weapon that could bring down all of them…if the legends held any truth. And they had the nerve to shove him aside. As if now was the time to start thinning their own ranks. As if they could afford that kind of arrogance. They needed every mind, every instinct on this.
Pathetic.
The heat inside him was threatening to flare. Kol drew a slow breath and squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly where this path led: rage, recklessness, more bloody chaos. It was what he used to do best.
But he also knew something else: he wasn’t a child anymore. Though God, the child in him wanted to burn it all down just to feel warm. Instead, he stood there like the good little brother he was. Breathing. Thinking. Trying.
A muffled thud came from somewhere down below. Not loud, but distinct enough to cut through the bickering behind him. Kol’s head snapped toward the sound. He frowned. Rebekah. She had taken her sweet time. What was she doing down there?
Just like that, the fire dimmed. A prickle went down his spine. He waited, straining for another sound. Somewhere below, the old grandfather clock ticked its steady rhythm. But besides that, nothing. No voices, no footsteps. Just the patient ticking, and the heavy quiet around him.
Probably nothing. Maybe she was busy sighing into some wide-eyed fool’s collarbone, convinced—for the hundredth damn time—that he was the one.
Kol scoffed. Hopeless. That would never change.
Still, the quiet didn’t ease. A nagging thought twisted in his gut. With their family’s history, trouble finding his little sister wouldn’t be a surprise. She could handle herself—of course she could. He needed to check. Just to be sure.
He crept down the corridor, steps measured, face carefully blank. Klaus’s old oil paintings lined the walls, their cracked varnish catching the low light. They always watched, but tonight they felt... expectant.
He didn’t like this. Rebekah was rarely this quiet. But he couldn’t show his worry. Forcing a casual tone that didn’t fool even him, he called out, “Rebekah, for the love of—”
The smell hit him mid-sentence. He was already at the stairs before he realized he’d moved. It rolled over him, sweet, metallic, delicious. The instinct was always there, waiting, always hungry.
Blood. Human. Fresh. A dark grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. Ah, perfect. So much for his fleeting moment of concern. The girl got hungry. What a shock.
Then, unhurried, he crossed to the railing that lined the upper level of the compound, the wide mezzanine that looked out over the foyer below.
He leaned forward, expecting the usual: bloodstains on the floor, maybe a broken body, maybe Rebekah with red lips and a smug expression. But from this vantage point, all he saw was empty marble stretching beneath him, the twin staircases curling down to the entryway on either side.
No Rebekah. No body. Which meant she had to be-
He took a breath, the scent still clear as day. Of course. She was still near the doors, out of sight, just beneath the overhang of the balcony. The blood was coming from there.
“If you’ve left me scraps, at least make them interesting”
“God forbid I have a moment without your commentary.” Rebekah’s unimpressed voice floated up just from below.
That was answer enough. Kol’s grin widened as he descended the staircase lazily, letting the scent guide him like a trail. It thickened more with each step, coating the back of his throat. Kol frowned. Feeding left traces: red streaks, a punctured vein, a drip here and there. This? This was a lot of blood. More than a mess. Enough to mean something.
Halfway down, he caught his first glimpse: Rebekah hunched over someone, her form inconveniently blocking his view. But even from his position he could see her hands moving fast, pressing hard. She was trying to stop the bleeding.
Now that was new.
He took another step. The figure beside her came into view, slumped against the wall, near the front door. Legs splayed, head tilted at an unnatural angle. He opened his mouth to shout something, then froze. The angle shifted and Kol caught a glimpse of dark hair, a flash of skin…
…and something in him stuttered. In a blink, he was downstairs, marble cold beneath his boots. His chest seized, his hands curled into fists before he could stop them. One look at the face, and the world dropped out from under him.
Damon Salvatore.
And with him came everything Kol had buried. The sharp crack of oak tearing through his heart. The fire, gods, the fire, ripping through his veins, devouring him from the inside out. Not just the memory, but the feeling of it. His legs wobbled, threatening to give way, as if the floor itself wanted to swallow him. He could smell it, too: the stench of burnt flesh, his own. He remembered clawing at the floor. Remembered screaming.
No one had come for him. No one had mourned him.
His chest rose, too fast. The world blurred, the weight of it pressing in.
A soft, broken sound pulled him back, barely audible, more breath than voice. Damon shifted slightly on the ground, his head turning just enough to smear more blood across the marble. His eyelids fluttered. Not awake. Not aware. But alive.
Kol blinked, and the vision of flames licking up his own arms vanished just as suddenly as it had come.
