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Chapter Text

The classroom smelled faintly of charcoal, varnish, and cheap coffee—the trifecta of any community college art department. The air buzzed with the scratch of pencils, the murmur of brushes on canvas, and the occasional huff of frustration from students trying to turn their inner worlds into something visible.

Mercy sat in the back corner as always, her sketchbook open across her lap, a charcoal pencil gripped tight in her calloused fingers. Her eyes flicked between the blank paper and the image behind her eyes—the one that had haunted her dreams for weeks.

A man. Sharp eyes, sharper cheekbones. A mouth always on the verge of a smirk or a snarl. He never spoke in her dreams, just stood in the shadows, watching. Waiting. She didn't know his name, didn't know where he was from, only that he mattered. That he was the beginning of something.

So she drew him. Again.

Her fingers moved fast, almost automatically, as if memory, not thought, guided her. Shadows bloomed under the jaw. Lines deepened between the brows. The smirk—no, the threat of one—hovered on his lips. He was beautiful, in that way predators sometimes were. Dangerous. Familiar.

Her hand froze. A sharp pulse ran down her spine like a dropped needle.

She turned her head slowly. The classroom door had opened late, and someone new had walked in.

Tall. Broad shoulders under a dark wool coat. Dark blond hair, messy but elegant. Eyes like fractured gold—burning with centuries of suspicion. He scanned the room like a wolf surveying the flock and began making his way inside.

He was the man from her dreams.

Mercy snapped her gaze down to her sketchbook, heart thundering in her chest. Not real. He couldn't be real. She was losing it again.

But when she dared to peek up, he was sitting a row in front and two seats to the left of her, already pulling out a stool, looking utterly bored. His eyes hadn't found her yet. At least, she didn't think they had.

She stared at the drawing. Then back at him.

Her lungs forgot how to work.

She didn't know how long she sat like that, hands trembling over her page. The class was well underway by the time she forced herself to breathe, to keep sketching, pretending like nothing had just shifted beneath her feet.

The teacher, a wiry man named Professor Klint, droned on about composition and light theory. Most of the students had begun copying from the still life at the front of the room—a boring setup of fruit and a broken teapot—but Mercy couldn't look away from the man sitting across from her.

He didn't participate. Just watched. Occasionally, he'd scratch a single line onto a blank page, then pause for long stretches. Watching the class, watching the teacher.

Halfway through the session, she realized his sketchpad was still mostly empty.

Figures. Pretty face, no follow-through.

She turned back to her page.

Then she felt it—his gaze.

It crawled up her spine, heat and weight wrapped together. She looked up and locked eyes with him.

He didn't look away.

His lips curled, slightly. That same almost-smile she'd drawn. There it was. Real. Right in front of her.

Her stomach twisted.

When the class ended, the students bolted like it was a race. Even the professor didn't linger. Mercy stayed, as she always did. She hated crowds. Hated people. Needed the silence after so much noise.

She hoped he would leave.

He didn't.

She kept her head down, packing up slowly, pretending to focus on the pieces scattered across her desk.

And then—

"Well, well. What do we have here?" The voice was smooth, British, and lightly mocking. "An admirer, I hope?"

Mercy froze.

He was standing behind her, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the sketchbook she'd left open.

She looked at the page. Looked back at him. Resigned herself to yet another conversation that would probably end badly.

"You're finally here," she said, quietly.

His head tilted, amusement instantly giving way to something colder. Wariness. Suspicion.

"Pardon?" he said.

"I've seen you. In my dreams. Over and over. Always you. Always this face." Her words tumbled out, breathless. "I didn't know what it meant, I still don't, but I knew you'd come. This room. This class. You."

His eyes narrowed. "And what, exactly, do you think that means?"

She swallowed. Her mouth had gone dry.

"I don't know yet. But it's not a coincidence."

He glanced again at the drawing, then at her. "What's your name?"

"Mercy."

He cocked an eyebrow. "That's dramatic."

She shrugged. "My foster mom named me after the virtue she said I didn't have."

Something flickered in his gaze.

He extended a hand, oddly formal. "Klaus."

Of course it was. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did.

She hesitated, then shook his hand.

And the second their skin touched—

The world tilted.

A roaring filled her ears. Images slammed through her mind like floodgates breaking open—fire, screaming, blood filling a lake, a tall man with rage in his eyes, a blade in his hand. Death.

Mercy gasped. Her eyes rolled back. She jerked once, twice, then slumped against the table.

"Bloody hell—" Klaus caught her before she fell.

The moment their skin touched, something snapped inside him. Not gently. Violently.

Heat surged through his chest like someone had jammed a hot iron into his sternum. His grip locked tighter—reflexive, defensive, possessive.

His instincts—finely honed, cold-blooded—should've screamed trap. But instead, they screamed protect. Shield her. Keep her breathing.

And that only made it worse.

Because he didn't protect people. He used them. Broke them. He certainly didn't tremble at the idea of losing someone he'd just met.

This wasn't magic. This wasn't some spell or hex. This was something else.

Something older. Raw.

It coiled deep in his bones like a memory he didn't know he had.

And he instantly hated her for it

Her body convulsed in his grip. She was whispering now—no, chanting.

"Mikael... Mikael... he's coming... he's almost here..."

Klaus went still.

The name hit him like ice water down his spine, giving him whiplash.

He hadn't heard that name spoken aloud in years. Not since—

No. It wasn't possible.

He looked at the girl—Mercy—still twitching, eyes unfocused, muttering things she shouldn't know.

He grabbed a pencil from the table and shoved it into her hand.

"Draw," he snapped. "If you can see something, show me."

Her hand moved like a puppet's—jerky, uneven—but it moved. She scratched furiously across the paper, still not fully conscious.

And then she collapsed against the desk, pencil falling from her hand.

Klaus looked down at the drawing.

It was a man. Tall, brutal, with eyes like pits of black fire. Holding a blade.

Mikael.

He hadn't seen that face in nearly a decade, but he'd never forget it.

Klaus's grip on the girl tightened.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked.

She didn't answer. Her head lolled. She was half-conscious, lips parted, breath shallow.

Klaus stared down at her. For a long, long moment, he didn't move.

Then he muttered, "Looks like you're coming with me."

"Okay," she slurred, barely audible.

And passed out cold.

Chapter Text

She came to in the passenger seat of a moving car.

A strange car. Soft leather, clean smell, music low enough that she felt it more than heard it. Her head pounded like someone had cracked open her skull and stuffed lightning inside.

She blinked hard. Her limbs were lead. Her mouth tasted like metal.

"Good, you're not dead," said a familiar voice beside her.

She turned her head. Klaus. One hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the window like this was just another Tuesday. He didn't look at her, but he didn't need to. She could feel him watching her all the same.

"Where..." She swallowed. Her throat was raw. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe," he said smoothly. "For me, mostly. And maybe for you, if you don't try anything stupid."

She closed her eyes again. Her fingers curled into her lap. "I didn't mean to do that."

"No?" His voice sharpened. "Then what exactly did you mean to do when you muttered my father's name like a bloody seer and sketched his face in perfect detail while nearly unconscious?"

Her silence was answer enough.

Klaus glanced over. "Who are you, really?"

"I told you," she murmured. "My name's Mercy. I get visions. I didn't ask for them. I don't know how they work. I just see things."

He didn't speak for a long moment. Then:

"And how long have you been seeing me?"

She hesitated. "Weeks."

"And you didn't think to tell anyone?"

She gave a dry laugh. "Tell who? The nice people at Child Services? They pretty much threw me out as soon as I turned 18 a few weeks ago. Oh! Maybe the art teacher I barely know? 'Hi, I'm drawing this immortal vampire hybrid I keep dreaming about and also his murderous father Mikael is coming to kill him and his siblings.' That'd go over super well."

Klaus stared straight ahead, jaw tight. "You're lucky I don't drain you just for saying his name."

"You could try," she said. "Not sure it would work."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

She turned to the window, her voice soft. "I'm not a witch, but I'm not sure if I'm totally human either. Honestly, I don't know what I am. I just know... magic doesn't stick to me. Never has. I've been cursed. Hexed. Nothing works."

Klaus didn't respond. Not immediately. But his grip on the steering wheel shifted, like the wheels in his head were starting to turn. 

"Why are you telling me this? People don't usually give information so freely. Especially not those with the potential to be used as a weapon or worse."

Mercy curled in on herself, arms crossed tight. "I learned a long time ago that keeping quiet doesn't get you a thing—usually you still end up hurt anyways."

Klaus's jaw twitched but he made no comment. 

She sighed, "Look, I get it. You don't trust me. You think I'm playing some game. But I've been drawing you since before I knew your name. And Mikael? He's not just coming for you, Klaus. He's already moving."

That got his attention.

"He's going for your family," she said. "Your sister. Then the others. I saw it in flashes, like static on a broken TV. But it's real."

Klaus pulled the car to a stop.

They were parked behind a nondescript brick building, somewhere just outside the city. She didn't recognize it. But he got out and opened her door like she was a misbehaving child being led to detention.

She followed. Slowly. Her legs were still wobbly. The vision had taken a lot out of her.

Inside, it was an apartment. Sparse. Stylish. Too clean to be home, too expensive to be temporary. There were no personal items, just a few paintings on the walls—brooding things, sharp and modern.

He closed the door behind her and locked it.

"You're not leaving until I understand what you are," he said.

She frowned. "You just going to keep me here?"

He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Something like that."

She moved past him and collapsed on the couch, exhaling slow.

"Fine," she muttered. "Just... Can I have some water? Or coffee. Something."

To her surprise, a glass of water was placed on the coffee table in front of her a minute later. She drank greedily.

Then she caught him watching her again. Like she was some puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

"What?" she asked. When he was quiet for too long, she sighed. "All you have to do is ask, I'm basically an open book."

He sat on the edge of a nearby chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"Alright then, you said Mikael was going for Rebekah first."

Mercy nodded, swallowing another mouthful of water. "Yeah. She's in a white house. By the woods. Small town. It's somewhere close, Virginia, I think, maybe Maryland. I didn't get a street name. Just a visual. She's... scared, but stubborn. She's hiding something. I don't know. But Mikael finds her."

Klaus went still.

"And then?" he asked.

Mercy's fingers twisted in her lap. "Then he goes after Finn and Kol. They're daggered, right?"

That earned her a sharp look.

"You saw that?"

"I saw their coffins. He knows where they are. Or he will soon. You need to move them."

Klaus stood and began pacing. She could feel the storm building in him, like thunder behind his ribs.

She spoke again, softer this time. "Then Elijah. He's last. He holds out the longest."

Klaus turned to her.

"You saw all this."

"Yes."

He moved so fast she didn't see him. One second he was by the window. The next, he was crouched in front of her, staring into her eyes like he was trying to peel back the layers of her soul.

"I don't know what you are," he said, voice low. "But if you're lying to me—"

"I'm not."

"—I'll kill you."

She met his gaze. "Okay."

That stopped him. He blinked. Just once.

"Okay?" he echoed, incredulous.

"I get it," she said. "You've lived too long, been betrayed too much. But I've been doing this a long time too—my whole life. You're not the first person who's tried to use me for their own personal gain and you won't be the last. So, if you think scaring me is going to make me cry or run, you really haven't been paying attention. You might have stuck me in your car,  Klaus, but I'm here of my own free will. So yeah. Okay. Kill me if you think I'm lying."

They stared at each other in silence.

Then Klaus straightened and stepped back.

"You're infuriating," he muttered.

"So I've been told."

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing again. Then, abruptly: "We leave in the morning."

"To get Rebekah?"

"Yes. And if she's not in that house, you'll see first hand how I deal with people who betray me."

Mercy leaned back on the couch. "Fair enough."

He looked at her, arms crossed. "There's a guest room. Second door on the right. You'll stay there. Try anything, and I'll know."

She gave a sleepy salute. "Aye aye, Captain."

Klaus didn't dignify that with a response. Just turned and disappeared down the hall.

Mercy waited until she heard a door close before she exhaled fully. Her hands were still shaking.

She didn't lie about what she'd told him but she also hadn't told him everything. Not yet.

Like the fact that when she drew Mikael, she'd felt something else.

Something dark.

Something ancient.

She dragged herself to the guest room, collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, and didn't wake until morning.

Chapter Text

The car ride was quiet.

Too quiet, Mercy thought.

Klaus hadn't said a word since they left Georgia. He'd woken her with a grunt, thrown her in the passenger seat, and now they were two hours deep into Carolina backroads. Pines whipped by in blurs of green and shadow. The sky above had dulled from blue to pewter, thick with the threat of rain.

Mercy glanced at him.

His jaw was locked, eyes focused—but not just on the road. He was thinking. Fuming, really.

She turned her gaze out the window. "You still don't believe me."

"I believe you're inconvenient," he muttered.

Mercy smiled faintly. "I've been called worse."

A beat of silence.

"Why keep me around then?" she asked. "You don't believe in what I see. You don't trust me. So why am I still breathing?"

Klaus didn't answer immediately. The engine hummed, a constant growl under the tension.
He didn't have a good answer—and that infuriated him more than her question.

Because he'd felt something. The brief moment his skin had touched hers the day before—something had snapped inside him. It was raw, instinctive, unwanted. As if a locked door inside him had blown open, letting in heat and noise and something he couldn't name. And he'd spent the entire night rubbing his sternum, where the feeling seemed to settle.

He'd paced. He'd raged. Drank every ounce of bourbon on hand hoping to drown it. But it clung to him. The heat of her touch. The way his pulse had kicked like it was answering a call. A call he hadn't meant to hear.

A spell, maybe. That had to be it. Some subtle magic. She said she wasn't a witch—but so had plenty of liars before her.

There was something about her. Something in him bristled every time she was near. His senses sharpened. His guard rose. His temper coiled, ready to strike—not because she threatened him, but because she didn't. Because some part of him reacted before his mind could shut it down.

"I haven't decided," he said at last. "You could be bait or entertainment."

Mercy raised her eyebrows. "Am I supposed to be scared or flattered?"

"Just aware."

She folded her arms across her chest. "You're wasting time pretending you're not curious."

That made him glance at her.

"Curious about what, exactly?"

"How I know things I shouldn't," she said. "Things about you. Your siblings. Mikael."

His eyes narrowed. "You don't know anything about Mikael."

She tilted her head. "I know he hated you more than the rest. I know he saw your very existence as an insult. And I know... you might bear his name, but never your father's son."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Klaus refused to look at her again.

Mercy watched the road stretch out ahead. "You want to keep me close, not because you think I'm right. But because you're waiting for the lie to reveal itself. For the con to slip."

"Isn't it?" he asked tightly.

"No," she said, quietly now. "I see things. I feel them. And they're starting to get clearer. Like puzzle pieces falling into place. Someone is digging up things that should've stayed buried."

Something inside him twitched at her words. That same impulse—to protect—reared its head again, sharp and unwanted. The way she spoke, like she was standing on the edge of something vast and dangerous, made his chest tighten.

He hated it.

There was a part of him—small, treacherous—that believed her. That wanted to believe her. Like he could trust her.

But trust was a luxury he'd carved out of himself centuries ago.

So he forced the instinct down. Smothered it. He would not be ruled by anything—not fate, not fear, and certainly not her. He'd burned whole cities for lesser provocations. And he'd do it again before letting someone like her worm her way into his mind.

"Where are we going?" she asked after a moment.

"Virginia."

Mercy blinked. "You're listening."

"I'm humoring you."

She smiled again, but said nothing.

⸻

They arrived at dusk.

The house sat just outside town—a white colonial-style home with ivy climbing the porch rails and woods pressing in close behind it. A wrought-iron gate marked the front, groaning open like something reluctant and alive.

Klaus led the way to the door, tension rolling off his shoulders like heat.

"Let me talk to her," Mercy said suddenly.

Klaus gave her a look. "She hasn't seen me in nearly two years. You think she'll let a stranger in?"

Mercy didn't flinch. "I think she'll listen better if you're not the first face she sees."

A long beat. Klaus opened his mouth, then shut it. Nodded once.

"Try not to collapse again."

Mercy stepped to the door and knocked.

It creaked open moments later.

Rebekah Mikaelson stood in the doorway, barefoot, a mug in her hand and suspicion on her face.

She looked Mercy up and down. "You're not Amazon."

"I'm not," Mercy said. "But I am here to help you."

Rebekah frowned. "Do I look like I need help?"

Mercy didn't answer. She reached slowly into her bag, pulled out a sketchpad, and held it open. On the page, in charcoal and ash, was the image she'd drawn days ago: a tall man, face obscured, fire in one hand, blade in the other.

"You're in danger," Mercy said quietly. "And your brother is here."

That got her attention.

Rebekah's eyes narrowed. "Which one?"

Klaus stepped into view before Mercy could answer.

"I'll give you one guess," Klaus said as he strolled into view.

Rebekah groaned. "Bloody hell. I knew the air smelled foul."

Mercy stepped aside as Klaus entered, ignoring the way the siblings squared up like dogs circling the same bone.

"You're not welcome here, Nik," Rebekah said.

"I'm never welcome anywhere. But I go where I please."

She looked past him to Mercy. "Who's the stray?"

Klaus smirked. "An unexpected complication. Try not to scare her off just yet."

Rebekah looked unimpressed.

Mercy sighed and sat down on a low bench near the door. "You people have serious attachment issues."

Rebekah's glare cut between the two of them. "Why are you here?"

Mercy rubbed her temples. "Because someone's coming."

The words hit like a dropped stone.

Rebekah's face shifted. "Who?"

Klaus crossed his arms. "She insists it's Mikael."

Rebekah sighed. "Impossible. We dealt with him."

Mercy lifted her eyes. "Did you? Or did you bury something that doesn't stay dead?"

A flicker of something—doubt, fear—passed across Rebekah's face. But she covered it with a scoff. "You brought a psychic. Cute."

Mercy stood. "I don't care if you believe me. But I'm here to help."

Rebekah crossed her arms. "In exchange for what?"

Mercy's eyes unfocused. The shift was subtle—barely a breath. Then the air tightened like it was holding something back.

And she collapsed.

No warning. No sound.

Her body hit the floor.

⸻

The vision seized her.

A hallway. Dim light. The soft creak of a door swinging open.

Mikael stood just beyond it—massive, calm, blade in hand. Not striking. Waiting.

He moved through the room like a shadow. Silent. Unstoppable.

Rebekah. Kol. Finn. Elijah.

All subdued—trapped by magic, bound and bleeding.

Not dead.

Captured.

And Klaus—chained. Broken open.

"You'll watch them fall," Mikael said, eyes locking on Klaus. "And when there's nothing left, I'll break you too."

The vision cracked—

And suddenly she was in a car, staring down an endless road. Someone else's hands on the wheel.

She caught a glimpse in the rear view mirror.

Mikael's eyes stared back at her.

⸻

She jolted awake, gasping.

The silence was oppressive.

Klaus was already beside her, gripping her shoulders. His voice was hoarse, strained with a sharpness he couldn't temper. "What did you see?"

She looked at him, breath shallow. "He's close. He's... he's coming tonight."

Rebekah went still, her bravado faltering.

Klaus helped Mercy sit up, his hands lingering on her arms longer than necessary. He told himself it was to steady her. But the truth was harder to swallow—something in him couldn't let go. The same bloody feeling from before, still gnawing at his sternum like a half-healed wound.

"You saw him?" he asked, quieter now. The edge of command was there, but underneath it, something else.

"Yes," she rasped.

Rebekah stepped back. "No. No, this is ridiculous."

Mercy's fingers trembled as she reached into her bag again. She pulled out her sketchbook, and quickly drew the image that felt branded in her mind now.

A symbol.

Three lines. Two crosses. A vertical slash through the middle.

Rebekah's breath caught. "I haven't seen that since—"

"Your childhood," Mercy finished. "Carved into a tree behind your home. He used it to mark his kills."

Rebekah nodded sharply, pale.

Mercy looked up at Klaus, locking eyes.

"He's using it again."

The room fell silent.

For the first time, Rebekah didn't scoff. She didn't argue.

She looked at Klaus. "If she's right..."

"I am," Mercy whispered.

Rebekah hesitated.

Then, with a sharp inhale, she turned and began packing without another word.

⸻

That night, holed up in a new hideout Klaus had secured somewhere in West Virginia, Mercy sat curled on the couch, still pale from the vision. Rebekah sat beside her now—not close, but not distant either.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," Mercy said softly.

"You did," Rebekah replied. "But it's better to be afraid than dead."

Klaus stood in the doorway, watching them both. It was unsettling how calm the girl was about the things she saw, too familiar with the nightmare.

Mercy stared out the window, her voice a low hush. "He's not just after you. He's after all of you. All six."

Klaus stepped forward, something catching in his chest. "Six?"

She nodded. "Rebekah. Elijah. Kol. Finn. You."

"That's only five," Rebekah said. "There's no one else."

"There is," Mercy whispered, eyes slipping shut. "A woman. I don't know her name yet, but she's like you. She has your blood. She's part of this."

Klaus turned sharply to Rebekah, but his sister only stared at Mercy in confusion.

"There's no sixth sibling," Rebekah said. "Not alive at least."

"There is," Mercy murmured. "And when we find her, she'll help you destroy him."

Then she slumped sideways, sleep taking hold of her, before either of them could speak.

Chapter Text

Mercy woke with the taste of fire in her throat.

It wasn't real, not in the physical sense. Her skin was cool, her pulse steady. But behind her eyes—everything burned.

And a name echoed louder than any flame:

Elijah.

She shoved the covers off her legs and stumbled toward the table. The sketchbook waited where she'd left it, half-finished lines glaring up like unanswered questions. She grabbed a pencil.

Klaus hadn't stirred. He'd passed out sometime after midnight, sprawled sideways across the other bed, one arm draped off the edge and his boots still on. He'd drained two bottles of bourbon and ignored every word she said after sunset.

"Doesn't matter," she muttered, scribbling faster.

⸻

They left by dawn.

Klaus didn't protest when she said Elijah's name. Just tossed a bag in the car and barked at Rebekah to move faster.

Rebekah, to her credit, didn't complain. But Mercy saw the way her hands shook as she buckled in, the way her eyes lingered on every passing road sign like she was memorizing escape routes.

Mercy didn't blame her. She'd seen what Mikael did to people.

They drove for hours.

Mercy watched the trees blur. Something inside her kept whispering that they were too late. But the fire hadn't reached Elijah yet—not in the dream, not in her bones. Not yet.

⸻

He answered the door in bare feet and a pressed linen shirt, casual and composed. Like this was a social call.

"Elijah," Rebekah breathed, pulling him in for a hug.

He smiled softly, then looked over her shoulder. "Niklaus. I assume this isn't a courtesy visit."

Klaus said nothing. Just stepped aside so Mercy could be seen.

Elijah's brow lifted.

"And who might you be?"

"Mercy," she replied.

"Fitting," he murmured. "Though from the look on my siblings' faces, I imagine your presence is more ominous than it sounds."

Mercy opened her mouth to explain. Found she couldn't.

That happened sometimes.

Her gift didn't always cooperate—especially when the future she'd seen started to shift. Then the words got tangled, caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat, too heavy to push out.

She looked at Klaus.

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, brilliant. Now you've gone quiet."

A beat. He sighed.

"She sees things," he said, gesturing vaguely. "Knows things she shouldn't. Can't always be bothered to explain them in a timely fashion."

"She warned us," Rebekah added. "Before Mikael showed up."

Elijah's smile didn't falter. But his eyes sharpened. "Come in."

The house was beautiful in a quiet, lonely way. Dustless. Pristine. Unlived-in.

Mercy walked slowly through the main hall, fingers brushing the back of an armchair. It smelled like books and aged scotch. Elijah's sanctuary—cut off from the noise of the world.

It reminded her of the better foster homes she'd been in. The kind where no one raised their voice or showed affection. Clean. Cold.

"You live here alone?" she asked as he poured drinks.

"I find solitude... efficient."

"Solitude's not the same as peace," she said.

He turned. "No. But it can feel like a close cousin."

⸻

They gathered in the parlor, each sibling claiming their space like predators in uneasy truce.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting shadows along the polished wood floors and dancing across the walls. Outside, the wind hissed through the trees—restless, like something waiting.

Elijah stood near the sideboard, glass of scotch in hand, his posture precise, controlled—ever the diplomat. He swirled the liquid once before sipping, eyes flicking to Mercy with polite detachment.

Klaus leaned against the mantle, arms crossed, tension humming beneath his stillness. His gaze rarely left Mercy.

Rebekah perched beside her on the edge of the couch, legs crossed at the ankle, fingers drumming lightly against her knee.

The silence was brittle. Mercy could feel it in her bones.

"So," Elijah said, breaking it with practiced calm. "Tell me what you've seen."

Mercy's fingers curled around the edge of her seat. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with the weight of old wounds and deeper fears. Her voice was steady, but her pulse fluttered.

"Your father is alive," she said, deciding to keep to the facts for now. "And he's hunting you."

Elijah didn't blink. "And how would you know that?"

Mercy exhaled slowly, willing herself not to look away. "As Klaus so aptly put it, I see things. Visions. Sometimes dreams. Sometimes... less clear than that."

Elijah set his glass down with a soft clink. He tilted his head, offering a thin smile. "How very Greek oracle of you."

Mercy didn't smile back. "I saw you," she said. "Alone. Feeding off a bartender in Mississippi. You left a trail. Mikael found it. He's tracking it now."

The fire popped, the silence that followed sharp and immediate.

Rebekah blinked. "You were in Mississippi last month."

Elijah's jaw flexed. "I was careful."

But something in his voice had changed. The first crack in his polished mask.

"Not careful enough," Mercy said.

"And you expect me to believe this on faith?"

Mercy wanted to sigh but she held it back. This family was deeply untrusting. She'd never had to try so hard to convince someone they were in danger. She met his gaze without flinching. "No. I expect you to believe it because I'm not lying."

Elijah leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. "Miss Mercy. People lie all the time. Sometimes even to themselves."

Klaus rolled his eyes. "Now now, brother, she's been right before."

Elijah straightened, more interested in Klaus's interest in the girl than anything. "Being right once doesn't make her a prophet."

"I didn't say she was a prophet," Klaus muttered, jaw tight. "But she could be useful."

Mercy's throat tightened. She stood.

"I'm not here to play games. You can believe me or not, but if you wait too long to decide, he'll find you. And none of us will have time to debate it."

There was a pause.

Then Rebekah spoke, voice quieter now. "She's not wrong."

Elijah's face remained unreadable, like a statue carved of patience and suspicion. "I need proof."

Klaus sighed, head tipping back toward the ceiling like he was asking the heavens for patience.

"Then let's get you some," he said, already moving.

⸻

He returned two hours later with a witch.

The door creaked open and a gust of cold air swept in with them, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth and burnt herbs. The woman who followed Klaus inside was tall and unnervingly still.

Her skin was pale as bone, her eyes two stormclouds that seemed to flicker when the light hit them wrong. Her long silver hair had been braided back from her face into sharp rows that gleamed like wire. She wore a black shawl threaded with something that shimmered—metal? Bone? Mercy couldn't tell. She didn't want to.

But she felt her body react before her mind could catch up. Every nerve screamed.

Her name was Wren.

And her presence made Mercy's skin itch, like ants crawling beneath it.

"I've used her before," Klaus said as he stepped aside to let Wren pass. "She can sift through memories."