The sound of fabric ripping split the air. He took back a step and blinked. Rebekah was still kneeling over Salvatore, now half of his soaked shirt in her hands and the other probing gently along the edge of gash at his side to gauge its depth. She was trying to help that bastard.
“Are you completely mental?”.
His voice broke. He wasn’t even angry. It was more confusion, disbelief. Betrayal.
“Bekah,” he said. “Tell me you’re not actually helping him.”
She didn’t meet his gaze. Just shifted slightly, as she folded the fabric and pressed on the torn flesh with the soaked strip of shirt. The raw, low sound Damon made should’ve been satisfying. It wasn’t.
Kol stared daggers into her back.
“After everything?” Kol’s voice dropped, brittle now. “He’s the reason I fucking died.”
“You’re forgetting how it really ended,” Rebekah’s other hand hovered briefly over a cut across Damon’s forehead, fingertips brushing the edges of the torn skin, careful not to worsen it. “Elena killed you. With Jeremy’s hand.”
Then she finally raised, mouth pressed into a line, her chin slightly lifted, eyes sharp and unforgiving as she met his gaze.
“And if anyone’s pointing fingers, don’t forget who nearly shredded the Gilbert boy limb from limb.”
Kol flinched, then shook his head. He knew it hadn’t been just them. Knew he’d made his choices, too. But knowing didn’t stop the ache. Didn’t stop the image of them turning their backs as he burned.
“Look, I know what I've done,” he snapped. His tone was almost mocking, but too hollow to be cruel.
“But I didn’t deserve to die! I certainly didn’t deserve a family who let me rot. And now, now you’re playing Florence Nightingale to a bloody Salvatore?”
Rebekah didn’t answer right away.
“I couldn’t save you. Not then.”
He gave a sharp laugh, though there was no humour in it. Only disbelief. Only betrayal.
“So that’s how it works now, is it? Pretty boys get a pass? Because he groans nicely when he bleeds? Or you just patch up murderers while our family burns?”
He turned away. But not before she saw it. Just for a second — the thing underneath all the anger. Not rage. Not even hatred.
Grief.
“This isn’t about him,” she said, more to herself than to Kol. Her gaze flicked to him, sharp and fierce. “It’s about the mirror. You know what it can do. We need every ally we can get.”
Kol stilled and turned back, his face darkening. His jaw clenched so tight she could hear the faint grind of teeth.
“The mirror?” he bit out. “Are you seriously telling me he, of all people, is connected to the damn thing?” He took a step back, scoffing. “A Salvatore? Really?”
Rebekah’s face tightened, but she didn’t break her stance. “You don’t have to like it, Kol. But it’s the truth.”
Kol’s gaze sharpened, a sly smirk curling up the corner of his lips. “Ah. So that’s it. You think he’s got the answers, don’t you?” His voice lowered, dripping with something darker. “Or are you trying to prove something to them? Nik, Elijah? Show them you’re useful after all.”
Rebekah didn’t flinch at his words, though the tension in her jaw told him she had heard them. She had long since stopped being the naive little sister who used to fall for every trap Kol set. Instead she stood tall, her focus unbroken.
“He was barely conscious when he showed up at our door, Kol. Mentioned the mirror and said someone was hunting him for it. Whatever this is, it’s big enough that Damon Salvatore came to us for help.”
Upstairs, glass shattered, followed by the sound of a table flipped over. There was a brief pause, just a beat too long. When the voices returned, they were quieter, carrying a weight that felt final.
Kol shook his head slowly, and rolled his eyes. “Lovely evening. Just what I hoped for.” He leaned back against the stone column at the base of the staircase, his arms crossed, as he listened to the row upstairs. “Nik’s having one of his fits again, Elijah’s probably quoting Plato to calm him down…” He trailed off, drawling, “And here we are, doing all the bloody work. As usual”
The study door wrenched open with a sharp creak. Footsteps echoed a heartbeat later, moving toward the staircase.
Rebekah inhaled sharply before setting her jaw. This wasn’t going to be pretty. Kol shifted, unbothered. A knowing smile curled at his lips. He didn’t need to see them to know how this was going to go. And he couldn’t wait.
Let them walk into this mess blind.
It was so much more fun that way.
A beat later, two sets of footsteps echoed on the upper landing. Kol didn’t bother turning. He tipped his head back and drawled, “Ah. The dynamic duo arrives. Come to assist, or just grace us with another episode of dysfunction?”
Elijah and Klaus stepped into view at the top of the staircase. Elijah composed, hands clasped behind his back, Klaus already seething.
Kol smirked at the ceiling. “Something tells me you’re not-”
“Of course it’s you.” Klaus snarled. “I exile you for five bloody minutes and now there’s a corpse on my doorstep? How predictable.”