Mercy instinctively backed away, the hairs on her arms standing on end. "That's not a good idea."

Wren smiled.

Her teeth were a little too sharp, her lips a little too red. The way she looked at Mercy felt like peeling wallpaper back from damp wood—like she could already see the rot inside.

"It won't hurt," she said, almost kindly.

"Don't lie," Mercy whispered. "It always hurts."

Her hands clenched at her sides. The pressure in the room was building. She could feel the magic even before it was cast—gathering like storm clouds, prickling her lungs with the weight of something unnatural.

Klaus stepped closer, eyes hard. "Do it."

Rebekah moved beside him, uncertain. "Nik, maybe this isn't—"

"He wants proof," Klaus snapped. "We're giving it to him."

There was fire in his voice—but not cruelty. Desperation, maybe. Or guilt wearing anger like armor.

Mercy met his eyes.

Her voice was small, but raw. "Please don't do this. I'm an open book remember? You just have to ask."

For a heartbeat, Klaus didn't move. His face didn't change—but something flickered behind it. Regret, maybe. Though that seemed wrong. Klaus didn't seem like a man who dealt with such a thing.

Then Wren lifted her hand.

Two fingers—ice-cold and trembling slightly—reached for Mercy's temple.

There was no warning. No slow unraveling. Just a flash of pain like lightning splitting the sky at the moment they touched.

Magic slammed into Mercy's skull—foreign, brutal, burning. But instead of dragging her thoughts outward, something inside pushed back.

The magic recoiled. Hard.

Backwards.

Wren screamed.

A high, guttural shriek that tore through the room like glass breaking.

Mercy screamed too.

The sound was torn from her throat—raw, involuntary.

And then they both collapsed, as if pulled down by invisible strings. The impact echoed through the parlor.

Then silence.

Chapter Text

Klaus moved before he thought.

One second, Mercy lay crumpled on the floor like a discarded doll, hair spilling across the hardwood, her breath barely audible beneath the weight of whatever had just happened. The next, he was on his knees beside her, hands hovering like he didn't know where to touch, only that he had to.

That same furious instinct again. The one that stole his breath and short-circuited his thoughts every damn time.

He hated it.

She was nothing to him.

A stranger.

A girl with visions and too-wide eyes and no bloodline to bind them.

And yet his body moved without permission. His fingers grazed her temple, brushing back damp hair, and rage flared in his chest so sudden and hot it made him tremble.

Wren was on the floor too, gasping, clawing at the rug like the air had been ripped from her lungs. Her skin had gone gray, her lips faintly blue.

Klaus didn't even glance at her.

All he could see was the curve of Mercy's ribs beneath her shirt, rising too slow. The bruise blooming beneath her eye from the fall.

His jaw clenched so hard it clicked.

Behind him, Wren's groan cut through the silence, ragged and raw. Blood dribbled slow from one nostril, dark as fresh ink against her pale skin.

"What the hell did you do to her?" he growled, voice low and venomous.

"She blocked me," Wren whispered hoarsely. "Her mind—I didn't do this. She did. She's not a witch. I don't know what the hell she is, but it's not anything I've ever seen."

"What do you mean her mind?" Elijah's voice was low, skeptical but uneasy.

Wren hissed. "Actually she didn't just block me, she invaded me—showed me things. Flashes. War. Fire. You. All of you. Darkness twisting over everything."

Klaus was on his feet in an instant.

Before anyone could react, he had Wren pinned to the wall, one hand around her throat, lifting her off the floor. Her legs kicked uselessly, eyes bulging.

"I don't care what she did," he snapped. "You told me this wouldn't hurt her."

Rebekah stood frozen, eyes flicking from Mercy to Klaus, uncertain which fire to put out first. Elijah looked grim, mouth drawn into a tight line, but said nothing.

It was Rebekah who finally stepped forward.

"Nik," she said exasperated. "Let her go."

He didn't.

His fingers twitched.

Let her go? No. He wanted to break something. Tear it apart. The feeling crawling beneath his skin wasn't just fury—it was panic.

And that was worse.

He dropped her without warning, voice cold, clipped. "Get out. Now."

She hit the ground hard, coughing violently. Klaus didn't look at her again.

Wren stumbled to her feet, eyes darting nervously. Without another word, she fled the room.

Klaus turned back to Mercy, her body limp, her breath shallow but steady. Whatever she'd done—it had taken everything out of her.

He bent and lifted her into his arms, careful not to jostle her. She didn't stir.

Carrying her to the couch, he lowered her onto the cushions with surprising care. Adjusted her head. Pulled the throw from the back of the seat and draped it over her.

Then he stood there, silent.

Watching. Waiting.

⸻

Mercy woke just before dawn.

The light creeping through the windows was pale and thin, casting long, silver shadows across the floorboards. The room smelled faintly of old bourbon and salt—sweat, blood, magic.

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glossy. Her lips moved without sound, her throat working like she was trying to speak underwater. She tried to sit up—but her body gave out. She swayed hard to the left, breath hitching.

Rebekah caught her before she hit the floor.

"Easy," she murmured, crouched low beside her, arms firm around Mercy's shoulders. "You're safe."

Mercy's eyes struggled to focus on her. Her fingers twitched against Rebekah's wrist.

Rebekah helped her adjust so she was sitting up now, barely, her shoulders hunched like she was carrying something too heavy for her frame. Her lips were parted, her breath shallow.

Klaus approached her slowly.

She looked at him.

Not afraid. Not accusing. Just tired.

Klaus thought that was somehow worse than the anger he expected.

He hated the part of him that wanted to gather her close and snarl at the world to back away.

He'd killed others for less than what was done to her.

Her skin was clammy. Her pulse fluttered too fast.

"You should go lie down," he said, but there was no command in it.

"I'm fine," she rasped.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Knowing she wasn't.

"You're an idiot," Klaus snapped, voice low and rough.

Mercy blinked up at him from where she sat slumped against the couch. "What did I do?"

"Nothing!" He muttered, pacing now, his anger uncoiling like a live wire. "You should've fought back."

She exhaled a shaky breath. "I did something—she left here bleeding right?"

"She shouldn't have touched you," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. The words cracked at the edges, bitter with self-loathing. "I never should've let her."

"I told you it would hurt," she muttered, breathing ragged, limbs trembling, but her eyes never wavered. "Just didn't say who."

He couldn't meet them.

Because the truth was, she hadn't had a choice. Not really. He'd cornered her into it. Barked an order like it would shield him from the guilt. And now she was the one who'd suffered for it.

Klaus ground his teeth and turned away, fury thrumming in his chest with nowhere to go.

"Do you want to go lie down?" Rebekah interrupted, glaring at Klaus.

There was a beat.

Mercy gave a shaky nod.

Rebekah didn't hesitate. She stood and hooked Mercy's arm over her shoulder, guiding her slowly down the hallway. Mercy leaned heavily into her, legs barely cooperating. She didn't speak. Didn't have to.

The guest room door creaked open under Rebekah's hand.

It was a simple room—high ceilings, an old dresser, a queen-sized bed with dark blue sheets and a thick blanket folded at the foot. Morning wind stirred the curtains. The air inside was cool and quiet, heavy with the scent of lavender and old rain.

Rebekah eased Mercy down onto the mattress, smoothing the blanket up over her chest. Her movements were careful, practiced—less like handling a stranger and more like something she'd done before.

She brushed Mercy's damp hair from her face and sat with her for a moment, watching as her breathing evened out.

She met Klaus and Elijah in the living room.
Accepted the glass of bourbon Elijah held out.

Klaus stood at the window, his back to them. Arms folded. His expression was flat, but his eyes gave him away.

"That was reckless and honestly? Rude. Even for you." Rebekah sole as she sat in the chase opposite her brothers.

Klaus rolled his eyes, a breath puffing from his nose. "Don't act surprised."

"You brought a witch and let her tear through that girl's mind—when all she's done is try to help us."

"I don't trust people who—"

"Oh, we know."

"I had to do it."

"You didn't." She pushed. "You're lucky she didn't die."

Klaus said nothing.

He stayed there long after Rebekah left, leaning against the window frame.

⸻

The kitchen was dim when they all gathered again.

Elijah stood at the sink, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Klaus leaned against the counter. Rebekah, arms folded, stood in the doorway like a judge.

"As fun as all that was. None of this explains what she is," Elijah replied. "You know as well as I do that power without allegiance is dangerous."

"She has allegiance," Klaus said automatically.

They both looked at him.

"She chose to warn us," he added stiffly. "She could've run the moment I took her."

Rebekah balked. "Took her?"

He scowled. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?" Elijah asked. "It seems you've been dragging her along like a pawn."

"She's not a pawn," Klaus snapped, too quickly.

Elijah tilted his head, surprise clear in his expression. "Interesting. "

Klaus looked away.

Rebekah stepped in. "She's seen what's coming, Elijah. And she's paying a price for it."

"I still don't believe Mikael is alive."

Klaus reached into his coat pocket and tossed something on the table. A page from Mercy's sketchbook.

Elijah frowned. "Where did that come from?"

"She drew it when we went to get Rebekah," Klaus said.

Elijah picked it up and studied the design. His fingers trembled.

"I haven't seen this in centuries."

"You remember it?" Rebekah asked.

He nodded. "It's one of Mikael's. He carved it into trees, walls... bodies. He said it was his hunter's mark. A blood trail no prey could outrun."

Rebekah swallowed.

"She said six would stand against him," Klaus murmured.

"Six?" Elijah repeated.

"She said 'six against the hunter.' There's Five of us."

"Then who's the sixth?" Rebekah asked. "Another Mikaelaon just doesn't make sense."

Klaus had though about that. He glanced toward the guest room.

"I think we're looking at her."

⸻

Mercy didn't wake again until well into the next night.

She sat up slowly, head pounding. The window was dark—moonlight brushing the sill like a soft warning. Her limbs ached like she'd run a marathon through fire.

She felt empty.

Like the vision had wrung her dry and left her bones hollow.

When she swung her feet to the floor, she found her sketchbook waiting. A pencil tucked into the spiral.

Pages turned under her fingers like they wanted her to find something. Her hand moved without instruction.

A new symbol began to form. More jagged than the last. Twisted, like a vine choking a tree.

When it was finished, she wrote one word beneath it in shaky letters:

Kol.

⸻

Elijah was the first one she saw when she emerged.

She blinked at him. "You're still here."

He smiled faintly. "It's my house."

"Oh. Right." She shook her head. Winced at the ache still there. "Sorry, it just doesn't feel like you."

He raised a brow. "And what does that mean?"

"You seem like someone who would live in a place with warmth." She gestured vaguely. "This just feels like someone."

He was quiet a moment. "You speak as if you know me."

"What can I say?" She shrugged, brushing off his statement and held up the sketchbook. "I drew something."

He led her to the kitchen and grabbed the others.

They gathered around the table. Rebekah on Mercy's right. Klaus on her left. Elijah across from her, arms folded.

The page sat between them.

"Kol," Elijah said, staring at the name. "He's still daggered."

"He won't be for long," Mercy whispered. "If we don't find him first... he dies."

Silence.

Klaus swore softly.

"That symbol," he said, tapping it. "It's not a rune or sigil."

"No," Mercy said. "It's the way Mikael's going. He's changing course, creating a new path. He knows Rebekah's gone. Figures she'd have warned Elijah before the others. He's decided to head for Kol next."

"Kol and Finn are still together. Why just him?" Elijah asked.

At that, Mercy shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't need Finn yet? I don't know, he was only focused on Kol."

"He'll kill him while he's still asleep," Rebekah said, voice tight.

"Then we wake him first," Klaus said.

Elijah looked unconvinced. "Kol is volatile."

"He's family," Rebekah snapped. "We can't let him die."

Elijah turned to Klaus, expression tight."Where do you have our brothers buried now?"

Klaus's mouth twisted into a wry grin, looking for all the world like a mischievous child caught mid-prank. "You're not going to like it."

Rebekah's eyes narrowed. Her glare could've cut glass. "Oh, not that bloody place again."

Mercy tilted her head. "What place?"

Klaus gave her a sideways glance, tone dripping with mockery. "Oh, so you don't know everything?"

Rebekah answered before Mercy could react. She sighed like the weight of a decade settled on her shoulders.

"It's always bloody Mystic Falls."

Chapter Text

They crossed the town line into Mystic Falls just after dusk, headlights cutting through the mist rolling over the familiar Virginia woods. Klaus drove in silence, his jaw clenched tight, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every so often, as if expecting to see Mikael burst from the trees behind them.

Mercy sat in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window. She looked paler than usual—sickly, even—and hadn't said much since her last vision.

The car rumbled over an uneven road before Klaus finally turned into a shaded cul-de-sac and parked. "This is it," he muttered.

Elijah and Rebekah stepped out of their own car behind them, scanning the area like returning ghosts. The town hadn't changed much. Small, sleepy, and soaked in bloody memories.

Mercy opened her door and stepped out, immediately swaying. Rebekah caught her elbow before she could fall. "You alright?" she asked, not unkindly.

Mercy gave a breathless nod. "I just... I need something. Real food. I haven't eaten since..." She trailed off. It didn't matter. Days, maybe. Time was slippery with visions.

Klaus raised a brow. "You are still technically human," he muttered as if it were a bothersome thing. "Fine. Come on then."

Mercy blinked, startled. "Where are we going?"

"The only place in this hellhole that serves something other than stale blood or bourbon."

⸻

The Mystic Grill had a chill atmosphere. Dim lighting, soft rock humming low from the jukebox, and the vague smell of fryer oil clinging to the walls. Klaus led her to a booth near the back, away from prying eyes. Mercy slid into the seat with visible relief.

She ordered a burger and fries. When the plate came, she ate with single-minded focus. Klaus watched her, eyes narrowed in faint curiosity, as if trying to understand what species she was.

"You keep staring at me like I'm going to grow horns," she said around a mouthful of fries.

"I'm still considering it," he replied.

Then after a beat: "What's so special about this town?" she asked.

Klaus leaned back in the booth, his expression turning brittle. "It's a place of curses," he said dryly. "Where a girl who looks like several others ended the world a few times. Where witches meddle and siblings stab each other in the back—sometimes literally. A cesspool, really."

Mercy sipped her soda. "So why come back?"

He smirked. "Because sometimes, love, you bury things in places you think you'll never return to."

At the bar, Damon Salvatore watched them over his glass. He hadn't moved in minutes. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between amusement and suspicion.

Klaus met his eyes once—briefly—and then looked away with pointed disinterest. The message was clear: not now.

Mercy followed the glance. "Friend of yours?"

"Hardly," Klaus said. "He has a tendency to poke at things until they bleed."

⸻

The safehouse Klaus brought her to was a modest, tucked-away home on the edge of town. It looked like it had been vacant for years, but the locks were new, and the wards around it pulsed with magic.

He opened the door and gestured her inside.

"I suppose this is where you keep your inconvenient guests," Mercy said lightly.

"Only the ones I don't want dead." Klaus didn't smile.

Mercy turned to face him once they were inside. "You said you needed a Bennett witch. Why?"

"To unseal a tomb," he said flatly. "We need Kol and Finn. That means magic." He paused. "Don't suppose you can wave your hands and make it happen?"

"I can try," she offered.

He softened slightly. "Think I can manage this part alone, love."

That stung more than it should have. She stepped back with a nod. Unsure of herself if she wasn't of use.

Rebekah leaned into the doorway from the hall. "Elijah and I have a few leads of our own to follow. We'll be back soon."

And just like that, she was alone.

⸻

It was nearly dark when the knock came.

Mercy, still exhausted, was curled up on the old couch, a cup of tea warming her hands. She almost didn't answer. But something tugged at her. A nudge. A wrongness.

She opened the door.

A group stood there—four of them. Two girls, two guys. The brunette in front smiled politely. "Hey... are you staying here?"

"I'm sorry," Mercy said, confused. "Do I know you?"

The blonde girl stepped forward. "We were just hoping to talk. We're... um, friends of the people you're with."

Mercy didn't buy that, but the pull in her head—her gut—said not to shut the door.

She nodded. "Sure. Come in."

The group stepped inside casually, spreading out like a trained unit. The dark-haired man near the back—handsome, dangerous—walked right up to her.

And then his eyes met hers. Bright. Blue. Cold.

"Tell me who you are," he said.

Mercy blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You will tell me everything," Damon said, his voice thick with compulsion. "You trust me. You'll follow me."

She hesitated, letting her eyes go blank.

"Of course," she said softly. "I'll come."

⸻

The cellar they put her in stank of rot and mildew. Mercy sat on a rusted chair, chained loosely—not enough to restrain her, but enough to humiliate.

Damon paced in front of her. "So, why is Klaus back in Mystic Falls?"

"He needs something," she said.

"What kind of something?"

Mercy shrugged, feigning just enough hesitation to sell the lie. "He doesn't tell me everything," she said softly.

Damon studied her like he was dissecting an insect. "And you? What are you to him?"

"I'm just a witch he's using," she said, voice low, eyes wide with quiet fear.

She spun lie after lie, lacing them with just enough truth to sound believable. She talked about feeling trapped, about being afraid, about not knowing Klaus's plans.

Caroline and Elena bought it. Stefan remained cautious but unsure. Damon, though—Damon didn't blink.

When the others left the cellar, Damon lingered. The air changed.

"You're lying," he said, voice sharp.

Mercy didn't look up.

He stepped closer. "You know, Klaus once laid hands on a girl I love." His voice dropped lower. "Guess this is me returning the favor."

The slap came without warning. Her head snapped to the side, cheek blooming red, but she didn't make a sound.

He grabbed her arm and yanked her forward so hard she fell flat on her face, the chair landing precariously on top of her before she managed to roll on her side. She choked around the pain. He barely gave her a second to breathe before his boot landed a swift kick to her rips.

By the time he let go, Mercy was crumpled on the floor, bruised and bloody, her body screaming.

⸻

The door to the safehouse burst open.

Klaus stormed in first, Bonnie just a step behind, looking increasingly uneasy. He barely gave her a glance as his eyes swept the room.

Empty.

No Mercy. No trace of her scent. Just silence—and something else. A wrongness in the air.

His jaw tensed. "She should be here."

Bonnie blinked. "She?"

"Mercy," he snapped, turning on her. "The girl I left behind to rest—where is she?"

"I—I don't know," Bonnie said, taken aback. "You think I—?"

"I don't know what the hell to think right now," Klaus growled. "But if you or your friends—"

"I haven't seen her, Klaus," she said quickly.

His eyes narrowed, but before he could unleash the rest of his fury, the front door creaked open behind them.

Both turned.

Mercy stood in the doorway.

She looked like hell—face pale where it wasn't bruised, eyes hollow, blood dried under her nose and at the corner of her mouth. One arm clutched her ribs like she was holding herself together. She didn't look at Bonnie. Her gaze was fixed, steady, on Klaus.

The silence in the room turned razor-sharp.

"Mercy..." he breathed, barely above a whisper.

Then, louder, harsher: "What happened?"

She didn't answer.

He was in front of her in a heartbeat, crowding her space, hands twitching at his sides like he didn't trust himself to touch her without breaking something—or someone.

"Who touched you?" he snarled.

She flinched, just slightly. "It doesn't matter."

"The hell it doesn't—"

"Is that your witch?" she muttered, brushing past him without waiting for answer. "Can we get this done then. I'd really like to get out of this stupid town."

Her voice was tired, worse—resigned. Like it was a given she'd get hurt. Like getting hurt wasn't a new thing at all. It made the guilt in his gut twist even tighter.

The front door opened again behind them. Elijah and Rebekah stepped in, both halting as they saw her.

Rebekah's hand rose to her mouth. "Mercy..."

Elijah's eyes sharpened as he took in her state. His voice was tight. "Who did this?"

Mercy didn't answer. She disappeared down the hall without another word.

He couldn't stop staring after her, even after she'd disappeared from his sight.

This was the cost of his recklessness. He'd left her alone in a town full of ghosts and enemies. Given her no choice but to fend for herself. Again.

He'd dragged her into his war, into his world, and now she wore the bruises for it.

And still, she stood.

Klaus clenched his fists until they shook. Every instinct screamed at him to find whoever had done this and rip them apart, to burn Mystic Falls to ash if that's what it took.

He vowed right then to destroy whoever hurt her.

Chapter Text

The air was heavy as they moved through the woods—like the trees themselves held their breath.

Mercy walked in front, guided only by the quietest murmurs from Klaus behind her. His voice never rose above a whisper, just enough to steer her through the thick brush, the overgrown path. Otherwise, the group was silent.

Klaus's eyes never left her.

He watched every movement she made—the slight favoring of her left side, the way her hand occasionally hovered near her ribs as if bracing for pain. Twice, she nearly stumbled, and both times he surged forward a step before stopping himself. His hands curled into fists at his sides, jaw clenched against the impulse to reach for her. He said nothing, but the restraint radiated from him like heat.

Bonnie eventually closed the distance between them, falling into step beside Mercy. She glanced at her, brows drawn. "You're not looking so great," she said gently.

"I'm not here to impress anyone," Mercy muttered, eyes forward.

Bonnie frowned. "I wasn't trying to insult you. I meant... maybe you shouldn't be doing this."

Mercy's jaw tightened. "If I waited until I felt good, none of this would happen."

Bonnie hesitated. "Why are you even with Klaus? With them?"

Mercy paused briefly, before she continued walking.

Her eyes were colder than before—too tired to be angry, too bruised to care. "Because," she said, "they're better than the people you call friends."

Bonnie blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Klaus has never lied to me about who he is. Your people act all holier than thou, but it's just a mask."

Bonnie picked up her pace to keep up. "You think you're special to him? You're just leverage."

Mercy laughed—a low, bitter sound. "Trust me, I know exactly what I am to Klaus."

Behind her, Klaus's gaze lifted.

She said it so easily, but the words cut through him sharper than they should have. There was no accusation in her voice—just fact. And yet something inside him recoiled, hollow and strange.

He didn't correct her.

Couldn't.

"They've hurt people," Bonnie said. "Killed our friends. Klaus especially."

Mercy stopped this time.

Turned.

Her eyes were darker now, lit with something furious and raw. "Do you think that makes you or your friends better than him? Than them?" Her voice didn't rise, but it hit like a knife through silence. "Because I'm pretty sure—even without seeing it myself—that you've done just as bad. Just maybe not as often or as publicly."

Bonnie opened her mouth, defensive. "We're trying to stop them. We're trying to protect people—"

"By hurting me?" Mercy cut her off, voice sharper now. "Some protection." She took a breath, then added coldly, "Why don't you keep your thoughts about my family to yourself."

A stunned silence passed through the group.

Klaus sucked in a breath. Elijah's brows drew together. Rebekah froze mid-step.

Bonnie's face paled. "I didn't know—"

"I don't care," Mercy said, not even realizing the weight of what she just said.

Maybe she'd feel bad about being outright rude later. But she didn't have the patience or the time to care in that moment.

She closed her eyes, took a breath, then turned and moved forward again, pace unrelenting despite the pain in her ribs.

The trees opened to a clearing at last. The tomb lay half-buried ahead, its stone face etched with old runes, faintly pulsing.

Bonnie knelt by the entrance and began murmuring the spell. The incantation hung thick in the air, trembling like stretched string.

The barrier didn't budge.

She frowned and began again—louder this time, more focused.

Still nothing.

Another attempt. The ground shuddered, then settled, the runes flaring briefly and then fading back into stone.

Bonnie exhaled, frustrated. "Someone reinforced the seal. This wasn't meant to ever open again."

Rebekah crossed her arms. "Wonderful."

Mercy stepped forward. "I got it."

Klaus moved to intercept. "You've done enough—"

"No," she snapped. "You want Kol and Finn. Let me do what I came here for."

She stepped past him.

"Don't be stupid," Klaus growled. "You can barely walk."

"I can do this." Her voice dropped. "You need them. And magic can't stop me."

She placed a hand on the stone and walked straight through the barrier like it wasn't there.

Bonnie's mouth parted in shock. "That's not possible..."

Inside, the tomb was colder than in her visions. Damp stone. Stale air. Two coffins loomed in the gloom, untouched by time.

She approached the first—Kol's—and knelt. Tried to drag the coffin lid, but it wouldn't budge. Pain shot through her ribs. She hissed and tried again, straining through the weakness. Nothing.

Tears stung her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.

With a growl, she reached for the dagger embedded in the lid.

She paused, just one breath.

Then yanked it free.

"No!" Klaus's voice thundered from outside. "Mercy, don't—!"

Too late.

Kol surged upward in a blur of hunger, fangs bared, wild-eyed.

Mercy stumbled backward, heart in her throat. She hit the wall of the tomb hard and tried to run—but her body gave out. Kol lunged, fangs flashing—

And bit.

Sort of.

His fangs hit her skin—and didn't break it.

He recoiled, confused.

Mercy scrambled sideways, pain flaring in her side, but still trying to move, get away—

Kol roared and lunged again, but Rebekah tackled him midair, slamming him into the wall.

"Kol!" she snapped, pinning him. "It's us. You're safe!"

Kol snarled, dazed.

Mercy crawled toward the second coffin, blood pounding in her ears. She reached up—

And Klaus appeared, grabbing her wrist just before her hand reached the dagger in Finn's chest.

He crouched in front of her, face tight with fury. "What the hell is this?"

Behind him, Bonnie arrived, out of breath.

Kol growled. "What the bloody hell is going on?"

"Peace," Elijah said, stepping into the tomb calmly. "If you'll let us explain."

Kol shoved Rebekah back. "Explain? That little witch woke me up like I'm some kind of—"

"She saved you," Rebekah snapped.

Mercy had collapsed against the wall, breath shallow, eyes glassy. She didn't even look up.

Klaus was at her side in seconds. He hovered first—then brushed her shoulder gently. She flinched.

He stilled.

"Are you insane?" he muttered. "You nearly got yourself killed."

"You needed them," she whispered. "I did what I had to."

Bonnie was still staring at her. "What are you?" she breathed.

Mercy opened her eyes, slow and empty. "Tired—I'm just tired."

⸻

Back at the safe house—Bonnie gone, at Mercy's quiet insistence—the siblings gathered in the living room.

Kol, freshly dressed and more coherent, looked from one face to the next. "Someone better explain what the hell is going on."

Elijah did. Calm. Exact.

He told them about Mikael. The threat. The hunt.

Kol's expression darkened. "And you brought her into this? A teenage girl?"

Mercy raised her head. Her voice was cold steel. "You're both on Mikael's list. Whether I was here or not."

Kol scoffed. "I'm always on someone's list, darling."

"He's using the old runes again," Mercy said. "Like the one he carved into your arm when you disobeyed him. Left side. Just above the elbow."

Kol's mouth shut. His posture shifted.

That one hit.

Rebekah drew a slow breath. Elijah's jaw twitched.

Klaus didn't speak.

He was still beside her. Still watching her. That same unreadable look in his eyes—something caught between guilt, possession, and something darker.

"You said something before," Elijah said. "Six. Against the hunter."

Mercy nodded.

"Who's the sixth?"

Her eyes met his. Far away.

"I don't know her name. But she's one of you."

Kol blinked. "There is no sixth sibling. We'd know."

"She's hidden," Mercy said softly. "But she's close. Waiting for something to come back to her."

Klaus's voice lowered. "And when it does... do you think she'll choose us?"

Mercy didn't hesitate. "She will. Even if she doesn't know it yet."

Chapter Text

The house was too quiet.

Mercy sat curled on the edge of the couch, arms wrapped around her knees, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow her. The others had scattered after their conversation —Rebekah had gone upstairs, Elijah disappeared into one of the bedrooms, and Klaus... Klaus had vanished.

He hadn't said a word.

She didn't know whether that made her feel safer or more on edge.

A breeze slipped through the open window, tugging at the curtain like ghost fingers. Outside, Mystic Falls looked deceptively calm. Streetlights flickered, and a dog barked once in the distance, then silence again.

Mercy didn't trust silence.

She leaned her head back against the cushion and closed her eyes.

She remembered the sound of boots on wooden floors. A bottle slamming on a counter. Heavy breathing that wasn't hers.

She'd been thirteen. Maybe fourteen. Foster home number... seven? Eight? The man had believed in "discipline," said it made kids stronger. That bruises were lessons and silence was respect.

That night, she'd cried too loudly in her room.

The door opened with a bang. He yanked her out by the arm. Whispered words she couldn't even remember anymore. Something about being ungrateful. Her ribs never healed right after that week.

A floorboard creaked.

Mercy's eyes snapped open, her breath caught in her throat—it was Elijah standing in the doorway. He didn't speak at first, just gave her a small, careful nod and entered the room slowly—as if not to spook her.

"I trust you're... resting," he said softly.

Mercy gave him a dry, humorless look. "Sure. This town's so relaxing."

He smiled faintly. "Mystic Falls rarely offers peace. Even to the dead."

She didn't laugh. "Do you think Klaus killed him?"

Elijah was quiet. "If he did, he'll have his reasons."

Mercy tilted her head. "Do you think that makes it okay?"

"No," Elijah said. "But in our family, morality is rarely simple. Klaus sees cruelty as something to be returned with interest. Especially when it concerns those under his protection."

She looked away. "I didn't ask for his protection."

"You didn't have to."

Mercy's throat tightened. There was no good answer to that.

Elijah looked at her for a long moment, then added gently, "You're not weak for remembering, Mercy. Pain leaves scars. But you are not defined by them."

Then, he turned and left.

She sat in the quiet again, but it felt... different.

Not less heavy.

Just shared.

⸻

Klaus stood outside the Salvatore boarding house, still as a statue beneath the weight of midnight. The wind tugged at his coat, but he didn't move. His eyes were fixed on the glow spilling from the windows—warm, lazy, unaware.

He could hear him inside.

Damon.

Pouring himself a drink, no doubt. That arrogant little smirk probably curling his lips, as if the world owed him every bit of it. As if he hadn't laid his hands on something he'd never had the right to touch.

Klaus stepped forward.

He didn't bother with the door.

It shattered under his hand, splinters of wood flinging into the room like shrapnel.

Damon whirled, glass in hand, halfway through a drink. "Jesus Christ—"

Klaus blurred across the space between them. One heartbeat. Maybe two.

He slammed Damon into the nearest wall, hard enough to rattle the foundation. The drink spilled, the glass cracking on the floor, but Klaus didn't glance down.

Damon's mouth twisted into a cruel smirk, "Is this about the little pet?"

Klaus grabbed him by the throat, pinning him higher. He tsked, "choose your words carefully now Damon."

Damon couldn't get another word out edgewise before Klaus drove his fist into his ribs—once, twice—bones giving way with a sickening crunch.

"You think there are no consequences to your actions? That you can touch what's mine and walk away?" Klaus said.

Damon choked, eyes bulging. "She—she wasn't yours—"

"Wasn't?" Klaus's voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "She is. And whether she knows it or not, she is under my protection. Which means you just signed your death warrant."

Damon gasped. “You went after Elena first!”

Klaus slammed him harder against the wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the house.

“Did I use Elena for my own selfish gain? Of course I did,” Klaus growled, voice low and unflinching. “But I did not harm her. I could have. You know I could have.” His gaze sharpened, unrelenting. “And that’s the difference between us.”

“You pretend at power, pretend you’re not a monster. But you’re not in control. You’re a coward.” Klaus snarled, voice rising. “And you forget yourself, Damon. I am the thing that lesser men fear.”

Damon struggled to breathe. "It was a mistake—"

"No," Klaus cut in coldly. "A mistake is forgetting a name. What you did was deliberate."

He leaned in closer, his voice low and final. "You hurt her. And now I'm going to return the favor."

He didn't give him the dignity of another word.

With a swift, brutal twist, Klaus snapped his neck. The body dropped like a stone. Then he knelt, shoved a hand into his chest, gripped his heart, pulled it out, and dropped it with an unceremonious thump.

Silence followed. Thick. Absolute.

Klaus stared down at him for a moment.

This wasn't anger. Not anymore.

It was certainty.

Some things couldn't be forgiven. Some actions couldn't be undone.

And touching what he now considered his was one of them.

He stepped over Damon's corpse without looking back, boots crunching glass as he left the house and walked into the cold night.

⸻

Mercy had moved to the porch. The night air was sharp, and the world was painted in dim shades of blue. She sat on the steps, elbows resting on her knees, eyes on the quiet street like she expected it to attack her again.

She heard him before she saw him.

Klaus stepped onto the porch like a shadow emerging from the dark. His hair was wind-tossed, coat damp with dew. There was something settled in his expression—calm, but dangerous.

He looked down at her for a moment before speaking.

"I'd ask if you're alright," he said, voice low, "but it feels like an insult."

Mercy glanced up at him. There was a long silence before she replied.

"It wasn't just him," she said quietly. "It was... what he brought up."

Klaus looked at her sharply, but didn't interrupt.

"Some of my foster parents..." she exhaled, "they thought hitting kids made them stronger. That shutting us up made us better."

His jaw tightened.

"I had bruises for weeks, once," she went on. "Still remember how it hurt to breathe."

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but dry. "He reminded me of that."

Klaus sank down beside her, his presence heavy but not overwhelming. Letting the hush stretch long and heavy between them.

She wasn't crying. Her voice didn't even crack. It was steady in that practiced, hollow way. The way someone spoke when they'd learned not to waste tears on pain.

His fingers twitched. He forced them to still.

"I know what that feels like," he said quietly. "Living in a house where every step might wake a monster."

Mercy turned to him, eyes searching. "Mikael?"

He didn't answer.

Just stared out at the street.

A muscle in his jaw ticked, the only betrayal.

That was enough.

She understood.

Klaus tilted his head, and in a softer voice that barely passed for mirth, he muttered, "He used to say I made everything worse by existing. Imagine that. A child being told the crime was simply being born."

He gave a faint scoff, like the whole thing was amusing in hindsight.

But Mercy said nothing.

Didn't laugh. Didn't reassure.

She just stayed.

And that... that was worse somehow.

The quiet of her presence. The way she didn't flinch from the shadows he kept hidden. She didn't offer pity—just... saw him.

It scraped at something raw and long-buried.

He looked away again, the pressure behind his sternum swelling. "There were days I wanted him dead so badly I could taste it. That kind of rage doesn't die—it just waits."

Mercy tilted her head back, watching the stars, her voice thin. "I wish I could kill Damon."

Klaus glanced at her, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. "That's not very merciful of you."

She shrugged. "Sometimes people don't deserve mercy."

He studied her a beat longer. And there it was again—that ache in his chest, low and immovable. Like pressure building behind his sternum. Not anger. Not vengeance. Something worse.

Conviction.

Klaus stood suddenly, as if the motion might shake it off. It didn't.

"Well... it's a good thing I don't live by that rule either."

He started toward the door, but paused halfway there. Looked back.

She was watching him. Her expression unreadable. But her eyes—those damn eyes—held something patient. Familiar.

She didn't speak.

She didn't need to.

Neither did he.

But as Klaus stepped back into the house, one truth settled in his bones like iron:

He'd already killed for her tonight. The question now was—how far was he willing to go?

Mercy didn't follow right away.

She watched him disappear inside.

Then slowly, deliberately, she rose.

And she smiled.

Just a little.

Then followed him in.

Chapter Text

It began with a dream.

A low fog curled around Mercy's bare feet as she wandered through a landscape that didn't feel quite real. Trees loomed above her, their branches reaching like claws, but they were made of mist and shadow. Somewhere ahead, just beyond the edge of perception, a voice called her name.

She turned in circles, eyes scanning the dim world. "Hello?" she called out.

Silence answered—then the soft sound of footsteps behind her. Mercy turned again.

A girl, maybe a few years older than her, stood just out of reach. Pale, long dark hair, eyes too large for her face. She looked familiar in a way Mercy couldn't explain. Like someone from a forgotten photograph.

"You're the sixth," Mercy whispered.

The girl blinked.

"I don't know your name," she said, stepping forward.

But as she reached for her, the girl began to fade. Her mouth moved, trying to speak—but there was no sound. Only static. Then a sudden, sharp pressure gripped Mercy's chest like a hand yanking her backward.

"No—wait—!"

She gasped awake, chest heaving, sweat cooling on her brow. The blankets tangled around her legs.

Rebekah stood nearby, worry in her features. "Another vision?"

"No. A dream." Mercy rubbed her eyes. "I think."

"You sure?"

Mercy hesitated. "Not really. But I'll be out in a minute."

Rebekah gave a small nod and stood, leaving her alone with the lingering chill of the dream. Mercy sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, staring down at her hands. The girl had been trying to say something—something important. She could still feel the urgency of it in her bones.

When she finally emerged from the bedroom, the others were gathered in the kitchen. Klaus stood turned away from the counter, only to place a coffee mug and a warm plate in front of her usual seat. Eggs, toast, and some fresh berries.

Mercy blinked at the spread. "Did you...?"

He shrugged as he took his own mug. "You need to eat."

For a moment, she didn't move. A quiet ache bloomed in her chest, tender and bewildering. She wasn't used to this—being cared for.

It was such a small thing—but it settled in her like warmth she hadn't asked for and didn't know what to do with. Simple, quiet, and deeply unfamiliar.

And yet, she didn't trust it.

She sat down slowly, eyes flicking toward Klaus. He was sipping his coffee, avoiding her gaze, as if this was all casual. Normal.

He's just keeping you alive, she reminded herself. You're useful. That's all.

But that didn't explain the way he'd carried her last night when she collapsed. Or the way he'd looked at her—not with hunger or suspicion, but like he was trying to figure out how to protect something he didn't know how to hold.

Mercy shook the thought away. She couldn't afford to see softness in him. Not when her survival depended on not mistaking it for something real.

Kol made a mock gasp. "I don't recall receiving the royal breakfast treatment."

"That's because no one likes you, Kol," Rebekah said sweetly, sipping her tea.

Kol clutched his chest in mock injury. "Cruel, sister. I weep."

Elijah sat at the table with a book open but unread. He glanced up as Mercy sat, giving her a small, reserved nod. His eyes lingered, thoughtful. He hadn't asked her about last night, and she was grateful.

Klaus stood beside her, arms crossed now. "We'll rest today. Regroup. No more surprises."

Mercy shook her head. "We don't have time."

Klaus raised a brow.

"We have to wake Finn," she said quietly.

The room fell still.

Rebekah set down her cup. "Absolutely not."

Kol scoffed. "You want us to wake the most self-righteous, vampire-hating Original in the lineup? Might as well light ourselves on fire and save him the trouble."

Klaus folded his arms. "He's unstable at best. Dangerous at worst."

Mercy didn't flinch. "We need him."

"I thought Kol was enough," Klaus said, tone sharpening. "You said six. That's four of us, you, and—whoever the sixth is."

Mercy looked up at him, her expression unreadable. "It's not interchangeable, Klaus. We can't just choose whichever six people we want. And if—if Finn dies, then—"

Elijah stilled. "Then what?"

Mercy opened her mouth to explain—but the words caught in her throat. She gasped suddenly, her spine arching, limbs locking, a strange sound scraping from her throat. The chair clattered as she slipped from it, convulsing.

"Mercy!" Rebekah cried.

Elijah was already at her side, flipping her onto her side. "She's seizing—Klaus, hold her head!"

Klaus dropped his mug and rushed over, dropping to his knees and cradling Mercy's head with surprising gentleness, keeping it steady.

"She's bleeding," Kol said sharply. "From her mouth—"

"No," Elijah said. "That's—"

Mercy's hand twitched wildly, fingers clawing at the hardwood floor. Blood bloomed from her palm as her nails dug in, and then—

Letters began to appear in crimson.

F
I
N
N

She scrawled it again.

F
I
N
N

Kol made a face. "Okay, that's a bit much, even for me."

Mercy gasped sharply, her body curling in on itself like something had been yanked from her soul. And then—stillness.

Klaus touched her cheek. "Mercy—?"

Her eyes fluttered open. She blinked up at him, dazed and exhausted.

"If he dies," she whispered hoarsely, "you all go with him."

Klaus stared at her, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body coiled.

He looked at his brother. "You know she's not lying."

Kol looked between them all and threw his hands up. "Fantastic. Wake the brooding buzzkill."

Elijah stood. "Fine. We'll wake him."

Rebekah hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"No," Elijah said flatly. "But if what she said is true..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

Klaus looked down at Mercy again. Her eyes had closed, her breath shallow.

He gently lifted her, carrying her toward the couch.

"She'll need to rest," he said. "Whatever this connection is—it's taking a toll."

Kol dragged a hand through his hair. "Next time can we get prophecies written in ink like normal people?"

Klaus didn't answer. He gently lifted Mercy, carrying her toward the couch.

She stirred faintly as he settled her against the cushions, the weight of her head fitting against his shoulder like it had done once before—back when he hadn't meant to care.

This was different.

"Klaus," she mumbled. Not quite a question. Not quite a plea.

He looked down, his voice rough. "You're alright. Rest."

But her hand found his wrist, weak but insistent. "You believe me now."

It wasn't a question either. He didn't answer.

Because yes—he did. He hadn't even hesitated.

And it undid him more than anything else in this cursed life.

Klaus reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over her with slow, careful hands. He didn't know why he lingered—why he smoothed it along her shoulders like it mattered. But he did.

When he looked up, no one was watching. Elijah had moved to call Freya. Kol was ranting under his breath about how they should just leave Finn in his box. Rebekah hovered near the bloody scrawl on the floor.

Mercy shifted again, her forehead brushing against his collarbone.

"I didn't ask for this," she whispered.

Klaus's voice came quiet, bitter. "Neither did I."

He could have stopped there. Should have.

You've proven yourself," he said quietly. "To all of us."

He stood up before she could see the truth of it in his eyes—that her pain frightened him more than any prophecy, more than any war. Because it meant something. Because she meant something.

And when Klaus Mikaelson started to believe in someone—really believe—it was only a matter of time before it destroyed them both.

Chapter Text

Light filtered through gauzy curtains, casting pale golden ribbons across the walls of the safe house. The world outside was still—for once. Birds chirped hesitantly as if uncertain whether the calm would last.

Inside, Mercy stirred in bed, eyes fluttering before settling closed again. Her limbs were heavy, her chest tight from too little rest and too many memories. She didn't cry, didn't dream—just floated, half-conscious, in the quiet haze of exhaustion.

Rebekah sat at her side, a small bowl of eggs and fruit in her lap. "Mercy," she said gently. "Love, you need to eat."

Mercy blinked groggily and slowly turned her head. "You sound like an old nursemaid," she rasped.

Rebekah smiled faintly. "You look like a dying orphan."

Mercy gave the ghost of a laugh. It wasn't much, but it was something. She allowed Rebekah to feed her a few bites. The food was lukewarm, but she didn't mind. The warmth in Rebekah's touch, in the quiet presence of someone who wasn't demanding answers or expecting strength, was enough.

"I'll try to rest again," she murmured, voice soft with defeat.

"Good," Rebekah said, smoothing her hair back. "You've done enough."

Downstairs, the mood was less gentle.

"How is she?" Elijah asked.

"She needs uninterrupted rest," Rebekah announced as she descended the staircase, "and I intend to give it to her."

Kol lounged in a chair, feet kicked up on a table. "Should've let her sleep through the apocalypse then. She'd have missed all the fun."

"She saved your life yesterday," Elijah said, pointedly.

Kol glanced at him. "And here I thought I had you for that."

Elijah ignored the jab. "Regardless, we can't afford to wait forever. We need to prepare—and if that means waking Finn, so be it."

Kol crossed his arms. "Waking Finn is a gamble."

"It's a necessity," Klaus said. "Whether you like him or not."

"Like is not the word I'd use," Kol muttered.

"He's still one of us," Rebekah reminded. "And he deserves a chance to understand what's happening."

Klaus exhaled slowly. "Fine. Let's get it over with."

They moved toward the sealed coffin that lay half- covered in dust.

Kol hovered by the door, half-smirking. "Let the prodigal bore return."

Klaus lifted the lid with a groan of wood and metal. Inside, Finn lay still, the dagger gone from his heart. His eyes opened slowly, blinking against the dim light.

"...Klaus," he rasped.

"Welcome back, brother," Klaus said, though the greeting lacked warmth.

Finn sat up with a slow, deliberate motion. His gaze swept across the room, cataloguing each face. Rebekah. Elijah. Kol. Then he paused. "Why now?" he asked, his voice scratchy but laced with suspicion.

"There's a threat," Elijah said, voice even. "To all of us."

Finn's expression darkened. "You brought me back for war."

"No," Klaus said. "We brought you back so you wouldn't die in your sleep."

Finn laughed—a bitter, humorless sound. "Comforting."

Kol clapped him on the back with exaggerated cheer. "You always were such a ray of sunshine."

Finn jerked away from Kol's hand like it burned. "Don't touch me."

"Still charming, I see," Kol muttered.

Finn turned sharply to Elijah, jaw tight. "You all locked me away. For centuries. Do you think that kind of betrayal just... fades?"

"You asked us to," Elijah reminded him quietly.

"I asked you to let me die," Finn snapped. "Not to entomb me like some forgotten relic."

"No one forgot," Rebekah said, stepping closer. "That was the problem."

Finn's gaze lingered on her for a long moment, then shifted. "Where are we?"

"Mystic Falls," Klaus said. "For now."

Finn frowned. "You risked waking me here? Do you have any idea what kind of magic saturates this place?"

"Yes," Elijah replied. "That's why we chose it. Magic cloaks us from Mikael—for the time being."

"Mikael." The name came like a curse from Finn's lips. He stood slowly, already beginning to pace the room. "So he's back."

"He's hunting us," Elijah said. "One by one."

"And you woke me into this mess?" Finn hissed. "What, to serve as bait?"

Klaus's eyes narrowed. "Don't flatter yourself."

Finn stopped pacing and turned on him. "Then what? Why not let me rot in that box? You all hated me anyway."

There was a beat of silence. Even Kol didn't speak.

"We didn't wake you for sentiment," Klaus finally said. "We woke you because if you die while still daggered, the spell linked to our bloodline kills us all."

Finn blinked. "So that's it. Self-preservation."

"You always were quick on the uptake," Kol offered with a mock salute.

Finn ignored him. "And what now? You want me to play soldier? To stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the same people who buried me?"

"We don't expect anything from you," Elijah said calmly. "But Mikael's not a threat any of us can ignore."

Finn's eyes narrowed. "No. You don't get to play peacemaker now. You brought me into a nightmare and expect civility?"

"We expect survival," Klaus snapped. "Yours included."

Finn exhaled slowly, jaw clenched, hands balled at his sides. "This is madness."

"You're welcome to leave," Rebekah said, her tone cool. "But you won't last long out there. Not with him hunting."

Finn didn't reply. He just turned away, muttering something under his breath.

"Wonderful," Kol said with a clap. "One more brooding immortal in the house. Just what we needed."

—

When Mercy finally dragged herself out of bed hours later, her muscles ached and her skin felt like paper. She pulled on one of Klaus's sweaters—it hung loose, swallowing her frame—and shuffled down the stairs.

The kitchen was lit warmly by mid-afternoon sun, the house quiet but not empty. Elijah sat by the window with a book, and Kol was rifling through the fridge like it had offended him. Klaus was the only one who looked up immediately when she entered.

He rose and crossed the kitchen, setting a small paper bag on the table with a water bottle. "Here," he said, nudging it toward her. "Eat before you fall over."

Mercy slid into the chair gratefully. The smell alone made her stomach growl. She unwrapped the sandwich inside and took a bite, too tired to thank him aloud.

Kol glanced over. "She gets lunch now to? You're slipping, Nik. I didn't even get a pat on the head."

"Your lucky I don't dagger you again," Klaus muttered, but Mercy caught the twitch of his mouth. Almost a smile.

They let her eat in peace for a few minutes.

Then Klaus stood and stretched. "We should plan the next move."

Mercy swallowed hard, wiped her fingers, and stood shakily. "We need to wake Finn."

Everyone turned to her. Kol leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Already happened. You're late to the party, sweetheart."

Mercy blinked. "Oh."

The ache in her legs made her wobble slightly. She reached out instinctively—and Klaus was there, steadying her. She gripped his arm tighter than she meant to, just to keep upright.

He lowered her into the chair again and crouched in front of her. The look on her face was uneasy. "What is it?" he asked softly.

"I haven't had another vision," she admitted, voice low.

Klaus's eyes narrowed. "But what you said about Finn—that was a vision?"

"Yes. I mean... sort of. They're different. I haven't had the kind that show me where Mikael is. We've been here too long... I can feel it, Klaus. He's close, but I don't know where."

He nodded slowly, absorbing her words. "Okay. We'll get moving, when you're a bit stronger—"

"No." Her voice was firmer this time. "Now. If Finn's awake—"

"Unfortunately," came a voice from the hallway.

Mercy turned to see a tall, serious-looking man leaning against the doorframe. He bore a resemblance to the others but carried himself differently—more regal, more cold.

She gave a small, sheepish smile. "Hi. Sorry to drag you into this."

Finn tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle. "You're the one everyone's talking about."

Mercy gave a weak shrug. "Unfortunately."

Finn didn't respond, just gave her one last curious glance and turned to walk back down the hall.

Kol made a face. "Still no personality."

Rebekah elbowed him sharply. "Be nice."

Elijah cleared his throat, closing his book. "We should get prepared. If Mercy's right, we may not have much time."

The house shifted into motion. Rebekah disappeared upstairs. Elijah made a list under his breath. Klaus lingered beside Mercy, his hand brushing her shoulder, then curling softly against the side of her neck.

Mercy leaned into the touch without thinking. The world still felt distant, edges blurred, like the dream hadn't fully ended. She could feel her pulse beneath his fingers—and his thumb, warm and gentle, grounding her.

Something was coming.

She could feel it in her bones.

Chapter Text

The air in Mystic Falls felt heavier by the hour.

Not thick with magic—though there was always that undercurrent here—but with the kind of stillness that came before bloodshed. A hush like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something violent to tear it apart.

Inside the safe house, no one said it aloud, but everyone knew: they were out of time.

Mercy stood in the living room, still barefoot in one of Klaus's dark sweaters, its sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her eyes were glassy, not with tears—she was beyond that now—but with the haze of exhaustion and dread and the weight of something ancient pressing against her ribs.

She didn't see it coming so much as she felt it. She was already moving across the room before her brain caught up.

Klaus was pacing—sharp turns, tight shoulders—when she reached out and touched his arm.

He stopped instantly.

"Mercy?" he asked, voice already dipping into concern.

Her fingers curled in the fabric over his chest. She looked up at him, something strange flickering in her gaze. "Can you take this off?"

Klaus blinked, and behind her Kol let out a choked sort of laugh.

"Buy a guy dinner first Merc." He joked.

Klaus glared at his brother over her head, before grabbing her arm and gently leading her into the other room. "Don't mind him. What's going on?"

"I... I don't know. There's something I need to. Can you—just please."

Klaus didn't ask any more questions. He stepped back just far enough to pull his Henley over his head so his chest was bare for her.

She reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing across the expanse of his chest before they stopped. Her hand was directly over his sternum, the place where the bond he felt pulsed quiet and constant like an ache he couldn't name. It was as if her touch knew where to go, even if she didn't. His body tense, but not from fear.

Klaus had been touched before. In fear, in worship. But this? This was something else.

It wasn't seduction. It wasn't power.
It was instinct.

Connection.

Mercy stepped closer, nearly chest to chest, and slowly began to trace a shape on his skin with her fingertip—touch more gentle than he'd ever received.

It wasn't magic. There was no glow, no surge of energy. Just her touch, featherlight, leaving nothing but the faintest warmth behind.

But Klaus felt it. Like a brand sinking beneath his skin—faint but undeniable. His mouth ran dry.

Mercy didn't speak as she finished the final line of the rune—she realized. Her hand trembled, but she pulled it back.

"There," she said quietly. "I don't know if it'll do anything. It just... felt like I had to."

Klaus stared down at her, eyes unreadable. "You've never done that before."

"No," she admitted. "But something told me to. You're the one he'll come for first."

He studied her face for a long, still moment. Not the rune. Not her hands.

Her.

He didn't know how to name it—this quiet certainty pressing beneath his ribs—but it was hers. Whatever she'd done, it resonated deep in the marrow of him. Anchored. He didn't want to believe in fate, didn't want to think it could control him.

But this—her—hadn't been forced.
It had just been.

And then he nodded.

Before either of them could say more, a chill swept through the room like a wind through bones. A shift in the air that made everyone freeze. Klaus tugged his shirt back on and Mercy followed him into the living room.

Kol stepped toward the front window and cursed. "Bloody hell. He's here."

Klaus instantly pulled Mercy's to his side, blocking her with his body. "We need to get her out of here."

"We don't have time," Elijah snapped, stepping in front of them. "I'll handle him."

"Elijah—" Rebekah started.

Klaus grabbed Elijah's arm, giving him a look he'd never seen before. "No. You'll get her out of here. All of you," his voice was low, steady as he addressed the rest of his siblings. "Take her. Don't stop until you're out of this town."

If Elijah was surprised he didn't show it. He simply nodded once, tension flaring behind his calm exterior.

Rebekah hesitated. "You can't fight him alone."

"I'm not fighting him," Klaus said, lips curling in something too grim to be a smile. "I'm buying time."

Mercy caught his arm before he turned. "Don't—please."

He cupped her face with one hand, his thumb brushing under her eye. "You think I'm letting him near you?"

The softness in his voice didn't match the storm in his eyes.

Then he kissed her forehead, fast and rough, like he was afraid hesitation might make it mean too much.

Rebekah grabbed her hand. "Mercy—"

She didn't move.

Klaus looked back once more. "Go."

Mercy let Rebekah tug her away only when Klaus turned toward the door. She felt the moment he stepped out—it was like something snapped inside her.

Then came the boom of splintering wood and a gust of wind that smelled like fire and dust and death.

⸻

Klaus stood in the ruins of the front porch, facing the man who had haunted every shadow of his life.

Mikael.

He looked older—more weathered than last time—but his presence was as unholy as ever. His eyes burned, not with madness, but purpose.

"You've been hiding," Mikael said with a slow, disdainful smile.

"No," Klaus said. "I've been waiting."

The blade in Mikael's hand gleamed.

Klaus didn't flinch. "You know, I should thank you."

Mikael tilted his head, amused. "For what?"

"For reminding me," Klaus said, stepping forward, "of what I'll never become."

Mikael lunged.

They clashed in the ruins of the house, claws and fists and steel. Klaus held his ground longer than he Mikael expected, trading blow for blow with a man who had once made him feel like a whimpering child.