He was already barrelling down the stairs in a blur of movement, fast enough to send the curtain flaring from the rush of air.
Kol didn’t blink. He just shifted against the wall, voice dipped in mock innocence. “Tempting. But not guilty.”
Klaus hit the marble floor hard, boots skidding slightly on blood.
Damon slumped near the front wall, half in shadow beneath the balcony overhang. Blood pooled across the marble. Rebekah crouched nearby like a lioness.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Klaus demanded, gesturing toward Damon like he was roadkill. “Last I checked, the brooding reject was playing house in Mystic Falls. So why is he leaking on my floor?”
Klaus’s voice still echoed when Elijah reached the landing, his steps precise with unhurried grace. He took in the scene in one glance and simply arched a brow.
“Rebekah,” he started coolly as he approached her, eyes fixed on Damon as if he were a wine stain marring white linen. “Enlighten me. Why is there a Salvatore bleeding on our floor like a sacrificial offering?”
At that moment Damon stirred. His brow creased faintly, lips parting like he meant to speak.
Nothing came out. Just a rasp of breath and a broken sound, barely a whisper. Rebekah leaned closer. Then the tension in his body vanished and he became limp once again.
Rebekah stepped forward, shoulders stiffening as she opened her mouth to speak, but Klaus beat her to it.
“Still breathing,” he said, a frown tugging his lips downward. “How utterly inconvenient. I’d hoped we’d at least been spared the sound of his voice.”
Kol gave a snort. “Some gratitude. He hasn’t even ruined the rug yet.”
Klaus turned his head, slow and sharp. “Keep talking, Kol. I’ll make sure you join him on the floor.”
“Really, one of you couldn’t just snap his neck and rid us of this farce? A quick, clean end to this miserable mess?”
Rebekah scoffed, shifting her weight as she shot him a glare. “Oh, really, Nik. Did I ruin your day by not committing casual murder?” Her voice was steady but fierce, chin raised defiantly.
“Besides, don’t act bitter just because someone else got their revenge on Damon before you could.”
Klaus’s glare didn’t waver. “Next time you want to play nurse, do it somewhere that isn’t my home.”
“Next time,” Rebekah shot back, “maybe I’ll let him bleed out on our doorstep instead.”
“Rebekah. Niklaus.” Elijah’s voice cut clean through the room, calm but laced with warning.
“As riveting as your theatrics are, might I suggest we address the bleeding guest before the foyer turns red?”
He gave Klaus a long look, then moved silently toward Damon and crouched beside him. His fingertips skimmed through the dark drops before he slowly lifted his hand, watching as crimson painted his skin. Then he gently peeled away the blood-soaked fabric Rebekah had pressed to the wound. A fresh stream of crimson oozed from beneath, sluggish but steady.
“This wasn’t an accident.”
Without missing a beat, Elijah folded the cloth once more and pressed it firmly back to Damon’s side. His gaze lifted, sharp and steady, locking onto Rebekah. “Rebekah, now would be an excellent time to speak.”
At that Rebekah folded her arms across her chest, taking a slow, measured breath before answering. “He showed up like a bloody mess, talking about a mirror. I’m not about to turn him away when that’s exactly what we’ve been hunting.” Rebekah met her brothers’ gazes.
“If he’s truly being followed or lying, I’ll handle it. But right now, he could be the lead we need.”
Klaus laughed. “Oh, please,” he drawled, shaking his head. “Damon Salvatore? The man could delude himself into sainthood if he said it enough times.” He scoffed and studied the unconscious man sprawled on the floor. “Pathetic,” he muttered. He turned back to face Rebekah, his smirk replaced by a more calculating look.
“And the real tragedy is that you actually believe him.” he said, incredulous. “Look at him…helpless, fragile, almost too perfect a victim. Right when we’re desperate for answers, he just appears, broken, babbling about mirrors?”
Kol exhaled a bored sigh and stretched lazily, throwing Klaus a smirk. “Really, Nik? Maybe you should start checking for hidden cameras, just in case we’re all secretly watching you stumble through your grand monologue.”
He pushed away from the wall and took a casual step forward, his gaze flicking from Klaus to Rebekah and back again. “Come now. I see what this is…you’re upset that Rebekah, and I figured it out first. Don’t think I missed the little fit you threw upstairs. I suppose that’s what happens when you’re too busy being a legend in your own mind, huh?”
Klaus’s face hardened. And just like that, the tension in the room shifted. He took a slow step forward, his expression unreadable. “You know, Kol,” he murmured, “you have a remarkable talent for knowing exactly how far to push me.”