But there was something new in Klaus's rage. Something steadier.

Not fear. Not vengeance.

Protection.

That was the difference.

He wasn't fighting for himself.

He was fighting to make sure she had time to get away.

A part of him he hadn't known was hollow had filled in—and now that it had, the thought of it vanishing was unbearable.

And when Mikael finally pinned him against the wall, blade raised high, Klaus didn't struggle.

He smiled. A calm he didn't understand descending over him.

"You should've brought a different weapon."

The blade came down—

—and shattered against his chest.

Mikael froze.

Klaus's chest heaved—but the rune, invisible to anyone but Mercy, had done its job.

Something ancient pulsed in his blood, like a vow made and sealed without words. It hadn't just protected him.

She had.

"You've gotten sloppy," Klaus growled, driving his knee into Mikael's ribs and shoving him back.

Mikael stumbled, snarling.

And that was Klaus's moment to run.

Mikael stared after him for one long, burning moment—then vanished in a rush of wind and fury.

⸻

Mercy sat in the passenger seat of Elijah's car, fists clenched in her lap.

They hadn't gotten far. Elijah had driven out of town and parked near an empty stretch of woods.

"We should go back," she said quietly.

Elijah didn't respond.

Mercy looked at him. "Elijah."

His jaw ticked. "He told me to get you out."

"And if he dies, then what?"

Elijah turned to her, eyes sharper than usual. "You think he'd survive what he's been through only to fall now?"

Mercy exhaled shakily.

They waited in silence.

Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty.

Then—footsteps.

She knew them before she saw him.

Klaus stepped out of the trees, shirt torn, expression carved in stone.

Mercy was out of the car before Elijah could stop her.

She ran—barefoot, uncaring—straight into him.

Klaus caught her like he'd known she would.

She pressed her face into his shoulder. "You're okay."

He held her tightly, one hand burying in her hair.

"I told you," he said, low and rough. "I'm not letting him take anything else from me."

She pulled back just far enough to look up at him. Her fingers curled in the torn fabric at his chest, over the faint outline of the rune she'd drawn.

"I felt something when you did it," he murmured. "I don't know what it was. But I felt it."

Still felt it.

A hum beneath the skin. A promise.

Mercy nodded. "Me too."

And she meant it. She didn't understand why, or how, but when she'd drawn that mark, it was like her whole body had chosen this one.

Behind them, Rebekah and Kol watched from the trees. Neither spoke. But their expressions said enough.

They'd seen Klaus choose rage every time—seen him abandon caution, abandon them, abandon himself.

But this?

This was different.

This was Klaus staying.

This was Klaus protecting.

And they didn't say it aloud—but they knew.

It had everything to do with her.

Chapter Text

The safe house was a sprawling farmhouse somewhere in the Carolinas—far enough from Mystic Falls to feel like new territory, but close enough that no one relaxed completely. It was old and creaky, the kind of place ghosts might linger. But for the Mikaelsons, it was peace—temporary and brittle, but peace nonetheless.

Klaus stood near the window, arms crossed, watching the dusk bleed out across the fields. His reflection in the glass looked tired. Behind him, Rebekah sprawled on a worn sofa, Kol was loudly losing to himself at cards, and Elijah quietly poured over a stack of ancient journals he'd brought from their New Orleans library. Mercy was upstairs, still asleep.

"She's been out for two days," Rebekah murmured. "Are we sure she's alright?"

"She's healing," Elijah replied, not looking up. "Her mind needed time to recover. She's earned it."

Kol scoffed, tossing a card on the table. "So have I, but nobody lets me nap like the dead for forty-eight hours."

"You're not the one who carved a protection rune into Klaus's chest to keep our bastard father from killing him," Rebekah said sweetly.

Kol opened his mouth, thought better of it, and grabbed another card.

Klaus didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, still looking out the window, he said quietly, "He'll need time to regroup. She threw him off."

Elijah looked up. "You're certain?"

Klaus nodded. "I'm certain he'd have come after me right away otherwise. Mikael doesn't understand Mercy. That protection sigil—it wasn't magic in any traditional sense. He couldn't read it or see it. He thought he understood every kind of power worth fearing. She made him hesitate."

"That's a first," Kol muttered.

"But it won't last," Klaus added. "He'll come again. Smarter. Meaner."

"Then we use the time we've been given," Elijah said. "We plan."

⸻

When Mercy finally came downstairs late on the second morning, her hair was damp and she looked—alive again. The shadows under her eyes had faded. Her movements were easier. She wore one of Klaus's Henley's and greeted the room with a tired smirk.

"Did I miss anything fun, or just more existential dread?"

Kol looked up, delighted. "Look who's finally rejoined the land of the conscious."

"Were you betting I wouldn't?" She asked, heading straight for the coffee pot.

He raised a hand. "Guilty."

She poured herself a cup and took a long sip before glancing at Klaus. He was leaning on the edge of the counter, watching her like she was some rare star that had just come back into view.

"You look better," he said.

Mercy arched a brow, teasingly. "Flattery? From you?"

"It's not flattery if it's true."

She gave him a small, genuine smile and moved to sit across from him. Kol, never one to let silence win, flopped into the seat next to her.

"So," he began. "Have any more fever dreams? Prophecies? Doom-filled declarations of father dearest's next move?"

"Not exactly," she said, leaning back. "But I'm sure my subconscious is just waiting for the dramatic timing."

They spent the next few hours combing through ideas, scenarios, and locations. Elijah talked tactics. Rebekah listed safe zones. Klaus shot down half of Kol's "creative" strategies with a single glance.

Mercy didn't speak often, but when she did, it was with sharp clarity.

"I think we need a different kind of backup," she said at one point. "Someone who understands magic the way Esther did. Someone who isn't trying to kill us."

"A tall order," Elijah murmured.

"Still," she said. "Someone like that would've been on your mother's radar right? Someone she considered powerful. Trusted even."

Kol snorted. "Esther didn't trust anyone."

"She trusted Finn," Rebekah said softly.

The room stilled. Finn didn't bother to respond.

Klaus glanced at Elijah, then back to Rebekah. "What are you thinking?"

Rebekah hesitated. "If it's a sibling, there is one we haven't considered."

Kol's brow furrowed. "Who? The only one not currently alive is Henrick."

"Wait," Mercy set down her cup bewildered. "I thought you said there wasn't a sixth sibling."

"Technically there was seven of us burn. But Henrick—" Elijah paused, glancing at Klaus who was now glaring at something far away. "Henrick passed when he was young. But there was another, the firstborn, Freya."

"How did I not know this?" Kol practically shouted.

"Mother never spoke of her. All I know is Freya died of a plague when she was a baby."

"Esther said that," Rebekah corrected. "I asked her about it once. She changed the subject. It was like... she couldn't talk about it."

"She wouldn't," Klaus said darkly. "Not if there was shame in it."

"Shame?" Mercy echoed.

Rebekah looked at her. "Esther hated being powerless. If she'd given up a child or lost one in some magical pact, she would never admit it."

Kol paled slightly. "You think Freya's alive."

"I think it's possible," Rebekah replied. "Mercy is sure there has to be six. Nothing else makes sense."

They all looked at her.

Mercy didn't answer at first. She lowered her gaze, her fingers curling around the edge of the table. Slowly, she exhaled.

"I've seen her before," Mercy murmured. "Pieces of her have been in my dreams—bare outlines, strange whispers."

The room stilled.

She glanced around at the others before continuing. "But it's different when I see her. The world feels... suspended. Still, like everything had paused. She was there, standing in the middle of it all. Her face was blurry—like trying to remember someone I've never met. But she wore a necklace. A pendant."

Mercy reached for her sketchbook, flipping through until she found a loose page. "When I woke up, this was already tucked inside. I must've drawn it in my sleep."

She handed the sketch to Elijah. He studied it with a sharp eye, and after a moment's pause, nodded once.

"It's Norse," he confirmed. "A rune. This one represents the firstborn."

Rebekah's breath caught. "Firstborn..."

Kol leaned over Elijah's shoulder, frowning at the mark. "So, what—Freya's leaving breadcrumbs in your dreams now? Or are we officially cracking supernatural riddles in our sleep?"

Mercy shook her head slowly. "It didn't feel like a riddle. More like a warning. Or maybe a message she didn't know how to deliver properly. In the dream, she looked lost. Like she was reaching out, but didn't know who—or what—she was supposed to find."

Finn stepped forward, speaking for the first time. "My mother is the most powerful witch I've ever known. We were all turned, but if we hadn't been, who's to say we wouldn't have inherited it. If she's alive... then she may have more magic than any of us can comprehend."

"I don't think she know who she is," Mercy added. "That's what I felt. In the dream. She wasn't whole."

Klaus, who'd been silent until now, leaned back in his chair, eyes dark. "So we have a lost, powerful sister wandering the ether and a father still trying to drive stakes through our hearts. If he finds out about her, he'll try to manipulate her to his side."

Elijah nodded once. "Then we find her. Before he does."

⸻

That night, Mercy found Klaus outside, perched on the porch steps, elbows on his knees, a half-finished sketch of the surrounding roads crumpled beside him. The moonlight cut across his face, making him look older somehow—worn down, not by time, but by memory.

He didn't turn when she approached, but she knew he'd heard her. He always did.

"You're not sleeping," she said, settling next to him.

"Neither are you."

She shrugged. "I'm not the one who nearly got staked by a homicidal ghost from my childhood."

That earned her a sideways glance and a crooked half-smile. "Touché."

They sat in quiet for a stretch, the air still and cool around them. Mercy let it hang, content in the silence, until she looked down and saw the faint black smudges on his fingertips.

"You drawing again?" she asked.

"Trying." Klaus picked up the parchment and stared at it like it had insulted him.

He let out a breath, dry and low. "You do realize if you hadn't drawn that mark on me, I'd probably be a pile of smoldering ash right now."

Mercy gave him a sideways look. "You're welcome."

He smirked faintly. "It's not easy, you know. Being rescued. I'm far more accustomed to setting fires than being pulled out of them."

Mercy gave a soft laugh, tired but real. "Yeah, well... I get that. More than you'd think."

Klaus glanced at her, intrigued. "Do you?"

She shrugged, eyes on her hands. "I've always been the one doing the saving. Not in some grand, heroic way—just... cleaning up messes. Fixing things. Holding people together even when everything was falling apart."

There was a pause before she added, "Sometimes it felt like I was the glue keeping everyone else from shattering."

He tilted his head. "And no one ever saw that?"

She gave a faint, crooked smile. "They saw what they wanted to. I stopped waiting for anyone to notice after a while."

Klaus's brow furrowed slightly. "That sounds... lonely."

"It was," she said simply. "Still is, sometimes. But you learn to keep going. You learn how to survive."

There was something in her voice that made Klaus go still, a subtle current of weariness he recognized too well.

"What was it like?" he asked after a beat. "Growing up without a family?"

She hesitated, then met his gaze. "Lonely. I didn't even know how lonely until I met all of you."

Klaus blinked, and for once, didn't try to hide his surprise.

"I mean, you're dysfunctional as hell," she added with a half-smile. "But... there's love under all the chaos. You fight, but you fight for each other too. I've never had that before."

Klaus huffed a quiet laugh. "You'd be in rare company. We don't hear that often."

"Maybe people just don't look close enough."

He looked away, like the compliment had landed somewhere he wasn't sure what to do with. "I've lived a thousand years, and not many have tried to protect me. It's... foreign."

Mercy reached out and tentatively slipped her hand into his. Her fingers were warm against his, grounding.

"Well," she said softly, "if I can... I'll never stop trying to."

He gripped her hand back—hesitant at first, then with a little too much pressure, like he was afraid she might vanish if he didn't hold tight enough. She didn't flinch. If anything, she leaned into it.

They sat like that for a long while, the silence between them heavy, but not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that felt earned.

Somewhere in the distance, an owl called. The crickets went on singing. The farmhouse behind them was still.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Klaus didn't feel quite so alone.

His eyes drifted to their joined hands, her thumb tracing slow circles against his skin. He should've pulled away. He didn't. Couldn't.

He could lie to himself. Pretend it was the bond. A lingering thread of magic, fate, proximity. But his actions screamed otherwise. He couldn't take his eyes off her when she was in the room. He had to fight the compulsion to be near her every second. And when she wasn't near—when exhaustion weighed on her shoulders, when her eyes dulled from the weight of everything she carried—he wanted to tear the world apart just to ease her burden. To make her rest. To see her smile again.

Because when she was hurt, his rage was seismic. When she smiled, the whole damn world stilled.

He loved her.

And it ruined him.

If Klaus had ever thought himself mad before, it was nothing compared to this. This quiet, relentless unraveling. He needed a reason. An explanation. A name for what had taken root in him like poison—and worse, some way to sever it.

He'd considered telling Elijah. Actually considered it. Hoped his brother might have some ancient answer tucked into one of those dusty grimoires. A way to undo this before it devoured him whole.

But even the thought of losing it—of losing her—made something in him recoil.

So he kept it. Buried it. Denied it.

He would never say it. Never name it aloud.

But the truth lived in his silence. In every glance. Every bruise he'd avenged. Every moment he watched her and didn't walk away.

And he knew.

He loved her.

And it was already too late.

Chapter Text

It hit her like a tidal wave—no warning, no chance to brace herself.

One moment Mercy was seated at the kitchen table, half-listening to Kol complain about the taste of the instant coffee, and the next her spine arched, eyes rolling white as her body went rigid. The glass in her hand shattered on the floor.

"Mercy!" Rebekah cried, rushing to her side.

But Mercy didn't hear her.

Inside the dark, Mercy was falling.

No wind. No weight. Just the sense that she was dropping endlessly, pulled toward something ancient and bitter and wrong. Then, a flicker—Mikael's face, twisted in rage. A memory or an echo. Maybe both.

"She cannot protect him," Mikael snarled, his voice like thunder cracking stone. "Her interference cost me time. But I have waited longer than this."

His hands were stained red. Ash clung to his clothes. There were runes carved into the walls behind him. Mercy couldn't read them all, but one flared as she looked at it—sacrifice.

"You'll lose him," he whispered, closer now, almost as if he was speaking directly to her. "And I will rip the heart from your chest before you understand what you are."

Mercy recoiled.

Her mouth opened, and something cold and guttural spilled out. Phrases that didn't quite connect. Broken images, scattered words:

"...dusk—he waits until dusk..."

"...burn the bones... a new weapon..."

"...firstborn...sacrifice..."

"...lose him—you'll lose him..."

Then she collapsed.

Her head lolled to the side, chest still rising and falling—but shallow, too shallow.

Kol darted forward, fingers against her pulse. "She's alive," he muttered.

"But she's not here," Elijah said softly, eyes narrowing.

"No," Klaus said. He was already on his knees beside her, lifting her gently, cradling her like something breakable. "She's somewhere else."

⸻

In the darkness of sleep, Mercy stood alone in an empty field, the air too still, too quiet. The sky above her twisted like smoke. And then she saw her—Freya. That same blurred face, hovering just beyond clarity, like a dream she wasn't meant to hold onto.

Mercy stepped closer. "Where are you?"

Freya tilted her head, the pendant at her throat glowing faintly.

"How do I find you?"

Freya raised a hand and pointed.

A flash. A town—old brick, steep hills, a narrow road winding toward the water. Then another image: a rune scorched into wood. Then, nothing.

Mercy gasped awake.

⸻

She woke to warm pressure beneath her head, the scent of cedar and smoke in her lungs. Klaus was sitting on the couch, Mercy curled against him, her head in his lap, his hand clutched tightly in hers. He hadn't let go—not once.

"Mercy?" His voice was hoarse.

She blinked slowly, then looked up at him. His face was paler than usual, jaw clenched with worry he didn't bother hiding.

"You scared the hell out of me," he muttered, brushing a thumb along her temple.

She tried to smile. "You should be getting used to this."

His lips quirked, but it didn't reach his eyes.

The others stood nearby, pretending not to look. Rebekah's arms were crossed, face pale. Elijah looked thoughtful, and concerned. Kol—bless him—was the only one who looked close to panicking, though he was trying to mask it with indifference.

Only Finn remained cold, distant. Watching.

"I need water," Mercy croaked.

Klaus's tone left no room for argument. "Kol. Now."

Kol raised both brows but didn't protest. He returned a moment later with two bottles, which Klaus helped her drink slowly, hand steady at her back.

The silence was suffocating. Klaus didn't press her—but his eyes, gods, they asked everything.

Mercy exhaled, shaky, fear clung to her like a second skin. "I saw Mikael again. He's setting something in motion. I think... I think he's near the border. North Carolina, maybe. Forested area. He's laying a trap."

Rebekah's eyes narrowed. "A trap for us?"

"Not exactly. He's looking for someone. But..." her eyebrows furrowed and she glanced at Klaus wearily.

"Tell me," he muttered, "does he mean to kill me again?"

Mercy dropped her gaze. "I think the trap is for me. I think he means to bleed the magic out of me—whatever that means. It was almost like he was speaking to me. I don't know if he knows I can see him or if it's just deranged ramblings but—" She felt herself get choked up. She'd been in a lot of terrible, terrifying situations in life but this... nothing compared to it.

"Mercy, look at me."

"He said—" She couldn't even get the words out as tears burned along her eyes.

Klaus reached out without hesitation, brushing his knuckles along her jaw. "Whatever he meant, he won't get the chance. I swear to you, Mercy."

She nodded, eyes stinging.

Elijah regarded the scene with quiet astonishment. In all their centuries, he had seldom witnessed Niklaus guard someone with such open, unspoken devotion. Yet here was a girl, not bound by lineage, and still, Klaus held her like something sacred. It was a depth of care Elijah had always believed his brother possessed... but rarely seen him allow himself to show.

He broke the silence. "Was that all?"

Mercy closed her eyes. "Freya. I saw her again. She didn't speak, but she showed me a town. Old buildings, hills, a river. She wants us to find her."

"Did you recognize it?" Elijah asked.

"No. But I'll know it when I see it."

Klaus stood, hand still entwined with hers. "Then that's where we go. Tonight. No more waiting. No more hiding."

"And if Mikael finds us first?" Kol asked.

Klaus's eyes burned gold. "Then he'll regret it."

⸻

Later that night, Klaus stood alone on the back porch, a half-empty bottle of bourbon hanging loosely from one hand. The air was cool, thick with the scent of pine and something faintly metallic.

He didn't flinch when Elijah stepped outside. Just took another swig.

Elijah stood beside him, silent at first. He'd always known how to wait Klaus out—how to speak when words mattered, and how to let the quiet say what needed saying.

"I see the way you look at her," Elijah said eventually.

Klaus scoffed but didn't answer. His expression was unreadable, his eyes on the trees.

"I'm not here to judge it," Elijah continued, calm and steady. "I just wanted you to know... I think it's a good thing."

Klaus let out a bitter breath. "It doesn't feel like a good thing."

Elijah glanced at him, head tilted slightly. "Then what does it feel like?"

There was a long pause.

"Like madness," Klaus muttered.

Elijah waited. He didn't push.

Klaus shifted his grip on the bottle. "The first time I touched her... the very first second—when I caught her, when she collapsed—I felt something."

That caught Elijah's attention. "What kind of something?"

Klaus hesitated. Then: "Like being snapped into place. Like something I didn't know I possessed woke up and recognized her. I didn't understand it then. I still don't. But it hasn't stopped since."

Elijah's brows knit. His voice was thoughtful, not accusatory. "You're certain it's not magic? A binding, perhaps. Compulsion of a sort?"

"I'd know if it were." Klaus's tone was sharp, certain. "This isn't something done to me. It's just... there."

A silence settled between them. Elijah's gaze drifted toward the house, toward the room where Mercy was sleeping. He thought of Klaus's hand around hers earlier. How he held her the night Mikael attacked. The relief from them both when they knew the other was okay. The way he'd looked—not frightened for her, but terrified of what she'd become because of him.

A beat of silence passed.

"This feeling..." Elijah said, slower now, carefully. "It isn't fading?"

Klaus gave a bitter laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. "If anything, it's worse. It's ridiculous. I still feel guilt over what happened with that Wren witch—guilt, Elijah. Me." He spat the word like it tasted foul.

He began pacing, the tension bleeding into every step. "And when Damon laid hands on her... I've known rage. Centuries of it. But that? That was something else. It wasn't fury—it was pure, bone-deep wrath. I ripped his heart out and still wanted to tear the world in half."

He stopped short, jaw clenched, voice low. "She gets under my skin. Even if I wanted to step back, put distance between us, I couldn't, it feels physically impossible. She's in my head, in my blood. And when she smiles—" He exhaled sharply, as if the thought itself wounded him. "It silences everything."

He glanced at Elijah, his expression unreadable. "I don't know what this is. But it's not passing. And it sure as hell isn't fading."

Elijah said nothing, his features unreadable. But he saw it now. The truth of it. The depth. "Why haven't you mentioned this?"

Klaus shot him a withering look. "Would you? It's a weakness. One we can't afford right now."

He was quiet for a long moment. And then:

"I love her."

He said it like a death sentence.

Elijah however, was delighted. In a thousand years he never thought he'd hear such a thing from his brother.  "Love isn't weakness Niklaus."

Elijah drew a slow breath, quieter now. He knew his brother, and granted the situation did sound peculiar, but he knew he needed some type of answer.

"There have been stories," he said. "Of older bonds. Rare ones. Dangerous, yes—but not always tragic. Some were sacred. Some fated. I don't know what this is yet, but I could look into it. Quietly."

Klaus shot him a look. "Don't start. I told you, it's not a spell."

"I believe you," Elijah said. "But it may still have a name."

"Why? If this is about my redemption Elijah, I've told you, it's impossible."

Elijah chose to ignore that. "Let me do this for you. She doesn't need to know. Not until we understand it."

Klaus didn't say yes.

But he didn't say no either.

Elijah turned to go, pausing with one hand on the door. "Whatever this is, brother... it hasn't ruined you. In fact, I think it's the one thing that might save you."

Klaus didn't respond.

He just stood there, staring into the woods, the weight of something he couldn't name dragging heavy at his chest.

It had started with a single touch.

And nothing had been the same since.

Chapter Text

The car cut through the winding back roads just outside of Newfell like a blade, its engine a low purr beneath the tension coiled in the air. Trees stretched long fingers overhead, filtering the late morning sun into fragmented shadows across the windshield.

"I still think I should be the one to go in," Mercy said for what had to be the fifth time. Her arms were crossed, eyes fixed out the window. "Alone."

Klaus could feel Elijah's eyes flick toward him in the rearview mirror, like a question left unspoken.

He didn't look away from the road, jaw tight. "Absolutely not. If you must insist on going in, then I'm go with you."

"To protect me?" she asked, lips curling. "Or to charm her with that winning personality of yours?"

Kol barked a laugh from the backseat. "Careful, Mercy. Keep it up and you two will be bickering about curtain colors next."

Mercy blushed and turned sharply to stare out the window again. Klaus let out a low grumble and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He didn't miss the way her cheeks flushed.

He didn't like the way his chest warmed at the sight of it either.

Elijah, ever the peacemaker, raised a brow at Kol. "Must everything be a joke with you?"

"It does tend to keep things from becoming unbearably dull," Kol replied, smirking. "Besides, it's adorable. Like watching an old married couple road-tripping to visit estranged family."

Klaus growled low, but the edges of his mouth twitched in what could have almost been amusement.

They rolled into the sleepy mountain town a little past noon. The place looked like a postcard stuck in time—stone storefronts, brick sidewalks, a church bell tolling in the distance. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt almost curated. Newfell didn't make room for strangers, which made Mercy's certainty all the more unsettling.

She stepped out of the car, squinting against the sun. "She's here. I can feel it."

"Then let's split up," Elijah suggested. "Cover more ground."

"We are not splitting up," Rebekah snapped. "Not with Mikael still out there."

Klaus looked like he might retort, but Mercy cut in, holding up a hand.

"Look, she's not going to remember anything with you lot marching in like an angry parade," she said. "Seriously, let me go in first. Alone."

"That's not happening," Klaus said with finality.

"Why? Scared I'll steal your long-lost sister?"

"Scared she'll hurt you."

There it was. The only words that could truly silence her.

She softened. Just a little. "She won't."

They stood in front of a small bookstore tucked between a bakery and a florist, ivy climbing up the stone exterior like it had a mind of its own. There was no sign, just a bronze bell above the door.

The siblings began to argue again—Elijah trying for logic, Kol suggesting ridiculous distraction tactics, Rebekah insisting they look for back exits first. Klaus tried to take over, demanding they do things his way. Finn was, well Finn was there too.

While they bickered like it was a family sport, Mercy slipped inside.

The bell above the door chimed.

Cool air greeted her, tinged with old paper and lavender. Shelves stretched tall and narrow, casting long shadows. A woman stood behind the counter, her hair tied back loosely, fingers skimming the edge of a page. She looked up.

Mercy's breath hitched.

Freya.

There was something in the slope of her shoulders, the weight behind her eyes. She looked so ordinary, and so ancient all at once.

"Hi," Mercy said, trying to sound casual. "I'm... looking for something."

Freya smiled, polite but distant. "Anything in particular?"

"I'm not sure yet."

Freya's eyes narrowed slightly. Just a flicker. But Mercy saw it. Felt it. Recognition didn't take the form of words or memories—but of a soul nudging forward, testing the waters.

"Your name wouldn't happen to be Freya, would it?"

The woman stilled, the page beneath her hand curling slightly.

Before she could answer, the door burst open behind Mercy.

Klaus stormed in, expression hard, eyes already scanning the room. When he spotted Freya, his posture shifted imperceptibly—guarded, not aggressive, but wary in a way Mercy rarely saw in him.

"Don't get any closer," Klaus said lowly, his voice edged in protectiveness.

Freya's head tilted. "Excuse me?"

"She's not a threat," Mercy said sharply, stepping between them. "And neither are you. Freya, this is Klaus."

The name hung in the air like static.

Freya blinked once. Twice. Then her gaze flicked to Klaus, and something old and shrouded stirred in her.

"Mikaelson," Mercy said, slowly.

Freya staggered back a step, one hand reaching to brace herself against the counter.

"I—no. That name..." she whispered. "I know that name."

The door opened again and the rest of the siblings flooded in—Rebekah, Elijah, Finn, Kol—forming a half-circle behind Klaus. Freya's eyes swept over them, and Mercy could see the internal battle playing out behind her face. Dissonance. Recognition without understanding.

"I think..." she breathed, looking back at Klaus. "I think I know you."

Rebekah stepped forward carefully. "You do, or well, not exactly—You're our sister."

"I was given away," she whispered. "When I was just a baby. I... There was a woman. She raised me. But sometimes... sometimes Mother came. She wasn't supposed to, but she did."

"She showed you glimpses of us," Rebekah said gently.

"Yes," Freya said. "Mostly from afar. But I remember you."

She pointed to Klaus.

"I was allowed to speak to him. Just once."

Klaus's eyes narrowed. "I don't remember."

Tears brimmed at Freya's eyes. "You wouldn't, you were probably only 3 or 4 at the time."

No one moved.

Mercy felt her chest ache. This reunion wasn't a storm—it was a slow exhale, a soft unlocking. Something broken finally folding into place.

Freya blinked quickly and cleared her throat. "I should... I'll close the shop. Come upstairs. There's tea. And whiskey, if anyone prefers."

They followed her without a word.

⸻

Her apartment above the shop was modest, lived-in. There were spell books stacked in the corners, crystals on the windowsill, plants thriving in too-small pots. Mercy lingered near the shelves while Freya poured drinks. The others fanned out, quietly absorbing her life.

"I stayed hidden," Freya explained, handing out mugs. "I wasn't sure what was real. Or if the dreams were just that."

Mercy caught sight of a small wooden keepsake box on a side table. The lid was carved with a symbol—simple, primal. She walked toward it, hand outstretched before anyone could stop her.

The moment her fingers brushed the wood, her knees buckled.

Klaus caught her before she hit the ground. Watching her for any signs of a vision.

She gasped like the air had been ripped from her lungs, eyes fluttering, face pale.

"What's wrong with her?" Klaus demanded, his voice sharp with panic. This wasn't normal, though the range with which she had visions wasn't exactly point blank.

Freya crouched beside them, drawing a symbol in the air with quick, fluid precision. Her hand glowed faintly, magic moving to Mercy's chest like a balm.

Klaus opened his mouth to protest. To tell her magic didn't work on Mercy. But whatever she did didn't seem to hurt or bounce off her so he restrained himself.

"She's overextended herself," Freya murmured. "She's been channeling far more than her body can handle. Even a tether has limits."

He looked up. "Tether?"

Freya blinked, startled—then realized. "You don't know."

"Know what?" Rebekah asked, moving closer, eyes flicking between Mercy and Freya.

Freya sat back on her heels, visibly sorting through memories and pieces she hadn't put together until just now. "She's not just a seer. She's not even really a witch. Mercy is... something else. A tether is a conduit. A living balance between life and death. She can channel life force, open thresholds. She's connected to things older than magic itself. Tether's...they're rare. Maybe one or two in an era."

The others shared a look.

Klaus listened, face unreadable—but his hand never left Mercy's hair, his thumb absently brushing her temple.  "Doesn't explain why she see can see Mikael, or push into other's minds."

Freya shrugged slowly. "Unfortunately I don't know everything about them. I'd have to do more research on it. My best guess is it allows her to truly see a person, to understand where they may fall."

"And she still chose to save Niklaus?" Kol chirped.

Klaus glared at his brother who held his hands up innocently.

Freya smiled faintly. "I haven't even explained the part where she could unravel time if she overextends too far."

Mercy stirred slightly in Klaus's arms, letting out a soft groan.

"Hey," Klaus said gently, brushing her hair back. "You're alright, love. You're alright."

Her lashes fluttered open. "You're annoyingly calm for someone holding a collapsed woman."

"And you're alarmingly stubborn for someone who almost died touching a paperweight," he retorted, but his voice was too soft to be annoyed.

He helped her sit up, keeping his arm around her like he wasn't quite ready to let go.

———

The apartment smelled faintly of sage and aged paper. Mercy sat curled into one end of Freya's couch, sipping slowly from a glass of water as color crept back into her face. Klaus hadn't moved far from her side. Freya perched across from them, fingers nervously twisting the hem of her sleeve, eyes scanning the faces she hadn't seen in centuries.

"So," she said, voice tentative but hopeful, "tell me... how are you all?"

Kol leaned back in the armchair, legs slung over one arm. "Well, I was daggered for a while. Finn was as well, but while I wanted to wake up, he wishes he didn't. Elijah's still a worrier. Klaus is still angry at everything, and Rebekah still wants a white picket fence and a golden retriever."

Rebekah rolled her eyes. "Oh, shut up."

"I'm not angry at everything," Klaus muttered.

"Just most things," Mercy said under her breath.

Freya cracked a smile.

The smirk that pulled at Klaus's lips was reluctant. She did that to him. Slipped past his armor like it wasn't even there. And damn him, but part of him liked it.

Freya sat cross-legged across from them, studying Mercy curiously. "You knew I'd be here."

Mercy nodded slowly. "I didn't know how, but... I felt it. Like a pull."

"Of course you did," Freya murmured. "You were trying to rebind what was broken."

Klaus tensed beside her.

Freya looked at him, a touch of old grief softening her features. "You've changed."

"Have I?" He said dryly.

Freya didn't flinch. "And yet you're here. With her."

There was no mistaking the weight in her voice—Freya knew what he didn't want to admit.

Rebekah cleared her throat awkwardly. "What has your life been like all these years? You said Dahlia kept you hidden—did she hurt you?"

Freya hesitated. Then nodded. "She twisted everything. I was her weapon, her legacy. She made sure I never forgot that."

Kol looked at her, the usual mirth gone from his face. "You survived. That makes you one of us."

"Some days, that felt like the only thing I was doing," Freya admitted. "Surviving."

Rebekah stepped forward, wrapping her arms around her sister for the first time in centuries. The embrace was soft but grounding. Freya's breath hitched, but she returned it, eyes glassy.

"You're all still..." Freya trailed off, looking at each of them again. "Despite everything, you're together."

"Barely," Finn muttered.

Elijah stepped forward, voice steady. "We've found you, Freya. And we're glad for it. But our father—Mikael—he's coming. And we believe you may be the key to stopping him."

Freya looked down at her hands, fingers curling slightly. "If I am, I'll help. I lost my family once. I won't lose you again."

Kol ran a hand through his hair. "Well, this is a fun little family reunion. Should we bake a cake next?"

Rebekah shot him a look, sharp as a dagger.

Mercy tried to cover her laugh with a cough, but immediately winced.

"Easy," Klaus said softly.

Freya watched them with interest. "You've already made the bond, haven't you?"

Klaus's head snapped up, confusion warring with something darker. "We've made nothing."

"You can lie to yourself, brother," Freya said softly. "But it won't save you."

Mercy turned toward her, confused. "What do you mean? What bond?"

Freya smiled faintly. "Nothing important."

—

They stayed the night in Newfell, the siblings crowding into Freya's apartment like ghosts reclaiming a past they never had. Laughter came awkwardly at first, then more freely. But Klaus didn't laugh. He stood near the window most of the evening, watching the street, one eye always drifting back to Mercy.

She lay curled up on the couch, half-dozing. Her head dipped, then lifted again, eyes finding him in the shadows.

"You're staring."

"Making sure you don't fall unconscious again," he said flatly.

Her lips tugged into a smile. "You really don't let up, do you?"

"Not when it matters."

Something unspoken passed between them. She looked away first.

But even after she drifted off to sleep, Klaus didn't move.

Mercy drifted to sleep beneath the weight of his gaze, wrapped in a silence that, for the first time in years, felt like safety.

Chapter Text

The grand hall of the Mikaelson compound in New Orleans had known centuries of bloodshed, celebration, and silence—but tonight, it was something else entirely. Alive with the hum of something rare. All six of the Mikaelson siblings stood in one room.

Together. And yet, the space between them still crackled with ghosts.

Freya stood just inside the doorway, still half a stranger in a home that should have been hers all along. Her eyes swept the room—not hurriedly, but deliberately—as if trying to memorize the shape of each sibling. Time had passed, yes. But time never lessened the weight of being a Mikaelson.

Her gaze paused on Finn, who lingered near the archway, back stiff against the wall, arms crossed tightly like a shield.

"Problem?" Freya finally asked. Fed up with the constant watching and glaring she'd received from the man the entire trip here. He hadn't said a word, not back at her apartment in Newfell, or in the car on the way here, not until now.

"It's been centuries, Freya," Finn said, voice colder than the night air outside. "And now you return, expecting to be part of this family again?"

His words hung there, blunt and graceless, but the sting was intentional.

His eyes—always too sharp, too cold—held none of the warmth a brother might give a long-lost sister.

"I don't understand how Mother never said a word. Not once. About you. Do you expect me to believe she simply... forgot?"

The accusation wasn't loud, but it landed like a slap.

Kol let out a soft scoff, lifting his bourbon glass in mock salute. "Oh, here we go. The prodigal sister returns, and the martyr brother can't handle it."

Finn's eyes narrowed into knives. "At least I didn't spend decades causing chaos for amusement."

Kol grinned. "Please, chaos is in our blood. Some of us just have the decency to enjoy it."

"I believed everything she told us," Finn went on, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. "I built my loyalty on her silence. And now you return—like none of it matters."

Freya didn't flinch. "It matters, Finn. More than you know."

He stepped forward, jaw tight. "Then tell me—why didn't she? Why would our mother lie about you, Freya?"

"Because she was trying to protect herself," Freya said quietly. "She chose not to face what she gave up. I was the price of her desperation, and she buried me along with it."

Finn's mouth parted, a half-formed denial lingering there, but no words came. The certainty he'd always carried, the faith in Esther's version of the truth—it was cracking.

Freya met his gaze, steady but not cruel. "I never stopped being part of this family, Finn."

Rebekah—always the voice of reason when emotion ran too high, unless it was her own. "Enough," she said sharply. "We're all here now. That's what matters."

Elijah stepped beside her, ever the anchor. "Our unity is our strength. We must not let old grievances divide us."

Finn's scoff was quiet but pointed. "Says the man who's hidden behind reason while the rest of us bled."

That one hit a nerve. Elijah's brow twitched, but his tone remained even. "I've made mistakes, Finn. We all have."

"I didn't choose to be taken," Freya said softly. "But I chose to come back. That should count for something."

Silence.

Mercy looked to Freya, trying to redirect the tension in the room. "I have a question, about the whole tether thing."

"I did something, a rune, I guess, on Klaus. It protected him when Mikael tried to kill him. It wasn't magic, but I don't understand how I did it, or even knew to."

Freya nodded. "It's rare. Unbelievably rare. But it makes sense now. The visions. The protection you gave Klaus."

Mercy leaned forward in her seat, heart skipping as she felt Klaus's gaze flick toward her. He was always watching—quiet, unreadable—but lately, she caught herself noticing him back. Noticing the way his walls cracked around her. The way her name sounded different when he said it. Like it meant something.

Freya hesitated. "It's kind of like—intention. You chose him. Chose to protect him. That's what a tether does. You choose who lives, who dies, what passes through."

Mercy stared at her, wide-eyed. "Do I have to?"

Kol burst out laughing. "She really is one of us."

Freya chuckled. "It's not obligation, Mercy. It's instinct. But even instinct can be directed. If you learned to control it..."

Mercy blinked, then glanced at Klaus. He was still watching her. He always looked at her like he was bracing for her to disappear.

Her chest ached, unexpected and sharp. No one had ever looked at her that way.

"Could I protect all of you? Like I did with him?"

Freya tilted her head thoughtfully. "Possibly. With time. With practice. But it's dangerous. You're tied to all that power—and you're still human. Mostly."

Klaus was watching her more closely now, his expression unreadable. But Mercy felt it—the tension pulling taut between them.

She'd protected him without thinking. Without even realizing it. But now she knew... and she wasn't sure she wouldn't do it again. Not because of the tether, not even because of magic—because it was him.

"What does that mean?" Klaus asked, voice low. "Could it kill her?"

Freya frowned, "It's very possible, yes. Look at the toll it's taken on her already."

"I didn't think I looked that bad." Mercy tried to joke, to shave off some of the darkness in Klaus's expression. He looked... furious. Not at her. At the danger. At the fact that she might break, and he wouldn't be able to stop it.

And for once, she wasn't afraid of that anger. She was moved by it.

He cared.

That thought came so softly she almost missed it. He cared—and not in the distant, tactical way others had pretended to. He cared with a violence that scared her a little. A protectiveness that didn't ask permission.

Mercy was... flattered. No—touched. She'd never really had someone who'd care if she died before. Certainly not like this. Like losing her would be the end of everything.

"I'll help you," Freya said, giving Mercy's arm a gentle squeeze.

But before Mercy could respond, Klaus stepped forward, his voice quiet but firm.

"No," he said.

Everyone turned to look at him. The word echoed with more than resistance—it carried fear, and something far rarer in Klaus Mikaelson: vulnerability.

Mercy blinked. "No?"

He didn't take his eyes off her. "You don't get to die for us. Not for me."

Her breath caught. She tried to speak, but he cut her off, not with sharpness, but something gentler. Raw. "I've spent a thousand years clawing my way out of death, dragging others into it if I had to. I won't stand by and watch you become another casualty of this family."

Mercy couldn't breathe.

It wasn't just what he said—it was how. The restraint in his voice, cracking like ice beneath the weight of something deeper. Something dangerous. Something real.

Rebekah shifted slightly, her brow furrowed—not in confusion, but in something close to wonder. Elijah said nothing, but the flicker in his gaze suggested the same.

Kol raised a brow, glancing between them, then gave a low whistle. "Well, well. Big Bad Nik finally cares more about someone else than himself."

Mercy flushed, glancing away. Her skin felt too warm, too tight. Klaus had just said—no, shown—what she'd never dared to hope for.

That she mattered. Not as leverage. Not as some mystical seer. Just... Mercy.

And now she didn't know what to do with that.

Because her feelings for him were shifting, quicksand under her feet. She didn't just trust him more than she should—she was starting to want him. Not just his protection or his power. Him.

She was beginning to see the man beneath the fury, and what she found there wasn't safe or simple. It was fractured. Fierce. Beautiful. The kind of love that could wreck you.

"I'll still help her," Freya said, quiet but resolute. "But I'll teach her control. She doesn't have to bleed out for us to survive."

Klaus didn't look convinced but gave a short nod but kept his gaze on Mercy. The space she filled in his life wasn't optional—it was carved out, bleeding, irreplaceable. He watched her like something sacred and cursed all at once.

And she met it, surprisingly steady. Her heart thundered in her chest, but she didn't flinch.

"Don't worry—you can hover and growl," she said softly, trying for lightness.

His mouth curved—just barely. "We all have our strengths."

But behind that faint smile, Mercy saw it.

Cracked restraint.

Like inside he was screaming.

Not a confession. But a warning.

And God help her—she wasn't sure she wanted to run from it.

The moment hung between them like glass in sunlight. If she reached for it too quickly, it might shatter. So instead, she tucked it away, somewhere deep.

She didn't trust easily. But she knew under his stormy exterior there was a man worth trusting.

Not because he was kind. But because he was trying.

And for her, that was everything.

Chapter Text

The old house groaned as the wind curled around its bones. Mercy lay curled in her bed, the covers twisted at her waist, her breath slow and steady in the thick hush of early morning. A half-burned candle flickered on the bedside table, its light throwing fractured shadows across the ceiling.

And then, without warning, her back arched.

A choked cry caught in her throat as her eyes flew open—completely white. Her hands gripped the sheets as if to anchor herself, but the vision took hold too fast, too strong.

Fire. Smoke. Blood.

She stood in the middle of a ruined clearing, ash falling from the sky like black snow. Around her, witches with burning eyes chanted in circles. Vampires, their faces blood-slicked, stood shoulder to shoulder with wolves in half-human form, bound not by loyalty, but fear.

And in the center—Mikael.

His presence split the vision like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. He wasn't yelling, didn't need to. Every eye in the horde turned to him with the same reverence—and terror. His voice came not from his mouth, but from the air around her. Inside her.

"Do you feel it, little girl?"

Mercy's head snapped toward him. He was looking straight at her—not through her, not past her, but at her. As though the vision weren't just a glimpse, but a door she'd mistakenly left open.

"You cling to these broken things. These children who've forgotten what they are—monsters. Do you think your thread of mercy will change that?"

The army behind him roared as one. The earth itself groaned under their feet.

"You could stand with me," he said, walking toward her now, slow and steady. "Or you can die with them."

And suddenly, the vision cut to flashes—runes carved into flesh, Freya on her knees, Elijah bloodied, Kol screaming, Rebekah's hand reaching for someone she couldn't save. And Klaus—alone, again. Always alone.

"You will choose, girl. Life... or death. But understand—mercy will not save you."

He smiled. The world shattered.

Mercy's body slammed back into the bed, sweat cold on her brow, her chest heaving. Her hands trembled. The candle had gone out.

She stared at the ceiling for a long time. And then, she made a vow to herself: If death was coming for them, she would do everything in her to make sure it found him instead.

⸻

Later that morning, the grand hall of the compound had transformed into something out of an old war painting—maps unfurled across the long table, old books opened to pages scrawled with ancient markings, candles flickering beside spilled ink and broken plans. The air felt thick with tension, a storm waiting to break.

Mercy stood near the table, her arms wrapped around herself. "I saw them all," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Witches. Vampires. Wolves. He's not just raising an army—he's raising everyone."

Kol let out a low whistle from the corner where he leaned against a pillar, a tumbler of bourbon dangling from his fingers. "Cheerful," he said with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "All we need now is a plague and we've got ourselves a biblical apocalypse."

Rebekah crossed her arms, her expression tight. "It's exactly what he always wanted. To command fear. To wield control."

Finn's jaw was clenched. He hadn't spoken much since Mercy shared the vision. Now, his voice cut through the silence. "And he spoke to you directly?"

Mercy nodded once. "He knew I was there. Not just saw me—knew me. He said..." She hesitated, her gaze dropping to her hands. "He said I was choosing monsters over the lives they'd taken. That I wouldn't be able to save any of you. That mercy won't save me."

Elijah stepped closer, calm as ever, but there was a storm behind his eyes. "He's trying to sow doubt. Twist your gift into a weapon against you."

"He's not wrong, though." Mercy's voice was low, but firm. "He's raising an army with numbers we can't match. And it's not just the army. It's the way they looked at him, like he was revered more than feared."

Finn turned toward the fire, shoulders drawn tight. "He's always been good at that. Getting people to believe... right before he burns the world down around them."

"And he hates you," Mercy added, looking at each sibling. "All of you. Not just as enemies—he sees you as a mistake. A stain."

Kol's smile turned grim. "Well, he made us. Bit late for regrets."

Klaus, who had been pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged wolf, suddenly stopped. His voice came low, gravel-edged. "Then let him come."

Mercy turned to Klaus who had been pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged wolf. "He's gathering strength, waiting for the right moment to put his plan into action. He's calculating. Patient. This isn't a reckless war—it's strategy."

Klaus's eyes met hers, but his mind was already turning, burning. "Then so must we."

Elijah spoke, calm and collected, but edged with unease. "If he's waiting, that gives us time. Not much, but enough."

"For what?" Kol asked, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "There's no coven that'll side with us, no vampire faction that wants to be anywhere near this fight. And as for the wolves—" he scoffed—"we don't exactly have a fan club."

"We have each other," Rebekah said. "For once, let that be enough."

Klaus didn't answer. He stared at the table, jaw working, something shifting behind his eyes.

Then, abruptly, he turned. "I have something I need to take care of."

"Klaus," Elijah said, stepping forward. "Now is not the time for secrecy—"

But he was already halfway to the door, coat in hand.

Mercy moved after him, something catching in her chest. "Klaus, wait—"

He stopped only long enough to throw a glance over his shoulder, the faintest flicker of conflict in his eyes. "Trust me."

And then he was gone. The door slammed shut behind him with a finality that rang through the compound.

Kol sighed, sipping his bourbon. "Great. That's comforting."

Mercy stayed by the door, staring after him for a moment longer than she meant to. She wasn't sure if it was fear or faith that anchored her in place.

⸻

The sun had begun its slow descent by the time Freya guided Mercy into the quiet of one of the smaller rooms in the compound. It was far from the war-room tension of the hall—simple, tucked away, a space made for thought instead of action. Freya had brought a few artifacts with her—bowls of herbs, stones etched with markings, and pages of notes in a language Mercy didn't recognize.

But no spells were chanted. No circles were drawn. The air buzzed with something quieter than magic, deeper than ritual.

"Sit," Freya said gently, motioning to the worn rug in the center. "This isn't about power. Not the way the others use it."

Mercy crossed her legs on the floor, her nerves jangling like windchimes in a storm. "Then what is it about?"

Freya settled across from her, mirroring her posture. "It's about stillness. Your power doesn't come from incantations or ingredients. It comes from something you already carry. Somewhere inside."

Mercy gave her a skeptical look. "That's... vague."

Freya smiled slightly. "Magic usually is. But you're not like me. Or any witch I've ever known." She tilted her head. "Close your eyes."

Mercy obeyed.

"Now breathe," Freya said softly. "Don't force anything. Just... listen."

The silence stretched. At first, all Mercy could hear was her own heartbeat. The wind outside. A creak of floorboards somewhere above. But then—it changed. Something pulsed inside her, like a thread tugging at the edge of her consciousness.

"I can feel something," she whispered.

Freya's voice was calm, steady. "That's you. Not your mind, not your magic—you. The part of you that exists outside time and blood and name."

Mercy's eyes fluttered open, throat tight. "I'm scared of it."

Freya didn't look away. "Good. That means you're not reckless with it."

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Freya spoke, "The rune you put on Klaus, do you think you could draw it for me?"

Mercy hesitated, then moved to the shelf where Freya had laid out a few open journals. She flipped one to a blank page and slowly sketched the shape she'd carved into Klaus's chest—the sharp lines, the curve at the edge.

Freya leaned in. "That's... impressive. It's not spellwork. This is older than that. Runes are a language of intention, not incantation."

"You recognize it?"

"I recognize the style. But this rune—this one is yours." Freya looked at Mercy with a new kind of awe. "It's protective. But it's more than that. It's... a binding of will. You didn't just shield him. You chose to keep him in the world."

Mercy looked down at the sketch, her fingers brushing over the lines like they were alive. "When I did it, I just... felt it. Like something inside me reaching for him."

Freya nodded slowly. "You're not channeling magic the way a witch does. For lack of a better description let's just say you are the magic."

Mercy blinked. "That sounds... way too big for someone who still Googles how to boil rice."

Freya actually laughed, a quiet sound, like something delicate shaking loose inside her. "You're not meant to carry all of it alone. That's why you're here. Why he brought you here."

Mercy's expression softened, eyes dropping back to the rune. "Could I... make one for all of you?" She glanced up. "Just... something to keep you safe."

Freya's brow furrowed. "In theory, yes. But they'd have to come from you. Every one of them. You can't replicate what you did with Klaus—it wasn't the shape that made it powerful. It was the choice you made in that moment. The why."

Mercy exhaled. "So I'd have to want it. Really want it. For each of you."

"Yes," Freya said gently. "No shortcuts. No spells. Just your will—and theirs."

Mercy paused. "That's... a lot."

Freya shrugged. "So is this family. But you're already part of it. Whether you meant to be or not."

A silence stretched between them, full of unspoken truths and strange new understanding. Then Freya leaned forward again and reached for one of the nearby journals, flipping to a section filled with old, hand-drawn runes.

"Here," she said. "These are some of the older symbols—meanings change depending on how they're used. This one's for clarity. This one's for fortitude. And this," she tapped her finger on one carved in rough edges, "this one's for mercy."

"Funny," Mercy said softly, tracing the symbol. "It looks sharp."

Freya's mouth quirked. "Mercy often is."

They looked at each other, something wordless passing between them. The world outside was bracing for war, but here—in this quiet, old room—two women sat in the eye of it, unspoken storms behind them, unknown power within them.

"Let's keep going," Mercy said, rolling up her sleeves.

Freya's smile returned, small but real. "You're going to be just fine."

⸻

The compound was dim and still, cloaked in the hush that followed adrenaline and strategy. Elijah stood near the bookshelves, a tumbler of bourbon in hand, his posture taut with unspoken thought. Freya entered quietly, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

"She's changed him, hasn't she?" Freya said, not bothering with a greeting.

Elijah turned his head slightly but didn't respond right away.

"She has," he finally said. "And for once, I don't think it's temporary."

Freya moved to stand across from him, leaning on the opposite shelf. Her fingers toyed with a silver pendant at her throat. "I saw the way he looked at her, Elijah. It wasn't just obsession. Not just another conquest."

Elijah took a slow sip, his gaze flicking toward the doorway, as if out of habit. "No. It was something else."

Freya's voice dropped, soft and curious. "Have you noticed how protective he's gotten? He barely let's her out of his sight. As if..." She trailed off.

"As if he's afraid to lose her," Elijah finished.

Freya hesitated, then leaned in, lowering her voice. "Do you think it could be a mate bond?"

Elijah arched a brow. "A what?"

"It's rare," she said, glancing toward the window. "I've only read about it in old texts, mostly werewolf lore. A kind of supernatural tether—like fate wrote someone into your blood. Wolves sometimes find a mate. One. Singular. A soul-deep connection."

Elijah's brow furrowed. "But he's not just a wolf."

"No," Freya said slowly, "he's not. That's what makes it complicated. His vampire side changes everything—heightens emotions, twists instincts. If he was bonded to her, it could explain the intensity. The possessiveness. The way it was undoing him."

Elijah stayed quiet for a long moment, absorbing this.

Freya continued, her voice quieter now. "I've only heard of two cases. Both werewolves. But never in a hybrid. And Klaus... Klaus wasn't built to surrender to anything he didn't choose."

A sharp voice cut through the room.

"Is that what the two of you have been whispering about?"

Freya and Elijah both froze, their heads turning.

Klaus stood in the doorway, arms crossed, tension rolling off him like smoke. His eyes were sharp, unreadable—but there was a flicker of something dangerous in them.

"You're talking about me," he said, stepping into the room. "And her."

Freya lifted her chin, not backing down. "Yes."

He narrowed his eyes. "Then go on. Tell me what you think you've figured out."

Freya glanced at Elijah before facing her brother head-on. "I think you may have formed a mate bond with Mercy."

Silence crackled between them.

Klaus stared at her. "A what?"

"It's rare," Freya said, her tone calm, careful. "A deep, biological connection between wolves and their true mate. It's not always romantic. But with you—being a hybrid, part vampire—your emotions are already volatile. If this is what I think it is, it's why you can't stay away from her. Why protecting her feels more like need than choice."

Klaus didn't move.

Freya took a step closer, gentler now. "It would explain everything, Nik. The way you feel her presence. The pull. The way she steadies you. You've been different since the night you first touched her."

He swallowed hard, his jaw tight. "And you just assumed this?"

"No. I didn't assume," Freya said. "I felt it. The way your aura reacts when she's near. The way your magic bends toward her. You're tethered to her in a way that defies logic."

Klaus didn't answer. His mouth was a line, his fists clenched at his sides.

Elijah, ever the voice of tempered observation, spoke softly. "Brother... you'd known it too. Hadn't you?"

Klaus's voice came hoarse. "I didn't think it was a curse. Not her. Not ever." His jaw clenched. "I just thought... whatever it is, it shouldn't exist. Not for me."

Freya stepped closer, her voice steady. "But it did. And it wasn't a spell or a trick, Klaus. It was you. Your blood. Your wolf. It had always been there."

Klaus paced once, like a caged animal.

"So what?" he snapped. "You expect me to what—embrace this? Give in to it?"

"We expect you to understand what it means," Elijah said quietly. "Before you do something reckless and lose her."

Klaus turned to them, fury and fear flashing behind his eyes. "You think I don't know I'm losing myself? Every time she looks at me, it's like I'm being unmade. I can't breathe when she's gone. I can't think when she's near. And the worst part—" He choked on the rest, his jaw tightening.

Freya's voice softened. "The worst part is, it's not weakness. It's the one thing that might save you."

Klaus stared at her, a hundred things unsaid burning in his throat.

Then he turned sharply and walked out without another word.

Elijah didn't move.

Freya let out a quiet breath. "He's terrified."

Elijah nodded once, his eyes still on the door. "Then we'll need to make sure she's not."