Kol’s smirk grew wider. Klaus’s eyes flared gold, the faintest crackle of veins spidering beneath them. He stepped forward again, arms twitching at his sides like they ached for violence. “Careful, brother. You’ll bruise your reputation lunging at me like a common thug.”
“Must I separate you?”
Rising from his crouch with unhurried grace, Elijah’s fingers remained slick with blood. Not another word passed his lips as he reached into his jacket and withdrew a pristine white handkerchief. The silk caught the low light as he methodically dabbed at his hands.
Klaus opened his mouth, fury coiled and ready to strike, but Elijah merely lifted one elegant finger.
“Enough, Niklaus.” The words snapped through the room like a blade unsheathed. “We are not children bickering over a broken toy. There is a man bleeding on our floor, and not one of you is behaving like that matters.”
“So,” he continued, voice as smooth as it was sharp, “unless we’re eager to drown in our own theatrics, I suggest we return to the matter at hand.”
Silence stretched between them, settling into his younger siblings’ bones.
Then, with the same slow precision, Elijah folded the bloodstained handkerchief, once, twice, each crease sharp and immaculate. He set it on the table beside him with the reverence of laying down a blade.
When he finally turned to Rebekah, his tone gentled. “Do you believe he’s telling the truth?”
“Yes.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary. The set of her shoulders spoke louder than words, squared in that familiar, unyielding way that dared anyone to question her. Rebekah didn’t bluff. Her loyalties were chosen with the same care as a blade before battle. And Elijah had long since learned the cost of underestimating either.
At last, he exhaled through his nose, then straightened his cuffs with the care of a man preparing for war.
“Very well. Then we’ll listen.”
He pivoted toward his brothers and calculated them, all gentleness gone. First Klaus, bristling and impatient. Then Kol, coiled in silence and unreadable.
“I expect your cooperation,” Elijah said, voice calm but leaving no room for interpretation. “And if either of you find that difficult…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Kol’s smirk flickered, then vanished altogether. He turned away, his shoulder hitting the wall harder than it needed to. He stared out into the half-lit corridor beyond the stairs, jaw taut.
Klaus’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing.
Elijah crouched beside Damon once more, fingers steady as he peeled back the now soaked, useless cloth. Blood had slicked across Damon’s side in a sluggish, crimson trail, but it still flowed. Not fast enough to kill him outright. Not slow enough to ignore.
Two wounds.
His eyes swept over them with the sharp precision of a blade being drawn. The head injury was worse than he’d hoped. Split skin at the temple, already purpling with bruising. He reached up, gently lifting one eyelid. The eye twitched sluggishly in response.
“Concussion,” he announced. “And if the blow was hard enough to open skin, we monitor for hemorrhage.”
Behind him, Kol shifted. Elijah didn’t look. “Rebekah,” he called, still watching Damon’s uneven breathing. “Hold pressure. This will require stitching. I’ll retrieve what we need.” Then he rose in one smooth motion, already slipping off his jacket, and moved with efficient purpose toward the hallway.
Rebekah didn’t answer. She was already at the table, retrieving the discarded cloth, then back at Damon’s side, kneeling to press it firmly to the wound.
Elijah’s voice cut again. “Kol. Sweep the perimeter. Eyes sharp. If someone followed him, I’d prefer not to greet them once they’re already inside.”
He paused. Glanced over his shoulder, voice dropping like steel wrapped in silk.
“And Niklaus…”
The name carried weight. A warning. A dare.
“If Kol finds anything, I assume you’ll want to be the one they meet.”
Klaus didn’t answer right away.
He just stared down at Damon: unmoving, unconscious, bleeding on the floor of their home like a gift no one had asked for.
Then, with a scoff and a flash of teeth, he stepped over the body like it was a rug.
“Oh, don’t worry, brother,” he said, already stalking toward the front doors. “If there’s someone waiting out there, I’ll give them a proper welcome. Something warm. Possibly violent.”
His fingers flexed once at his sides, that familiar hum of violence curling in the air like static.
Kol hesitated.
Not because of fear. But because, for the first time in a long time, the stakes felt real. Damon, broken and breathing, was a living contradiction—an echo of Kol’s past agony, yes, but also a thread that tied directly to the thing none of them could afford to ignore.
The mirror.
He clenched his jaw. Then gave Rebekah a dry look before following his older brother to the door. “If this goes sideways, I’ll say I told you so.”
Klaus reached the front doors and slowed. His head tilted, just slightly. Then he inhaled once, deeply. His nostrils flared.
And he smiled. Sharp. Eager.
“Wolves,” he murmured, like it was a prayer answered. “Close.”
A beat passed.
Then his grin widened, all teeth and promise.
“A whole pack.”