Chapter Text

Klaus stood in the archway of the courtyard, cloaked in shadow, his arms folded loosely over his chest. Mercy hadn't noticed him yet. She was seated on the stone bench, legs tucked beneath her, bent over the pages of an ancient grimoire she'd dug up from somewhere in his library. Her fingers were stained with ink, her brow furrowed in thought as she traced symbols across parchment.

He should've turned away. Left her to her work.

But instead, he watched.

Watched the curve of her spine as she leaned over the page, the way she pushed her hair behind her ear with a flick of her wrist, leaving a smear of ink across her cheek. Watched the way the late sun hit her skin, gilding her in gold.

It was unbearable. And he couldn't look away.

There was a name for this—this pull, this need, this constant magnetic ache in his chest whenever she was near.

He hadn't wanted to believe it, even after he heard Freya say the word in that low, careful voice. Even after Elijah, ever-rational, had countered with cold logic.

Mates.

The word alone had made his stomach turn. Not because he didn't believe it—no, the moment he heard it, it clicked into place like a lock snapping shut—but because it explained too much. Too clearly. Too well.

It explained why he couldn't stop tracking her heartbeat across a room. Why he'd stood between her and danger without hesitation. Why her touch had lingered long after it was gone. Why the rune she'd drawn over his sternum still burned, weeks later, like she'd marked something buried deep beneath skin and bone.

He'd always thought the idea of mates was a myth—wolves' tales and romantic delusions meant to justify obsession. But now?

Now he could feel her inside him like a second heartbeat.

He shifted his weight against the stone, jaw clenched tight. The worst part wasn't that it might be true. The worst part was that some part of him had known all along. From the moment she touched him in the tunnels. From the moment she whispered words over him like he was something worth protecting.

This wasn't just some passing fixation. It wasn't even just love—not the way other people meant it. It was something older. Wilder. Etched into his very nature.

A bond.

A mate.

His.

The word made him sick and alive all at once.

She didn't feel it the way he did—he knew that. She hadn't been raised in the dual worlds he had. Her blood wasn't tied to wolves and their lore. To her, it probably felt like a connection. A closeness. Maybe even affection. But nothing that explained the way Klaus already knew he'd rip the world in half if it meant keeping her safe.

And what was he supposed to do with that?

He wasn't built for this kind of thing. For fate. For softness. For belonging. He'd destroyed too much. Loved too violently. Driven everyone he cared about away, then punished them for leaving.

But she hadn't left.

She was still here, in his home, in his life, in his blood.

Drawing runes while the sun went down, completely unaware that she'd already rewritten everything he thought he knew about himself.

Klaus exhaled slowly through his nose and let his head fall back against the stone. The sky above him was streaked with dusk. For a moment, he closed his eyes, just listening to the quiet scratch of her pen against paper, the soft hum of her voice, the steady beat of her heart.

His mate.

God help them both.

He didn't follow her when she rose and disappeared inside—though every instinct in him screamed to stay near. He stayed rooted in place, spine pressed to stone, until her footsteps faded.

Until the sound of her vanished and all that remained was the echo.

⸻

The compound had quieted with the onset of dusk, its long shadows softening the sharp angles of tension that still clung to the walls. The earlier flurry of planning had settled into a wary calm, and Mercy found herself moving through the halls like a ghost—light-footed and thoughtful, something stirring in her chest that wouldn't let her rest.

It wasn't fear. Not exactly.

It was choice.

She could walk away now. No blood oath bound her. No curse. No ancestral claim. And yet... her hands itched to protect, to carve safety into the skin of people she'd barely known months ago.

People who, impossibly, now felt like hers.

Rebekah was the first she sought out. Mercy found her alone in the courtyard, seated on the edge of the fountain, bathed in golden light. Her fingers trailed lazily through the water, but her eyes were far away.

"You okay?" Mercy asked.

Rebekah looked up and smiled faintly. "As okay as one can be when facing the end of the world—again."

Mercy sat beside her. "You joke a lot. You all do. But I know you're scared."

Rebekah was quiet for a long moment, then said softly, "It's easier to be brave when you pretend you're not afraid."

Mercy exhaled slowly, pulling the piece of charcoal from her pocket—the same one Freya had given her—and held it in her palm. "Can I show you something?"

Rebekah quirked a brow. "What is it?"

"A rune. One I made for you."

She held out her arm. "Paper won't survive a war."

Mercy smiled, then reached for Rebekah's bare forearm. She drew slowly, deliberately—sharp lines meeting curves with practiced care, infused with her own will. "It's a rune of resilience," she said quietly. "To remind you that even when everything around you falls apart... you don't have to."

Rebekah watched the lines take shape with uncharacteristic stillness. When Mercy was finished, she glanced up—and saw something shimmering in Rebekah's eyes.

"I never thought I'd have another sister," Rebekah said, voice thick with emotion. "But I'm glad I was wrong."

Mercy smiled. "Me too."

The words caught in her throat like a secret finally spoken. She hadn't let herself imagine belonging to anyone, not really. Not after all the years of being everyone's burden, never their blood. But somehow, in the space between battles and brittle truths, this woman—their whole impossible family—had cracked something open in her.

⸻

Kol was next, of course. She found him in the cellar, tossing a dagger between his hands like he was debating whether to use it on himself or someone else. He looked up when she entered.

"Come to talk about our impending doom?" he asked with a crooked smile.

"Something like that," she said. "Can I do something for you?"

He gave her a look, amused and suspicious. "Depends. Are you going to hex me?"

Mercy pulled out the charcoal and moved closer. "Turn around."

"Excuse me?"

She raised a brow. "Trust me. Just this once."

Kol sighed dramatically and turned his back to her, pulling off his jacket and baring his shoulder blades. "Fine, but if this turns into a spell that makes me nicer, I'll never forgive you."

She grinned faintly and began drawing, slow and steady—this time on the space between his shoulders. The rune formed in jagged, deliberate strokes. "It's about clarity," she said. "Seeing beyond fear. Beyond pain."

Kol was still for once. Silent.

"You know," he said finally, "death used to be the scariest thing. But not anymore. Now it's the idea of not living for something. Or someone."

She said nothing, just pressed her palm to the rune once it was finished, anchoring it with her will.

He let her.

And she wondered—had this always been possible? That helping someone could turn into... this. Finding pieces of home in the people she never thought she could trust. It wasn't magic. Not really. It was something else. Something warmer. Something that could be broken, yes—but maybe that's what made it matter.

⸻

Finn was the hardest.

She found him on the balcony overlooking the city, shoulders squared, spine taut. He didn't turn when she approached.

"You're still angry," she said quietly.

"I'm... unsure," he admitted after a long silence. "Of Freya. Of all of this. I spent my life trusting our mother, and now I've learned she lied. That Freya existed, that she was taken... I don't know what's real anymore."

"I get that," Mercy said. "More than you know."

He turned then, brows furrowed. "You?"

"I didn't want this life either. The visions, the pain, the choices. There was a time I wanted to vanish. Just... not be anything."

His face shifted—surprise, then something like understanding.

"Let me give you something?" she asked softly.

He hesitated. Then, wordlessly, he extended both hands toward her—palms open, the way someone might surrender.

Mercy took them gently and drew on his skin—delicate spirals and anchors, old shapes with new meaning. "It's peace," she said. "For when this is over. If we survive it."

Finn studied the marks, and something in him seemed to uncoil. "Thank you."

She smiled, and for a flicker of a moment, let herself believe she was part of this. That she wasn't just the one who'd fallen into their orbit, but someone who might belong inside it.

⸻

Elijah was in the library, of course, where Mercy found him standing before a wall of old books, unmoving.

"I didn't interrupt, did I?" she asked softly.

He turned. "Not at all."

She held up the charcoal again.

"I'd like to give you one too," she said. "May I?"

Elijah hesitated only a moment, then unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, baring his chest above his heart.

Mercy stepped closer and drew, careful with the placement—over the place where his heart beat steady beneath layers of control and restraint.

"It's loyalty," she said. "Not the kind that binds, but the kind that liberates. You're always the one holding everyone together. I thought maybe you deserved something to hold you, too."

Elijah's lips parted, emotion threading through his usually composed expression.

"You've done more for Klaus in weeks than I have in a thousand years," he said. "And I say that without bitterness. He's... different now. Because of you."

Mercy swallowed. "He's not the only one who's changed."

Elijah nodded, eyes holding hers. "We have a vow, Mercy. Always and forever. And you... are part of that now."

She smiled, placed her hand over the rune she'd just drawn. "Then I won't let you fall. Any of you."

It broke something open in her—that word. "Part." She'd spent most of her life believing she wasn't built for it. That family was something you either inherited or lost. Not something you could build, or choose, or fight for. But here they were. Letting her in.

⸻

Freya met her in the garden under the low canopy of trees. The moon was rising, washing them in silver light. Mercy handed her the charcoal.

"May I?"

Freya turned slightly, baring the side of her neck and brushing her hair aside. "Do it."

Mercy drew the spiral rune—memory, connection—just beneath Freya's ear, where it glowed softly in the moonlight.

"For all the years you lost," Mercy said, "and for the time you won't lose again."

Freya touched the mark gently, like she could feel it hum. "You're not just learning magic. You're shaping it."

"I'm just trying to keep you all safe," Mercy murmured. "Even if it's impossible."

Freya shook her head. "You're not a witch, Mercy. You're a tether. And you're what keeps this family from unraveling."

⸻

The courtyard was quiet. The fire in the stone pit had burned down to glowing embers, casting long orange shadows across the walls. Mercy sat curled on one of the wrought iron benches, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the sparks drift upward like fireflies with nowhere to land.

She was exhausted, but her thoughts refused to settle. The runes still stained her fingers, smudged charcoal black beneath her nails. Each one she'd drawn felt like a promise—each stroke a silent vow. She wasn't sure if they would save anyone. But she'd done it anyway.

She'd spent her whole life trying not to care, because caring meant losing. But this... this didn't feel like loss. It felt like love. And that terrified her more than any war ever could.

She heard the gates open before she saw him.

Boots on concrete. A purposeful stride. She didn't need to turn.

"Klaus," she said softly.

He stepped into view a moment later, the firelight catching in the amber flecks of his eyes. There was something different about his expression—tense, but triumphant.

"I hope you didn't burn the place down in my absence," he said.

Mercy stood, smiling now, eyes shining. "I did something, actually. A lot of somethings."

There was a brightness to her—sunlight in a storm—and it hit him like a weapon. That joy, that relentless hopefulness. She didn't even know what she did to him.

"I gave them runes," she said, stepping closer. "All of them. Something to protect them. Something that might hold."

He didn't speak. Couldn't. His chest ached with how much he loved her in that moment—how alive she made him feel. Even now. Especially now.

"I wanted to show you, but..." She faltered as his gaze pinned her.

It wasn't just admiration in his eyes.

It was devotion. Hunger. Need.

The kind that threatened to unravel him.

Then Klaus looked away, gesturing behind him.

A second set of footsteps followed. Slower. Heavier.

Then she saw him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. His presence was immediate and commanding, but there was a smile curling on his lips—cautious, but real.

"Mercy," Klaus said, gesturing toward the man beside him. "Meet Marcel."

Marcel Gerard stepped into the courtyard fully now, arms folded as he took in the scene—his eyes moving from the ruined fire pit to the shadowy windows above. Then they landed on her.

"You're the girl?" he asked, voice low and velvet-smooth, but edged with disbelief.

Mercy blinked. "The girl?"

He shrugged, not unkindly. "The one Klaus has been tearing New Orleans apart to protect."

She flushed slightly, her spine straightening. "I wouldn't say—"

"Oh, he would," Marcel cut in, flashing a wry smile before tossing Klaus a glance. "Never thought I'd see the day you went soft, old man."

"I didn't bring you here for commentary," Klaus said, jaw flexing.

"No, you brought me here because you know we can't do this without each other," Marcel said, tone cooling. He looked back to Mercy. "And because Mikael is a nightmare we both know too well."

Mercy studied him. He was charming, yes—but beneath it, she could see the same thing that lived in Klaus's eyes. Wariness. Pain. History.

"How do you know he's not going to turn on you the second this is over?" she asked Klaus, carefully.

Klaus didn't blink. "Because if we don't win this, there won't be anything left to turn on."

Marcel let out a breath, then nodded. "He's right. I'm not here for him. I'm here for the city. And because I made a promise a long time ago—to never let Mikael take anything from me again."

The words settled over the courtyard like ash. Mercy glanced between them, the tension a rope pulled taut.

She stepped forward. "Then... thank you. For coming."

Marcel gave a half-smile. "Don't thank me yet. War's not over. Just getting started."

From the balconies above, the sound of movement stirred the night. Mercy looked up just as Rebekah stepped into view, her golden hair catching the firelight, her expression unreadable—but her eyes didn't find Mercy or even Klaus. They found Marcel.

A beat passed. Just one. But Mercy felt it like a pulse in her chest.

Rebekah's gaze locked with his—soft, and sharp, and painfully familiar. She didn't smile. Neither did he. But in that look, Mercy saw something so achingly sweet it made her breath catch. A thousand years of heartbreak, and still, something unspoken lived between them.

Kol appeared next, lingering in the shadows like he belonged there, arms crossed and lips tight. Elijah and Freya followed, flanking the stairs in silence, their presence calm and commanding. The full weight of the Mikaelson family gathered above and around them—like a storm forming its eye.

It was a moment suspended in time.

Enemies. Lovers. Family. Ghosts of the past standing shoulder to shoulder, for the first time not to destroy each other—but to face something greater.

Mercy stood in the center of it all. The girl from nowhere, the thread pulling them forward.

Her voice was soft. But steady.

"Then let's get ready."

And for the first time since it all began, no one moved to argue.

They simply nodded—ready to fight.

Chapter Text

The air inside the compound was heavy—thick with anticipation, dread, and something quieter still: fear. It was rare among the Mikaelsons. But as they gathered in the study, that fear hovered between them, unspoken but palpable.

Mercy sat on the floor in the center of the room, perched half against Klaus's side, his arm braced behind her back like a wall she could lean on. Her fingers laced tightly with his. He hadn't said much since she'd told them what she was about to do—just sat beside her, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and unreadable.

"I can do this," she whispered. "I have to."

Klaus's voice was low, fierce. "If there's even a chance this hurts you it's not worth—"

"It won't." She said it before she could doubt it. "I just... I need to see."

Freya knelt in front of her, her hands hovering over Mercy's chest. "You're not slipping into a memory this time. You're reaching into his mind. That's... different. More dangerous."

Mercy met her gaze. "I know."

The others were gathered at the edges of the room—Rebekah pacing slowly near the window, Elijah unmoving beside a bookcase, Kol lounging with forced indifference, Finn stiff-backed and silent. Marcel stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching her with the sharp eyes of someone new to this madness but already deeply entrenched.

Freya nodded once. "When you're ready."

Mercy closed her eyes and reached inward—not for her magic, not for a rune, but for that glimmering thread she'd begun to understand. She found it pulsing quietly in her chest, then pulled.

And the world fell away.

⸻

The vision didn't throw her this time. It took her.

She stood in a field of ash, the ground scorched black and steaming beneath her bare feet. The sky was violet with a roiling storm, but no rain came—only wind that carried whispers she couldn't understand.

And there he was.

Mikael stood at the edge of a ruined altar, silver blade in hand, shirt bloodstained and torn. Around him circled creatures—witches with blackened eyes, vampires twisted by rage, wolves too large and too still. A pantheon of monsters bound to a single purpose.

His voice cut the silence. "You again."

Mercy squared her shoulders. "I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be," he said simply. "You should be terrified."

She took a step closer. "You've already said you'd kill them. That they're abominations. That they ruined everything. I've heard the speech."

"Have you?" he asked, smiling faintly. "Or have you only heard what they want you to believe?"

"They're not perfect," she said, her voice steady. "But they're trying."

"They're monsters who pretend at redemption," he snarled, stepping closer. "You think they love you? That they wouldn't trade your life for their own if the time came?"

"They already have," she said. "Again and again."

He paused. Something flickered in his eyes.

"You're not just a girl," Mikael said. "You're a creation. A fracture. Do you even know what made you?"

"No," she said honestly. "But I know what I'll be. I'll be the one who ends you if I have to."

Mikael lifted the blade—gleaming, molten silver that shimmered like it was alive. "You don't understand what I've made. This isn't a weapon. It's a legacy."

Mercy took another step. "Then I'll burn your legacy to ash."

He smiled—dark and proud. "Let's see if your body survives long enough to try."

The world snapped.

⸻

Back in the compound, her body jerked violently. Klaus's arms tightened around her as she muttered—words thick and slurred, none of them making sense.

"Shadows burn... he bleeds silver... too many teeth..."

Blood trickled from her nose.

Klaus panicked. "She's bleeding. We need to stop this."

Freya gripped his shoulder. "No. If we force her out now, her mind might shatter. Let her find her way."

Klaus looked ready to tear the room apart.

Then Mercy's body arched once—then collapsed against him.

Silence.

Marcel was the first to speak. "What the hell just happened?"

"It's normal, well kind of...," Kol said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mercy's kind of on her own scale."

"She's breathing," Klaus said tightly. "But she's out cold."

They moved her to her room.

⸻

It was hours before she woke.

The ache was unlike anything she'd felt before—like every thread in her had been pulled too tightly and left to fray. Her limbs were heavy, her mouth dry. The memory of the vision lingered sharp in her bones, but what haunted her more was the silence after.

She didn't speak when Klaus came in to check on her. She just took the water he offered. Let him tuck a blanket around her shoulders. Said nothing when he sat beside her, close enough that she could lean her weight into his chest.

She didn't say it yet—but she knew.

She couldn't do it again.

⸻

The compound had shifted.

Gone was the tense stillness of waiting. In its place, motion returned—measured, purposeful. War was no longer a distant storm; it loomed just past the gates.

In the courtyard, Klaus stood with his back to the sun, arms folded, gaze distant. He hadn't said much since Mercy collapsed in his arms. But the way his jaw flexed, the way his fingers curled into fists—he was already planning a hundred ways to kill his father.

Marcel joined him, his presence casual in appearance but heavy beneath. "So... she saw him forge a weapon. Living silver?"

Klaus gave a sharp nod.

"Any idea what the hell that means?"

"Only that it shouldn't exist," Klaus said. "Freya's digging through every grimoire she has. But even she looks rattled." He paused. "It was made for us, Marcel. Whatever it is... it was forged to end what we are."

Marcel blew out a breath. "Well. That's not ominous at all."

They stood in silence a moment.

Marcel glanced toward the staircase. "She doesn't look good."

"No," Klaus said, voice quiet. "She doesn't."

"But she did it anyway."

Klaus sighed. "She always does."

There was something in Marcel's face then—an old hurt, freshly pressed. "You trust her, don't you?"

"Yes."

Marcel looked at him for a long moment, then gave a dry smile. "Huh. Never thought I'd see the day."

They were interrupted by footsteps. Rebekah joined them, followed by Elijah and Kol.

"She's resting?" Elijah asked.

Klaus nodded. "Freya's with her."

Rebekah crossed her arms, her voice tight. "She looks like death. Why do we keep letting her do this to herself?"

"Because none of us can do what she does," Kol muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "We're bloody miracles and monsters, but none of us can walk into minds and pluck out secrets like thread."

"She's more than that," Klaus said, his tone sharper than intended.

Elijah held up a hand. "We know. We do." His eyes were calm, but heavy. "What did she say about the weapon?"

"She said it moves," Klaus said. "That it lives. That it's tied to whatever made us what we are."

Kol made a face. "Oh good. A sentient, anti-original murder blade. That's exactly what I needed this week."

Elijah ignored the sarcasm. "Freya's looking into ancestral and elemental bindings. But if Mikael used black magic—"

"He did," Klaus cut in. "She saw it. It was scorched into the ground like fire and death."

"Then we need reinforcements." Marcel said.

"I've already started calling in favors," Elijah said. "Allies. Old debts. Anyone who might still answer."

Kol scoffed. "Well, assuming they don't piss themselves at the thought of facing Mikael again."

Rebekah crossed her arms, gaze flicking between the others. "You know, for all the disastrous, unforgivable things we've done over the last thousand years..." She paused. "We've done good, too. More than anyone gives us credit for. People just don't like to talk about it."

Kol arched a brow. "What did you do—save all the orphaned children of the world while I was locked in a coffin?"

She ignored him. "I'm just saying there are still people out there who remember that. Who owe us. Who'll help."

Marcel didn't answer, but the tension in his shoulders loosened. He glanced toward the balcony, where Mercy had last been. "She's got guts, I'll give her that. Whatever Mikael did to her... she's still standing."

"That makes her one of us," Elijah said simply.

Kol muttered, "Poor girl."

Klaus finally spoke, his voice quiet but steady. "Mikael's coming. And he will burn the world to get what he wants. But he forgets he created us in his image, and I will do whatever it takes to protect her."

⸻

The air in the study was dense with quiet intensity. Books lay open in overlapping layers on the long table, their pages filled with runes, elemental alignments, and sigils older than even the Mikaelsons themselves. A chalk circle, faint from multiple cleanings, still ghosted the wooden floor beneath their chairs.

Freya sat at the head of the table, fingers laced in thought. Finn stood behind her, arms crossed, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across his face. Mercy sat opposite, still pale, but upright—though Klaus had demanded she stay in bed, she'd slipped out the second he'd gone to speak with Marcel.

"This weapon Mikael's forged," Freya said, tapping a page, "you said it was silver—but alive?"

Mercy nodded slowly. "It moved like it had a will of its own. It... responded to him. Like it knew him. Like it was made from him."

"That shouldn't be possible," Finn muttered.

"That's what I said," Mercy replied. "Right before it tried to kill me."

Freya turned the page, revealing a diagram of the original spell their mother had cast to create the Originals. "If it's connected to your creation, then maybe it's not just a weapon. Maybe it's a key. A reversal. Or worse—a way to break the bindings that still hold him back."

Mercy swallowed. "He wasn't whole when I saw him last. But this time... something was different. He was grounded. Focused."

Freya gave a short nod. "Then we need to strike first. I think I can create a counterspell, something to fracture whatever blood magic he's tied to the blade. But if we do this, Mercy—it'll have to run through you."

"Through me?"

"You're the only one who's touched his mind. You're the tether. The opening."

Mercy felt that cold twist in her stomach again. "I thought you said no more channeling."

"This isn't channeling," Freya said. "It's unbinding. But it will still tear at you." She hesitated. "You'll need an anchor."

Finn straightened. "I'll do it."

Both women turned to him.

"You?" Freya asked, genuinely stunned.

He nodded once. "You said it yourself—it has to be someone steady. Grounded. I've spent centuries seeking peace. I know what it means to hold stillness."

Mercy blinked at him, touched. "Thank you."

He gave her a look that almost bordered on gentle. "Don't make me regret it."

"I won't," she said quietly. "And if it goes bad—"

"It won't."

Freya looked between them, something like hope kindling in her eyes for the first time in days. "If we time it right... we might be able to cut the weapon's connection before it can be fully awakened."

They sat in the silence of that fragile possibility for a moment.

Then the door opened.

Klaus stood in the frame, jaw tense, eyes fixed on Mercy. "That's enough for today."

Freya frowned. "We're not finished."

"She is," Klaus said evenly, stepping forward. "She's pale. Her hands are shaking. She can't even sit upright without leaning on the table."

"I'm fine," Mercy protested softly.

He arched a brow. "Is that so? Then what's this?" He reached out and gently turned her hand over—revealing the slight tremor in her fingers she hadn't even noticed.

Mercy winced.

Klaus didn't gloat. He just looked at Freya. "She'll be back tomorrow. Until then—she's done."

Freya exchanged a look with Finn, who gave a tiny nod.

"Fine," Freya relented. "But only because we need her in one piece."

Klaus stepped behind Mercy's chair, his hand already moving to the small of her back. "Come, love. You've done enough damage to yourself for one day."

Mercy let him guide her to her feet. As she turned to go, she looked back at Finn.

"Thank you," she said again.

He inclined his head. "Be ready."

Klaus didn't speak again until they were halfway down the hall.

"You're not indestructible, you know," he muttered.

"Neither are you."

He gave her a sideways glance. "Yes, but I never pretend otherwise."

Mercy just shook her head and leaned into him slightly as they walked.

⸻

The hour was late. The compound had quieted, save for the soft chirr of crickets beyond the courtyard walls. Klaus had insisted she rest, and for once, Mercy hadn't argued. He'd all but carried her to her room, and now, she lay curled beneath the blanket, her body pressed lightly against his side.

His hand rested over her ribs, thumb brushing idly back and forth, like he could soothe away whatever bruises the day had left on her. She hadn't said much since the counterspell discussion. He hadn't pushed.

But now, in the quiet, her voice broke the silence.

"Klaus," she said softly, "I can't do it again."

He didn't move, but she felt the shift in his breath.

"If I go into his mind one more time..." She swallowed hard. "I don't think I'll come out."

He turned his head to look at her, but she stared up at the ceiling, her eyes glassy.

"I thought maybe if I just held on tighter, fought harder, it'd be okay. That I could push through. But something changed. He's different now, Klaus. Stronger. More rooted. And I—I barely made it back."

He sat up just enough to see her face clearly. "But you did. You did come back. And you don't have to prove anything to me."

"I'm not trying to prove anything," she whispered. "I'm trying to help. But I've reached the edge of what I can give."

And then, for the first time since this all began, a tear slipped down her cheek. Just one. Then another. Quiet. Honest.

Klaus sat up fully, one hand cupping the side of her face. "Mercy—"

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry that we're going to have to move forward blind. That I can't see what's coming anymore. I know how important this is."

He brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping the tear. "Don't apologize. You've already done more for me and my family than anyone ever has."

She flinched slightly.

He caught it.

Klaus's voice softened. "You are my family, Mercy."

She blinked, startled by the certainty in his voice.

"I didn't know," he continued, "when I walked into that art class in some half-forgotten city... that I'd meet a girl who'd change everything. I thought you'd be a moment. A distraction. But you became... the thing I didn't realize I'd spent a thousand years searching for."

More tears welled in her eyes now, and she didn't try to stop them.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

"You don't need to see what's ahead," Klaus said. "You've already lit the path. I do ask one thing of you though."

She furrowed her eyebrows, looking into his eyes.

"Promise you'll always come back to me."

She softened. "Easy. Done."

He pressed his lips to her forehead.

She let out a breath that trembled on the edge of relief and exhaustion. "So what now?"

"Now," he whispered, "we trust what we've built. We stand together. And we let them come."

Chapter Text

It was like stepping into someone else's memories.

Mercy stood just inside the edge of the courtyard, watching a sea of unfamiliar faces weave around each other with a mix of cautious respect and unresolved tension. Some embraced like long-lost friends. Others kept their distance, exchanging wary glances like they hadn't forgotten old betrayals.

She kept to the edge, eyes scanning. Rebekah moved through a knot of witches, offering clipped smiles. Freya was deep in conversation with a man who looked like he hadn't slept in days—Mercy thought she caught the word sister before the conversation dropped too low to hear.

A tall vampire with a faded leather jacket passed by, giving Mercy a nod and a half-smile. She returned it cautiously.

"That's Diego," came a low voice beside her. Kol, appearing as if summoned by her uncertainty. "Used to run with Marcel back in the day. Good in a fight, bad with authority. He'll behave—for now."

She glanced up at Kol. "Do I need to remember all their names?"

"God, no," he said with a smirk. "Just the ones who might try to kill us. Or flirt with you. Possibly both."

A few paces away, Marcel clapped hands with someone who couldn't have been older than twenty, though the way the kid moved said otherwise. Mercy watched the subtle shift in the room as Marcel walked—how eyes followed him. How even some of the older vampires deferred to his presence.

"He still commands all this," she said quietly.

Kol followed her gaze. "He never really stopped. This city still loves him, even if some of us don't always get along."

The crowd shifted again, and Mercy caught sight of a blonde woman stepping through the outer arch. Confident stride. Sharp eyes. Dressed in all black, like she belonged more in a university lecture hall than a supernatural war council.

Klaus moved to greet her.

Mercy went still.

He didn't smile—Klaus didn't really do smiles—but there was something unmistakably soft about the way his expression eased.

Mercy didn't know who the woman was. But she felt it in her chest before anyone told her.

Kol answered the question she hadn't asked. "Camille. Psychologist. Human. Used to be..." He hesitated. "Important to him. When we lived here."

Camille and Klaus stood a few feet apart, speaking in low tones. There was no touch—no lingering glances—but something passed between them, wordless and heavy. Camille's gaze flicked toward Mercy for half a second. Not cold. Not warm. Just assessing.

Mercy nodded politely. Camille nodded back. Mutual understanding, even if Mercy didn't know the whole story.

Klaus said something then that made Camille laugh—quiet and unexpected. Mercy watched him, and a thought lodged in her chest like a thorn:

What exactly did they share that made him look like that?

She turned away before she could spiral further. The room was too loud, too full of ghosts she didn't recognize.

Kol was gone again, pulled into conversation. Rebekah was elbow-deep in strategy with Marcel and Elijah. Even Finn had started speaking with a group of warlocks clustered near the fountain.

Mercy backed away down the hall, toward the quieter wing of the compound.

She made it halfway before a hand caught hers—gentle but firm.

"You vanished," he said.

Mercy glanced sideways. "Wasn't really my crowd."

"Strange," Klaus said dryly. "They all seemed quite taken with you."

She gave him a look. "They were looking at you. I was the girl next to the Original who used to tear New Orleans apart."

Klaus tilted his head, amused. "You're going to have to narrow that down."

A smile tugged at her mouth, faint but real. "I didn't know who Camille was."

"Camille was..." He hesitated. "Important. For a time."

"I figured. You looked different when you saw her. Softer."

Klaus studied her then—really looked. There wasn't jealousy in her voice. Just uncertainty. Something quieter and more dangerous.

He stepped closer. "Camille saw the good in me, back when I didn't want anyone to. She challenged me. Called me on my cruelty. And I hated her for it until I didn't."

Mercy held his gaze. "Do you still—?"

"No," he said firmly, before she could finish. "It ended before it ever really began. And even if it hadn't—she's not you."

Her eyes searched his face.

"She saw what I could be," he said. "But you—you've already changed me. And you didn't have to try."

Mercy blinked, caught off guard. "Klaus..."

He took her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. "There's nothing between Camille and me. Not anymore. She's a part of the past."

She swallowed hard, tension easing from her shoulders. "Okay."

A softer note entered his voice. "Run off again and I'll parade you back by the arm like some unruly princess. Try me."

Mercy snorted. "You're awful."

"And you're mine," he murmured, almost like a secret.

Then he nodded toward the end of the hall. "Come on. I stashed a blanket and a bottle of water in the room near the library. You've got that look like you're pretending not to be exhausted."

She didn't argue. Just followed him, their hands still linked, the weight of the day slightly lighter than before.

⸻

The compound buzzed with hushed activity—whispers and footsteps, murmured spells from witches, the metallic scent of sharpened weapons in the air. But Mercy moved through it all like a ghost, her steps quieter, her skin paler than it had been even hours ago.

She stood at one of the long wooden tables that had become her makeshift workbench, surrounded by pages of rune sketches and half-burned candles. Her hand trembled slightly as she pressed charcoal to paper, trying to remember the exact angle of a protective symbol that had once come to her like breath.

But it was gone now.

Her mind fogged, her vision blurred—and before she could catch herself, the paper tilted, and her knees buckled.

She didn't hit the floor.

Strong arms caught her, lifting her with practiced ease. Elijah.

"Let's not add a concussion to your list of ailments, shall we?" he said gently, lowering her onto a nearby chaise.

Mercy tried to sit up straight, to pretend it was nothing. "I'm fine. Just—"

"You're not," Elijah said. His voice wasn't harsh, but it left no room for argument. "You're not fine, Mercy. And you don't have to be."

She looked at him, eyes glassy, a frustrated flush rising in her cheeks. "I can't fall apart. If I fall apart now, everything else will too."

For a moment, Elijah simply looked at her—like he was trying to memorize the shape of her resilience. Then he knelt beside her, resting his hands on his knees, the perfect image of composed sincerity.

"You've already held us together longer than we deserved," he said quietly.

That knocked the breath out of her more than the fall ever could have.

Mercy blinked fast, willing away the sudden sting behind her eyes. Elijah reached for the glass of water on the table beside them and offered it without a word. She took it with trembling fingers.

"Take a breath," he said. "You're allowed to."

Elijah had barely stepped out when Rebekah appeared in the doorway, the soft rustle of her skirt the only warning before she entered.

She arched a brow at Mercy slouched on the couch. "You let him lecture you, didn't you?"

Mercy didn't bother sitting up. "I was in no condition to argue."

Rebekah strolled in, all poise and dry charm. "Well, don't expect one from me. I don't do the whole elder-sibling wisdom thing."

"Good," Mercy said, eyes half-lidded. "I've had enough life lessons for one apocalypse."

Rebekah gave a small smile and sat beside her, letting the silence stretch for a moment. It wasn't awkward. Just full of everything they didn't need to say out loud.

It was Mercy who broke it, quietly. "That look you gave Marcel earlier... what was that?"

Rebekah's posture stiffened, just slightly. Then she tilted her head, thoughtful. "Old habits. Old feelings. Neither of us ever figured out how to bury them properly."

Mercy didn't press, but Rebekah seemed to be working something out behind her eyes.

"He's good," she finally said. "Annoying, stubborn, too self-righteous by half—but good. He wanted more from Klaus than Klaus knew how to give, and that hurt everyone." She glanced at Mercy. "Including you, I imagine."

Mercy shrugged. "I don't know enough to be hurt. Just enough to be confused."

"That sounds about right," Rebekah said softly. "Welcome to the family."

Mercy smiled at that—small, genuine.

Rebekah shifted to face her fully. "You know, when you marked me with that rune... it didn't feel like magic."

Mercy blinked. "It didn't?"

"It felt like a vow," Rebekah said. "Like you were saying, without words, that you'd bleed for us. And we've never been good at people loving us like that."

"I wasn't trying to be noble," Mercy said.

"That's why it mattered."

They sat quietly after that. Mercy leaned her head back against the couch, pale and tired but calm. Rebekah glanced down at her, something like protectiveness flickering across her face.

"If you pass out, I'm not carrying you," she said lightly.

Mercy gave a sleepy chuckle. "Fair."

Rebekah rose, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve, and turned toward the door. "Get some sleep. Klaus will throw a fit if you so much as sneeze."

Mercy's eyes followed her. "He already has."

Rebekah paused in the doorway, glancing back with a half-smile. "Of course he has. You matter now."

Then she was gone, leaving Mercy alone with that thought echoing in the quiet:

You matter now.

⸻

The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long golden shadows through the compound as the hum of conversation filled every corner. The old walls seemed to pulse with life—vampires, witches, werewolves, all moving with purpose, tension held taut like string stretched to its breaking point.

Mercy lingered at the edge of the courtyard, hands curled loosely around a steaming mug of tea Klaus had forced into her grip. Her fingers ached, her head still rang from the visions, but she stayed anyway, watching the movement, trying to remind herself they were building something—resistance, hope, maybe even a future.

The creak of the compound gates drew a few glances, but it wasn't until Klaus stiffened beside her that she looked up properly.

Two figures stepped into the light.

Bonnie Bennett, her hair pinned back, her shoulders squared, looked every bit the powerful witch she'd always been. And beside her—slightly hunched, hands in his jacket pockets—was Stefan Salvatore.

Mercy's breath caught, not in fear, but memory. Blood. The cruelty of Damon's hand. Her argument with Bonnie. Klaus's rage.

They hadn't seen each other since that night.

Bonnie was the first to speak, voice quiet but firm. "I heard what you're facing. And I'm not here because I like any of you. I'm here because I owe her."

She looked straight at Mercy. "I'm sorry. I never said it before, but I am."

Mercy blinked, surprised at the tightness in her throat. "Bonnie... you don't have to—"

"I'm not asking you to forgive me," Bonnie added. "But I'm not letting you do this alone, either."

Before Mercy could respond, Stefan stepped forward slowly. His eyes flicked to Klaus, then back to Mercy.

"I still don't like him," Stefan said flatly. "I never will. But... I've seen him kill for less than what Damon did to you. And I've done worse myself."

Klaus offered a dry smile, arms crossed, but said nothing.

Stefan went on, quieter this time. "We've all lost people. But if this Mikael thing is as big as I've heard... it's not about grudges anymore. It's about survival."

Mercy nodded slowly, meeting his eyes. "Then I'm glad you came."

Klaus finally broke the silence. "You'll be safe here."

Stefan gave a clipped nod, not exactly grateful but accepting.

Bonnie stepped closer to Mercy, her voice low. "Whatever you need, just say it. I mean that."

⸻

Mercy stood alone in the courtyard, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the worn stone beneath her feet. The air was thick with the quiet hum of the compound—voices, footsteps, the faint clink of glass—life moving around her, but she felt detached, distant.

Klaus appeared beside her without a sound, his coat slipping off his shoulders and settling over hers. The warmth seeped through the fabric, but it was the steadiness of his presence that reached her more.

She drew in a shaky breath, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I've spent my whole life... invisible. My parents didn't want me. My gift—what I can do—it scared me, scared them. Every foster home, every person who should've been family... I was alone. Always."

She swallowed hard, the words raw on her tongue.

"I thought maybe... maybe my life just wasn't meant for more. Not for love, not for belonging."

She turned her gaze up toward the stars, voice faltering as she continued.

"And then... there was you. And this family. And now all of this."

Her shoulders trembled slightly.

"What if I wasn't meant to survive this?"

She paused, eyes wet but steady.

"I guess I never cared if I would. Not really. But now..."

Her voice cracked.

"Now, I want to. I want everything—family, a future, peace. And I just..."

She trailed off, unable to finish.

Klaus's jaw tightened. He stepped closer, his voice low but fierce.

"Then we'll fight until fate begs for mercy."

He touched her arm gently.

"And if it doesn't... it'll still have to go through me."

Mercy's breath hitched. She looked up at him, tears glistening.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"For what?" he asked.

"For making me feel like I'm not just something broken trying to be useful."

His expression softened, his voice steady.

"You're not broken, Mercy. You're brave. Foolishly brave, maybe—"

She pushed her elbow into his side and he laughed.

She leaned into him, settling her head against his chest, a fragile anchor in the storm.

For a moment, the war could wait.

Chapter Text

They were all gathered in the main hall of the compound—Mikaelson blood and all the allies who had come back to stand with them. The room pulsed with the weight of legacy and the tension of a countdown none of them could hear but all of them could feel. Klaus stood near the head of the long table, arms crossed, his gaze flicking constantly between the door, the windows, and Mercy.

Elijah and Marcel leaned over maps marked with protective sigils. Finn stood silently beside Freya, already attuned to the threads of magic she had begun to weave. Bonnie and Stefan stayed toward the edge of the gathering, watchful but present.

And then there was Camille.

She moved through the room with calm purpose, her presence gentler than most, but no less steady. Her eyes landed on Mercy, and after a beat, she crossed the floor toward her.

"Hi," Camille said, a warm smile easing into place. "It's good to finally meet you properly."

Mercy blinked in mild surprise, then returned the smile, hesitant but sincere. "You too. Klaus has... mentioned you."

Camille gave a small huff of a laugh. "I imagine not in great detail."

Mercy tilted her head. "Not in a bad way."

A pause hung between them—thin, delicate.

"I wasn't sure how this would feel," Camille admitted, not unkindly. "Meeting the girl who... matters now."

Mercy's lips pressed together, a shadow of uncertainty flickering across her face. "I wasn't sure either. But I'm glad you're here."

That seemed to surprise Camille. She tilted her head. "You mean that?"

"I do," Mercy said. "This family... they need everyone who cares about them right now. Whatever your history with Klaus... I'm not threatened by it. I think you helped him. Probably more than most people ever could."

Camille's smile softened into something real. "And you changed him. I can see that, even from here."

There was a shared understanding then—not competition, not resentment, just the quiet recognition of two people who had loved the same complicated man and made peace with what that meant.

It might've gone on longer, might've deepened into something more personal, but Mercy's breath caught in her throat.

She stiffened, eyes widening, and her fingers suddenly locked around Camille's arm with unnatural strength.

"Mercy?" Camille asked, startled.

And then her voice sharpened, panicked: "Klaus!"

He was there in an instant, appearing at Mercy's side like a storm on legs. "Freya! It's happening again!"

Mercy's body trembled, caught somewhere between time and space. Her eyes rolled back, mouth slack, as if the vision had her in a chokehold.

Freya's face went white. "Finn! I need you—now!"

Finn was already moving, reaching for Mercy's other hand. Klaus hesitated, clinging to her even as her body spasmed between them.

"You need to let her go," Finn said gently but firmly. "She's not alone. I've got her."

With effort, Klaus uncurled his hand from hers and stepped back, jaw tight. "If she breaks—"

"She won't," Freya snapped, already launching into the spellwork. "We won't let her."

A wind surged through the room, invisible but electric, stirring hair and papers, flickering candles, as Mercy sunk deeper.

The chanting swelled, echoing through the room, thick and heavy like a thunderstorm about to break.

Behind Mercy's closed eyes, a vision unfolded with unbearable clarity.

The bayou stretched wide beneath a heavy sky, ancient cypress trees standing like watchful ghosts. The murmur of water lapping against the shore pulsed in sync with her heartbeat. There, in the distance, the ruins of an old plantation house loomed, shrouded in mist.

This was the place.

Her breath hitched.

A ripple in time showed her the approaching darkness—Mikael's forces gathering under the cloak of night: vampires, werewolves, witches—an unstoppable tide fueled by rage and ancient hatred. The weapon he carried pulsed with a terrible light, forged from black magic and death.

The battle would be here, in the bayou, just hours from dawn.

Mercy's chest tightened under the weight of the revelation. If they could move quickly, prepare wisely, they might stop Mikael from striking first.

Her eyes flew open, shimmering with the residue of the vision.

"Bayou. Near the old estate," she whispered, voice raw but steady. "Tonight. Just before dawn."

Klaus leaned close, his gaze fierce and unyielding. "We have one chance. We set our traps. We make sure he never lands the first blow."

Elijah's fingers traced the ancient map spread across the table. "Wards here, here, and here. The magic will slow him, but it's the element of surprise that will win us the fight."

Marcel's sharp voice cut through the planning, his soldiers already moving into position. "I'll have scouts spread through the bayou—any sign of movement, we'll know."

Camille stood near Mercy, watching Klaus with a mixture of admiration and something softer, something unspoken.

Bonnie murmured incantations, weaving protective spells that shimmered faintly in the dim light, while Stefan's eyes flicked between the map and Mercy, the tension in his shoulders belying his calm exterior.

Finn squeezed Mercy's hand gently, anchoring her to the moment.

Klaus reached up, brushing a damp strand of hair from Mercy's forehead. "You gave us a chance," he said quietly, voice thick with something close to reverence.

Mercy nodded, swallowing the ache inside her chest.

She didn't speak of what she had truly seen—not yet.

Because this time, it hadn't been Mikael's mind she'd entered. Not a tether to his present thoughts, not a glimpse of his planning or his rage. No. This had been something else. Something deeper. A rupture in time itself, pulling her forward into what had not yet come to pass.

A vision of the future.

She had seen the final battle—seen how they would win. The six would defeat Mikael, just as she'd said all along. Each sibling standing strong, united, unwavering. Power and blood and history woven together until even death could not unmake them.

But it only worked... because of her.

Because of what she did.

Because of what it cost her.

Klaus had once called her stupidly brave, said it with love and fury tangled in his voice like barbed wire. Maybe he had been right. Because the vision was clear. In order to save them all—her family, her home, him—she had to die.

It wasn't theatrical. It wasn't grand. It was a choice. A moment. And it was enough.

And though she didn't know what came after—if she came back, if she survived somehow—she had seen their faces alive. Seen Klaus breathing, angry, grieving, alive. That part was real.

And that was enough.

The knowledge sat inside her like something molten and sacred. It burned, but it steadied her too. The ache was twofold—grief that she would have to leave, and overwhelming relief that the people she loved would live. That this nightmare would end. That the war would not take them.

So she said nothing. Not yet.

Because she knew what she had to do now.

And despite everything—despite her shaking hands, despite the way Klaus looked at her like he already suspected the worst—she felt ready.

⸻

Later, alone in the study, Freya spoke quietly.

"Okay. What I'm thinking is we use you as a bridge—just enough to sever the connection between him and the blade. But if you falter, even for a second, it could backlash."

Mercy didn't answer right away.

She knew what this meant. Every time they tried to use her as a conduit, something inside her splintered.

Freya looked worried. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"We're at the end, this won't kill me." Mercy said, to confidently if the look Freya gave her was anything to go by.

Before she could argue, another presence filled the doorway—quiet, tense.

Klaus.

He didn't speak at first. His eyes moved over her—still too pale, still too thin. He'd been gone barely ten minutes and she'd already defied him again.

But there was no anger in his eyes.

Just something harder to name.

His gaze shifted to Freya. "Leave us."

Freya opened her mouth to argue, but one look from Klaus silenced her. She stood slowly, and exited the study, leaving the door half-closed behind her.

Silence settled between Mercy and Klaus, not uncomfortable—just weighted.

She looked at him. "You're mad."

"No," he said. "Not mad."

She blinked. "Then what?"

He stepped closer, each word quiet but fierce. "You nearly died. Again. And you didn't think I'd want to stop that?"

"I didn't think you could."

The words came out sharper than she meant. She looked away. "You can't stop him, Klaus. Not completely. Not yet. But I can give you time."

He closed the distance between them, voice low. "You think I need more time? What I need is you alive. Whole. Not some sacrifice bleeding in the middle of a ritual while the rest of us scramble to hold the line."

She opened her mouth, but he kept going.

"I don't know how to give you soft things," he said, quietly. "I never have. I've only ever known how to take and defend and destroy. But after everything—after you—I've stopped pretending I don't care."

Her breath caught.

"We face what's coming together," he said, his voice shaking just enough to betray him. "Not because I need your power. But because losing you is the only thing I fear more than what's coming."

Her voice broke on a whisper. "You mean that?"

He nodded once. "I don't ask for your trust, Mercy."

His hand reached out—hesitated—then settled lightly against her cheek, fingers curling just behind her ear.

"I demand it."

The words weren't loud, but they rang like a vow.

Desperation, veiled in reverence.

"I want you," he said, rough and raw. "Fiercely. Possessively. And I know I don't deserve you. But I'll protect what's mine."

Mercy's chest ached with something tight and beautiful and terrifying.

He didn't ask if she wanted him back.

He just looked at her like he was praying she stayed.

And she did.

God help her, she did.

Because somehow, even in all his chaos, Klaus had become the one thing she couldn't walk away from.

She leaned into his touch, just slightly, just enough.

And it was answer enough.

Chapter Text

The drive was silent. No one spoke. Not Klaus, nor Elijah, nor Freya—each of them seated in the war truck with Marcel behind the wheel and Mercy curled beside Klaus, staring ahead with eyes that didn't blink enough.

They'd left the compound before dawn, the sun still struggling to break through the heavy clouds that hung like a shroud over the city. Behind them, a caravan of cars followed—witches, vampires, werewolves, allies from lifetimes past and present. A strange, fractured army bound not by loyalty, but by necessity.

The bayou came into view like a memory—swampland thick with mist, heavy with history. This was where Klaus had once spilled blood and made promises. Where Mercy had first seen him lose control. Where enemies had risen, and now would fall.

The convoy rolled to a stop at the edge of the battlefield. Traps already laid. Wards already cast. The land whispered with magic, thick enough that even the humans among them could feel it thrumming in their bones.

Klaus opened the door first, his boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. He reached back for Mercy's hand without a word. She took it, stepping out slowly, eyes sweeping the bayou.

Rebekah was already out of her truck, arms crossed as she scanned the treeline. Kol and Finn joined her, weapons strapped to their backs—blades etched with spells from Freya's hand. Elijah stood beside Marcel, murmuring something low about positioning. Diego flanked Josh, his jaw clenched tight.

Then Freya emerged, and she raised her hand and whispered something into the air. A pulse of silver magic rippled across the clearing like a heartbeat.

They were ready.

Klaus turned to her, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides like he was trying to keep something contained.

"You're not coming with us onto the field."

Mercy met his gaze without flinching. "I know."

He blinked, visibly taken aback. "That's it? No protest? No clever retort about being underestimated?"

A smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. Not sarcastic. Not playful. Just soft. "I'd only get in the way out there. I'm not built for hand-to-hand combat. I know that, so do you."

And God, he did. She'd never pretended to be someone else. She'd stood with them in every way that mattered, not with brute force but with unshakable will. And yet... hearing her accept her own vulnerability felt like something in him unraveled.

She looked up at him, eyes steady and strange. "But I'll stay back. I'll help Freya and Bonnie however I can. There's still something I can do. And you won't have to worry about me out there."

He exhaled hard, shaking his head slightly like he was trying to clear it. "That's impossible," he muttered. "Worrying about you is the one thing I can't seem to turn off."

She stepped closer, close enough that the mist clung to both of them like it knew something they didn't. "You don't have to. Just... come back."

For a second, the whole world seemed to still—no rustling leaves, no movement in the camp behind them. Just the two of them, suspended in that fragile moment between hope and ruin.

Klaus reached up slowly, hand brushing the edge of her cheek, then cupping it, thumb resting right beneath her eye like he was terrified she'd disappear if he didn't hold her there.

"I've bled for a thousand things that never meant a damn thing to me. But for you? I'd do it again. And again. And again."

Her breath caught, her hands coming up to clutch the front of his coat, not to pull him close but just to feel him there. "I didn't expect any of this," she whispered. "I didn't think I'd ever belong to anything. To anyone."

The way he looked at her then—like he wanted to memorize every line of her face, like he already had—was almost too much.

She rose onto the balls of her feet. He leaned in.

The kiss started tentative, unsure—like they were both afraid to break whatever spell hung between them. But then something cracked wide open. All that restrained hunger, all that pent-up fear and devotion and the bone-deep ache of love too long denied—it surged forward.

Klaus kissed her like he'd never kissed anyone before. Like this one moment would have to last a lifetime. His hand slid around her waist, pulling her in so tightly there was no space between them, no line dividing one from the other. Her fingers curled in his hair, clinging like she didn't know how to let go.

For Mercy, it was her first kiss. But it didn't feel like a beginning—it felt like a culmination. Like every lonely night, every unanswered prayer, had been leading her to this moment—this man.

When they broke apart, breathless and shaken, neither spoke.

Because there was nothing else to say.

Instead, she rested her forehead against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the crown of her head as if trying to seal a promise there.

Finally, she looked up, tears glassing her eyes—but not from fear. "Go," she said. "Be the nightmare they remember."

Klaus swallowed hard, nodding once.

And then he turned to walk into battle.

⸻

The bayou was silent.

Too silent.

Mist clung low to the earth, curling between the cypress trees like smoke from a smothered fire. In the distance, frogs had stopped their chorus. The wind stilled. Even the swamp, that living breathing body of nature, held its breath.

Then came the sound.

Not thunder. Not wind.

Footsteps.

Dozens at first. Then hundreds.

Branches cracked under boots and paws and claws. The shrill war cry of a wolf echoed from the east. Vampires blurred through the trees, fast and silent. And at the center of it all—

Mikael.

He stepped into view like something conjured from Mercy's darkest dreams. Tall. Unstoppable. Eyes burning with that cold, calculating hatred that had haunted his children since the day they were born.

In his hand, he held it—the blade.

Dark. Ancient. Gleaming with malicious power.

The runes etched along its edge shimmered faintly in the grey light. A weapon forged of black magic and death, created for one purpose: to destroy his own blood.

He didn't speak.

He didn't have to.

Klaus, Elijah, Rebekah, Kol, Finn, and Marcel stood in a line at the bayou's edge, shoulder to shoulder. Their faces bore no trace of fear—only grim resolve. This was not the first battle they had fought. But they all knew it would be the last.

Mercy stood behind them, hidden in the tree line with Bonnie and Freya. She watched Klaus like he was the anchor keeping her from drifting apart. Her heartbeat synced to his even from across the field.

Then Mikael moved.

The army surged behind him, a wave of werewolves, rogue vampires, and twisted witch constructs.

And then—

Boom.

The first trap exploded, a blast of fire and magic ripping through the front ranks of Mikael's forces. Screams tore the air. A dozen vampires turned to ash on the spot. Wolves were flung backwards into trees. Mikael barely blinked.

Another wave of traps lit up the bayou—glyphs carved into trees, sigils hidden in the roots, all activated by Freya's wards and Mercy's visions. Explosions of sound and spellfire gutted the flanks of Mikael's army.

But they just kept coming.

"Now!" Klaus roared, and the siblings launched into motion.

Elijah moved like a shadow, his strikes graceful and lethal, his blade a blur. Kol was all rage and speed, a smirk on his face as he hurled spells and weapons with equal cruelty. Rebekah fought like a queen defending her kingdom—fierce, proud, unrelenting. Finn fought beside her, cool and methodical, his magic crackling around him.

Marcel's roars echoed across the bayou as he tore through enemies, a blur of strength and vengeance.

And Klaus—Klaus was a storm incarnate. Every strike of his fists, every blow of his blade, was retribution long overdue. He wasn't fighting for glory. He was fighting for her. For Mercy. For the family he had clawed back from hell.

From her vantage point, Mercy watched them begin to falter.

Not all at once. But slowly, surely.

There were too many enemies. Too many weapons enchanted to kill even Originals. Mikael was a hurricane in the center of it all, his cursed blade cutting through even the best defense.

And then Klaus was struck.

He hit the ground hard, blood on his lips. Kol was pinned by three vampires. Rebekah's shoulder was sliced open. Finn screamed Freya's name as he went down under a barrage of spells.

"No," Mercy whispered, a tremor rising in her chest.

Bonnie stood next to her, eyes wide. "They're losing."

Mercy's hands shook as she looked at Freya. "You have to go."

Freya's eyes snapped to hers. "What?"

"They need you. Now. I'll figure out the rest."

"Mercy, no—"

"Go."

Freya hesitated, torn, then nodded and vanished into the chaos.

That left Mercy and Bonnie alone.

And Mercy turned to her, pale and trembling, but certain. "I need your help."

Bonnie stepped forward quickly, her brows drawn in alarm. "What are you doing?"

Mercy swallowed, her throat dry, her limbs shaking. "Something only I can do."

Bonnie helped her step into the clearing, each step heavier than the last. Her body was already fraying at the edges, had been too weak for too long, but this—she knew this is what she had to do. This was something deeper. Older. Buried inside her like a flame trying not to go out.

Mercy closed her eyes.

She reached inward.

It was easy to find now. The thread inside her, thin as silk and just as fragile. She followed it slowly, carefully, fumbling her way toward it like feeling through fog. The air around her crackled as her fingers twitched at her sides, drawing invisible lines in the dirt.

Bonnie hovered nearby, her frantic gaze flicking back and forth between the chaos and her. "Mercy, talk to me. What do you need?"

"I don't know," Mercy whispered. "But I think I'll know it when I feel it."

In the distance, she heard someone cry out—Kol, maybe. Or Rebekah. Mercy's eyes flew open. The fog cleared. Her focus sharpened. The battlefield was slipping away from them. Mikael was gaining ground.

No.

Not yet.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She dug deeper.

She fought for it.

For them.

The thread pulsed. She grabbed it—but it fought back. Her whole body recoiled from the force of it, her breath hitching as fire tore through her veins. She'd never gone this far. Never dared. But this wasn't about her anymore. This was about Klaus. About Elijah. Rebekah. Kol. Finn. Freya. The family that shouldn't have loved her but did anyway.

She saw Kol drop to a knee, blood streaking his temple. Elijah faltering beneath Mikael's brutal blows. Klaus—her Klaus—pushing himself past the edge, sword clashing, eyes wild with desperation. All of them were breaking. And she couldn't watch it happen. She wouldn't.

"I choose them," she whispered.

And then she let go.

Her body arched back, her mouth parting in a soundless cry as the power ripped through her like lightning. The earth beneath her cracked with force. The trees swayed violently, branches snapping like brittle bones. Bonnie flung her hands up in panic, trying to shield herself, to contain Mercy's power—but it was too much. Even she couldn't hold it.

"Mercy!" she shouted.

But Mercy didn't hear her.

Her skin began to glow, veins lit with something ancient and brilliant. All the pain, all the fear, all the love—she gave it freely, without condition, without restraint.

And then—

Across the battlefield, the siblings stilled.

Rebekah, hunched over and panting, suddenly felt warmth bloom across her arms. The rune Mercy had drawn there days ago shimmered gold against her skin, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Kol gasped as the mark on his back warmed, and the pain in his shoulder ebbed away.

Elijah stood straighter, blood dripping from his mouth, eyes wide with disbelief as the rune over his heart sparked to life.

Finn. Klaus. Freya.

All of them.

One by one, the runes lit up—every mark she'd given them. Quiet promises burned into flesh and memory. They pulsed now with strength, with power not their own.

Mercy's power.

Their fatigue melted. Their wounds dulled. Their breath came steadier.

They didn't understand how or why—but they felt her.

And in that moment, they remembered what she'd told them before: It's always been the six of you.

And now, because of her, it could still be.

⸻

The battlefield shuddered under the weight of her power. The wind howled like it knew what was coming. Trees bent low, the bayou groaning, as if nature itself recoiled from what Mercy had become—light and rage and sacrifice woven into flesh.

The six Mikaelsons moved as one.

Rebekah and Kol were the first to reach the blade—Mikael's cursed weapon, the one meant to destroy them all.

Kol ducked a werewolf's claw, twisting beneath it with a grunt as he drove his elbow into the creature's ribs. He spun, boot colliding with Mikael's wrist just as the elder vampire reached for the weapon again. The blade flew from Mikael's grip, spinning through the air.

Rebekah lunged.

She caught it midair, her fingers curling tightly around the hilt. The dark metal sizzled against her palm, but she didn't flinch. Her eyes met Klaus's across the chaos—blood, fire, the roar of battle between them—and without hesitation, she shouted his name and threw the blade with all the strength she had.

It flew, a streak of black and silver through the smoke.

Klaus caught it one-handed, and turned towards Mikael.

Elijah and Finn surged forward, their bodies renewed by Mercy's gift. Freya conjured a binding spell in old Norse, weaving it mid-battle with hands slick from blood. Elijah dodged blow after blow, buying time—until the spell snapped shut like iron around Mikael's limbs.

And then Klaus stepped forward.

The blade pulsed faintly in his hand—living silver, thrumming like it had a will of its own.

When Rebekah touched it, it seared her skin. Recoiled. Even Freya had to shield herself from its sting.

But Klaus?

It didn't burn him.

It welcomed him.

And he laughed—quiet, disbelieving—as the truth sank in.

It wasn't rejecting him because he wasn't Mikael's blood.

That was the cruel poetry of it.

The very thing Mikael loathed—the bastard son, the mongrel hybrid, the legacy he tried so hard to erase—that's what made Klaus the only one able to wield it.

The weapon meant to end a monster would be carried by the one Mikael never could claim.

Klaus approached, eyes burning.

"You always said I was a disgrace," Klaus began, voice low and shaking with fury. "A bastard. A mistake that ruined this family."

Mikael snarled against his bindings, fangs bared, but Klaus didn't falter.

"You beat me into the ground until I couldn't remember what love felt like. You called it discipline. You called it strength. But all you ever wanted was for me to be like you—cold. Empty."

Klaus raised the blade.

"I'm not the mistake, Mikael. I'm the consequence."

His voice broke—just barely—but the edge of it was steel.

"You can no longer destroy this family."

And then—

He plunged the blade into Mikael's heart.

The body jerked. Mikael's eyes widened—and then dulled.

The world held its breath.

And then Mercy screamed—
and the world screamed with her.

Only this time, it wasn't magic pouring from her. It was everything.

Light exploded from her body in a great surge, a sunburst so bright the battlefield went white. The force slammed into the earth, into the sky, into the lungs of every supernatural being standing. Everyone—witch, vampire, werewolf—fell to their knees, faces twisted in awe or agony. All except six.

The siblings stood frozen.

Klaus whipped around, breath gone from his chest. "Mercy!"

She floated above the battlefield, suspended by something unseen. Her body arched, light burning through every pore, eyes wide and unseeing. Her hair whipped around her face like a halo of fire, and she looked untouchable—terrifying and divine.

He tried to run to her. They all did.

But they couldn't move. The magic pressing down on them was suffocating, heavy like gravity had broken its laws to keep her up and everything else down.

"She's channeling too much!" Freya screamed, shielding her eyes. "It's too much for her to hold!"

"How do we stop her?!" Rebekah shouted over the roar of wind and energy, her voice barely carrying.

But there was no answer.

Mercy's body jerked violently in the air.

A horrible sound tore from her chest—half scream, half sob.

And then, silence.

She collapsed.

Her body fell like a broken star from the sky, limp and graceless, slamming into the earth with a sickening thud.

Time fractured. Nobody moved in the space of her heartbeat.
And then Klaus staggered.

It hit him before she even touched the ground—
a searing, shattering emptiness that tore straight through his chest.

His knees buckled. A scream caught in his throat, strangled and raw.

Because he felt it—the bond wrenching itself from his ribcage like something alive.
The moment her heart stopped, something in him died with her.

And then he ran.

He was the first to reach her. His hands were shaking as he gathered her broken body into his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder, too still.

"No," he breathed. "No, no—Mercy, come on—"

He listened for her heartbeat—but it was gone.

Rebekah sobbed. Kol cursed. Finn fell to his knees.

"Klaus," Elijah said brokenly, stepping forward.

"Don't!" Klaus barked, eyes blazing. "Don't you say it."

He cradled her like something fragile, precious. His bloodied fingers brushed hair from her face. "You stupid, brilliant girl," he whispered.

And then, Klaus Mikaelson—hybrid, tyrant, king—began to cry.

Not the violent rage of battle. Not the silent grief of centuries past.

But real, broken sobs.

The kind that came from loving someone for the first time.

The kind that came from losing them.

No one spoke. No one dared. Around them, the world was still.

Mercy was gone.

Chapter Text

Silence.

Not the soft hush of sleep, not the absence of noise—but true silence. Deafening. Eternal. Mercy floated in it, or perhaps was it. There was no sky above—only a bridge on which she stood and a silver mist stretching into infinity, lit by distant pulses of light like dying stars.

She didn’t breathe. She didn’t think she needed to.

A figure emerged from the mist—neither man nor woman, neither light nor dark. It flickered in and out of shape, a shifting outline that hummed with power more ancient than magic. Mercy felt it in her bones. Or maybe her soul.

“You,” she whispered.

“Yes,” the being said. Its voice echoed with a thousand whispers, like wind brushing every memory she’d ever had.

“I died,” she said.

“You fulfilled your purpose,” it replied. “You made your choice. You chose life… but not your own.”

Mercy swallowed. Her chest ached with the echo of pain, but it was distant now. “Is that it, then? I just stay here?”

“No,” the being said, stepping closer. “You are not like others. You were born to hold the scales. To keep the balance. Until now, your power could only do one thing—decide who lives or dies. But that was only a fragment. The beginning.”

Mercy frowned, something inside her tightening. “What do you mean?”

“If you return,” the being said, “you return changed. You will carry the burden of every soul not yet passed, every one who clings to life, or lingers in death. You will walk the line between both worlds. You will carry them across the bridge—either to peace or to return.”

The air around Mercy shimmered, and she saw flashes—souls reaching out, lost in limbo. Screaming. Crying. Pleading. And others… ready, waiting for someone to guide them onward.

Her mouth went dry. “That’s… a lot of power.”

“It is more than power,” the being said, voice sharpening like a blade. “It is responsibility. Mercy Mikaelson, if you fail to keep the balance… you will cease to exist. Not die. Unmake. You will be erased from memory, from time, from every soul you’ve touched. The world will forget you were ever born.”

Mercy trembled, the weight of it crushing down on her. Her knees buckled, but she didn’t fall—there was nowhere to fall to.

“I don’t know how to do any of that,” she whispered.

“You will learn. Or you will vanish.”

She looked down. Her fingers were glowing faintly now—etched with the same runes she had drawn on her family. Marks of choice. Marks of sacrifice.

“Can I still be with them?” she asked.

“For as long as you can hold both worlds without breaking,” the being said. “Your heart is yours. But your soul belongs to the balance now.”

Mercy closed her eyes. She saw Klaus—bloodied, screaming her name. Rebekah, Kol, Elijah, Finn. Marcel. Freya. Even Bonnie.

They were alive.

They lived.

Because of her.

And if she had to walk a thousand haunted bridges to keep them safe, she would.

“I want to go back,” she said. “I need to.”

The being reached forward, placing a single fingertip to Mercy’s forehead. And in a voice like thunder and stars dying and new ones being born, it said:

“Then return, Soulkeeper. Walk the line. And never forget—balance demands everything.”

“Wait!”

The being paused.

“If this is more power, I don’t know if my physical form will be able to handle it.”

“You will learn—“

“How to use it, yes. But what’s the point if I’m only able to do it for so long before it kills me. If you—if you could make my physical form eternal, I swear I will give my life to this purpose for eternity. That’s like a thousand years—more—of souls I could help.”

The being came closer, and though it had no eyes Mercy could feel it searching. “It has never been done this way before. I do not know the toll this would take on you.”

“Does that make it impossible?”

“Nothing is impossible. But this is a big commitment Soulkeeper. Time does not exist here the way it does for you, and I hear forever is a very long time.”

Mercy swallowed hard, but she didn’t hesitate. She would be able to stay with Klaus. He wouldn’t have to watch her grow old and die. “I understand.”

“Very well. I will send you back. You will remain as you are for eternity. And your power will no longer harm you. But there has to be a balance. You will not be invincible. Death may come to you in any number of ways. So be wary Soulkeeper.”

The being touched Mercy’s forehead once more and the world peeled open like light shattering glass.

⸻

The compound felt like a tomb.

The fires had burned low. The battlefield was behind them now, but the war echoed on in the silence, hanging heavy in the bones of the place.

Mercy's body lay across the chaise lounge—the one by the windows, where she used to read when she thought no one was watching. Draped in one of Klaus's sweaters. Pale hands folded. Lips parted in a mockery of sleep.

Klaus hadn't moved in hours.

He sat beside her, knees drawn up like a child. One of her hands was trapped in both of his—cold, unmoving, but he clung to it anyway. His knuckles were white. His jaw tight. The silence around him wasn't peaceful. It was haunted.

Every now and then, he whispered to her.

"You're just resting, love." His voice was soft, but his eyes didn't blink. "You always push too hard. I told you not to."

Silence.

"You said you'd come back to me." A beat. "You said it."

The words caught in his throat. He cleared it like it was nothing. Like he wasn't splintering.

"That's alright. I forgive you. You needed rest. You'll wake up soon."

His thumb brushed over her knuckles. He didn't feel her soul anymore. The mate bond was—gone. Torn from him like flesh from bone. It left nothing but silence where her heartbeat used to echo inside him.

He didn't know how to live with that.

He didn't know if he could.

Rebekah sat in the far corner, wiping her face with her sleeve, failing to look composed. Kol leaned against the bar, head bowed, the bottle untouched in his hand. Freya and Finn paced like caged animals, arguing in low tones—sharp words that cracked with grief.

"He's not hearing us," Finn muttered, glancing at Klaus with dread.

"He's gone," Kol snapped.

"We can't leave her like this," Freya said, her voice shaking. "We have to do something."

"She's not coming back," Finn said it like it hurt. "We need to let her go."

Freya crossed the room, quiet and careful.

"Klaus," she said gently, "we need to—"

"Don't." His voice stopped her cold.

Hoarse. Hollow. Frayed at the edges. But dangerous, too.

He didn't look up. Didn't blink.

Freya hesitated. "We need to prepare her—"

"Don't touch her!" His voice tore free from his throat in a snarl, wild and grief-stricken. He snapped his gaze up to Freya, his eyes sunken, haunted. "She's not cold yet. You don't know. You didn't feel it. She's coming back. I know she is."

Because that was the truth—he had felt it. Felt everything. The spark that tethered him to her, the warmth that had buried itself into his chest like a promise. And then, in a single, godless instant, it was gone. The world had gone silent.

Freya stepped back, startled.

"She's not gone," Klaus said louder now, like the volume alone might summon her soul. His grip on her hand turned frantic. "She's just lost. She always finds her way back."

But this was different.

This time, he couldn't feel her anymore.

Not even a flicker of her soul against his own.

And something inside him—something feral—was beginning to realize the truth.

Rebekah rose slowly. Her voice broke.

"Nik, please..."

"You think I don't know what death looks like?" Klaus rasped. His throat burned. "But not her. Not her."

The fire cracked softly behind him. Outside, the city moved on. But in here, time had stopped.

He looked down at Mercy again. His thumb brushed over her fingers, and for a heartbeat, he looked almost... young. Lost.

"I didn't tell her I loved her." His voice was barely a breath. "God help me, I thought I had time."

Klaus curled further over her, forehead pressed to the back of her hand, his voice breaking into something that sounded like a sob but was too ragged, too raw.

"She has to come back," he said. "She has to come back so I can tell her."

He pressed her hand to his chest—right over the place where he used to feel the bond hum.

Nothing.

Just cold.

No one moved.

Even Kol, who mocked pain to avoid feeling it, looked gutted.

And for a moment—it was unbearable.

The silence between the words. The crackling of the fire. The weight of a grief that had become too vast to hold.

Until—

A thread of something ancient and electric curled deep beneath his sternum. Klaus stilled.

It wasn't grief.

It wasn't madness.

It was heat.

Faint. Thready. Alive.

His head snapped up, eyes darting to her chest.

Finn blinked. "The lights—"

"What?" Kol asked, not even looking up from where his hand covered his mouth, shoulders hunched.

"They flickered."

Rebekah's head turned slowly, almost afraid to hope. The chandelier above them gave a soft shudder of light again—once, then twice. Brief, but undeniable.

Freya's brow furrowed. She lifted her hand, palm turned upward as if feeling for something in the air. "That wasn't the wiring."

Then came the smell.

Charred roses and petrichor. Like lightning through a garden. Like power brushing against the skin of the world.

Kol straightened, sharp now, alert. "What the hell was that?"

And then—a rune. One Klaus hadn't noticed before. It was now carved over Mercy's sternum in blood.

The only reason he noticed now was because it began to glow.

So faintly at first it could have been a trick of memory. A ghost of light.

Then again. Brighter. Steadier.

Soft pulses of gold, steady and slow, like a heartbeat trying to return.

Klaus sucked in a breath, shaking.

His own chest burned.

Right at the center—right where the mate bond had first tethered to his soul.

It didn't hurt this time.

It was mending.

"Mercy..." he choked, dragging her hand tighter against him, as if her pulse might rise if he just held it hard enough. "I feel it. I feel you."

The bond was faint. Like a torn wire sparking against his ribs—but it was sparking.

It was hers.

Her soul, refusing to let go.

His mate bond was healing.

And then—she twitched.

Just the smallest movement. A shift of her fingers. A single jerk of breath.

"Mercy?" Klaus whispered, like he was afraid to disturb something sacred.

But her chest rose again.

And again.

Slow, shallow, but unmistakable.

Elijah took a step forward, clutching the chair nearest him to steady himself. "She's breathing."

Freya clapped a hand over her mouth. "Is this... is this happening?"

The light in the rune began to bloom brighter now, pulsing rhythmically. Not just in her sternum, or Klaus's. Rebekah's wrist—where Mercy had drawn her rune—lit up faintly too. Then Kol's back. Elijah's chest. Finn's hands. Freya's neck.

Each sibling's rune answered back like a call from across the veil.

Klaus dropped his head to her shoulder, voice hoarse.

"You're not finished with me yet, are you?" he whispered. "Not after all this."

He pulled her closer, kissed her temple like it might wake her.

"Come back, sweetheart. Please. I didn't tell you I loved you." His voice fractured completely. "You don't get to leave until you know that."

And then—

Her fingers curled in his.

Her lips parted.

A broken rasp of breath escaped them.

"...Klaus?"

The room shattered.

Time stilled, hearts stopped.

Rebekah's hands flew to her mouth, tears rushing down her face. Finn stumbled back a step. Kol blinked rapidly like he didn't trust his own eyes.

Klaus looked at her like he was seeing color for the first time. "Yes—yes, I'm here."

Her eyelids fluttered. She squinted, dazed, searching. Her lips trembled as she whispered, "Did I... did I make it?"

He was already cupping her cheeks in his hands, brushing the damp hair from her forehead, his voice cracked open. "You came back. You bloody beautiful idiot. You came back."

"I told you..." Mercy whispered, tears rising in her lashes, "Easy."

And then she smiled—weakly, barely—but it was real.

The breath Klaus released was a collapse, a breaking, a rebirth. He crushed her to him, holding her so tightly it was as if he could anchor her soul with sheer force.

The others watched in stunned silence.

But it was real.

She was breathing.

Mercy was alive.

Chapter Text

The room was hushed—too quiet, as if the air itself was holding its breath. Only the slow, steady ticking of the old clock on the wall broke the silence, counting time in heartbeats neither of them could trust.

The bed was tangled with blankets, memories, and something heavier. Grief that hadn't settled yet. Fear that still lingered like smoke after the fire had gone out.

Mercy lay curled beside Klaus in what was now their bed, his arms a cage that he refused to let her slip from. His hand hadn't left hers in hours. Not since she gasped back to life and he'd caught her in his arms like the world might try to steal her again.

She was warm now. Breathing. Alive. But he still checked—still stole glances at her chest rising and falling, at her pulse thudding beneath his palm.

His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek. Slow. Measured. Like he had to remind himself he could breathe again.

"You're here," he murmured against her hair, his voice rough. "This is real."

Mercy didn't speak right away. She only curled in tighter, resting her forehead against his collarbone.

"I'm here," she whispered finally. "I came back."

Klaus closed his eyes, but they still stung. "You died. I watched you die."

She tilted her head up to look at him. His face was raw—his usual sharp edges softened by exhaustion and something deeper. Something broken.

"I came back," she said again, trying to reassure him, though she thought time might be the only thing that could.

"I thought I lost you." Klaus's jaw clenched, like the memory tasted like blood in his mouth. "I held your hand until it was cold. I spoke to you for hours. Refused to let anyone near. If they tried to touch you—if they even looked at you like you were... gone—I nearly tore the walls apart."

Mercy reached up with her free hand to cup his jaw, her touch grounding him. "I'm so sorry Niklaus." And she was. To her, death had only felt like minutes. Gone with one breath, and back in the next. She couldn't imagine how she would have felt had the roles been reversed. Selfishly, she never wanted to find out.

Klaus looked at her then. Truly looked. And for a moment, the mask slipped. His eyes brimmed—tormented, vulnerable. Open in a way they almost never were.

"How?" he asked. "How are you still here?"

She paused, collecting herself.

Mercy hesitated, her thumb brushing under his eye. "Something... found me. I don't know what it was, not exactly. But I think it's what created me. It pulled me to the space between life and death—the bridge. It told me I didn't have to come back. That I could rest. But..."

She took a breath. "I couldn't. I couldn't leave you. Any of you."

Klaus didn't speak. His grip tightened slightly.

"But coming back comes with a cost," she continued.

"Of course it does," Klaus muttered bitterly.

"I used to be able to feel death. Tip the balance. Choose who crossed over. But now, I am the bridge. I have to carry the ones who can't find their way—either help them cross over or bring them back if they're not supposed to be gone. It's... more power. But more danger too. And if I fail..."

Klaus stared at her.

Mercy's voice dropped to a whisper. Klaus had already endured to much. She didn't want to be the cause of any more pain—but he deserved the truth. "If I fail too many times... I won't just die. I'll cease to exist. Nothing left of me. Not even memory."

He didn't move for a long time. Then:

"Then I'll destroy it all," he said.

She blinked. "Klaus—"

"No," he snapped—quiet but furious. "You listen to me. I just clawed my way out of hell watching you die. I'm not doing it again."

"Klaus—"

He brought his hands up to frame her face, wild desperation in his voice.

"If death dares to reach for you again, I'll tear it apart at the seams. I'll burn down every afterlife. I will obliterate balance. If there's no one left to cross and no world left to cross into, you stay."

Mercy stared at him, throat tightening.

"I don't want you to destroy everything," she whispered.

"I don't care," he said. "You are my world. Everything else can burn."

She leaned into him, a long, shaking breath left her lips. "You're not scared?"

"I'm fucking terrified," he said. "But not of you. Of what it will cost me to lose you again."

"You won't lose me," Mercy said.

"Damn right I won't." Klaus muttered.

"No Klaus—I probably should have led with this—I made a second deal of sorts."

"Mercy, no, it's too much."

"Just listen—I'm not afraid of what I am now." She hadn't realized it until she was back—but here in his arms, in the aftermath of his grief, wrapped in the strength of his love, she knew she could do this. "So, I bargained for eternity."

Klaus's breath hitched. "Wh...what?"

"Cliff notes version, as long as I fulfill my duty, I'll remain as I am forever."

"Please don't joke with me right now." Klaus's face was gripped her tightly.

"I'm serious, I mean—I'm still bound by mortal laws, balance and all that. So if I get shot or something, that can still kill me. I have to be careful. But my power, it shouldn't drain me the way it did before, maybe if I channel to much—I'm not sure of the specifics. But ultimately? If we're lucky, you've got me forever."

Klaus tackled her back into the bed, his arms coming around her so tight she could barely move and she laughed as he pressed a kiss to her hair, then her forehead, nose, cheeks anywhere he could reach really.

"Then I won't stop you. I know I can't. But don't ever think you'll do it alone. I'll stand between you and everything that would take you. For as long as I breathe I'll give you whatever life you want. A quiet one, a wild one. As long as it's long. And it's yours."

She kissed him—slow and deep and filled with everything she couldn't say.

"Always?"

He nodded. "Forever."

⸻

The sun poured in through the tall windows of the Mikaelson compound, casting golden light across the long dining table now laden with food and drink. The aftermath of war didn't usually look like this—laughter, clinking glasses, warmth—but somehow, after everything, they had earned it. Perhaps for just one morning, they were allowed to pretend the world wasn't always on fire.

Mercy sat perched on Klaus's lap at the head of the table, her legs tucked beneath her, her back pressed lightly against his chest. His arm curled protectively around her waist, his thumb idly tracing small circles along her ribs. He hadn't strayed far from her since she'd woken—she didn't mind. Truthfully, neither did anyone else.

If the others noticed the way Klaus watched her like she might disappear, they didn't say anything. Mercy could feel it though, that tension humming just beneath the comfort of his hold. Every laugh that escaped her lips seemed to loosen it. Every time she turned and smiled at him over her shoulder, she saw his expression shift—something like reverence overtaking the lingering fear in his eyes.

Kol and Rebekah were bickering at the far end of the table over who had done more damage during the battle. Kol was dramatizing, as usual, while Rebekah rolled her eyes and stole food off his plate. Elijah listened with a faint smile, the most relaxed he'd looked in years. Even Finn, ever solemn, sat with his arm resting along the back of Freya's chair, wine in hand and quiet contentment in his gaze.

Marcel raised a toast, something charming and victorious that made even Bonnie laugh. Diego elbowed him as he added a joke that earned mock groans from the rest of the room. Josh perched beside Kol, visibly relieved to still be alive, his bright grin making the entire table a little lighter.

But still, Mercy felt it—those glances. The quiet weight of eyes landing on her as someone passed by, brushing her shoulder with a gentle hand, squeezing her fingers when offering her a plate. Small, unspoken gestures that said more than any toast could.

She was the reason they were here. Breathing. Eating. Laughing.

And they all knew it.

"Remind me to never underestimate you again," Bonnie said, sliding into the seat beside her. "You've officially scared me more than any vampire ever has."

Mercy gave her a wry smile. "Good. Keep it that way."

Bonnie laughed, reaching out to clasp her hand. It was a real laugh this time—no bitterness, no hidden tension between them. Just relief.

Kol stood abruptly, lifting his glass. "To Mercy," he declared, loud enough that conversation dipped into silence.

Every head turned.

"She's reckless. Insufferably noble. And smarter than all of us put together. Also terrifying, apparently."

A low chuckle rippled through the table.

Kol's voice softened. "She saved us. All of us. So... if I ever said anything mean or sarcastic, I didn't mean it."

"You did," Rebekah muttered.

Kol raised a finger. "But I won't anymore."

The room echoed with laughter and lifted glasses. Klaus didn't move, just rested his cheek against Mercy's temple and whispered, "You hear that? You've bewitched them all."

Mercy leaned back into him, her voice barely audible beneath the clamor. "Only the ones I love."

The clinking of glasses, the low hum of joy, the golden light wrapping around everything—it was more than a feast.

It was proof.

They had survived.

And for the first time in a long time, they were allowed to dream about what came next.

⸻

The meal had stretched into the afternoon, plates half-cleared, wine bottles opened and passed around with increasingly less formality. Klaus remained still behind Mercy, his fingers woven loosely through hers now, as if touch alone could keep her tethered to this world.

She hadn't moved either—content to rest against him and simply... be.

It had been too long since she could just breathe.

The conversation drifted naturally, laughter giving way to speculation and teasing, to old memories and what-ifs. But eventually, it turned toward the thing none of them had spoken aloud yet: the future.

"So," Marcel said, sipping from his glass as he leaned back in his chair, "are we going to pretend this was the last time the world tried to end, or should we start a savings jar for the next apocalypse?"

Rebekah snorted into her wine. "That depends. Is it your turn to nearly die next, or Elijah's?"

"I believe," Elijah said mildly, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin, "that I've fulfilled my quota of near-death experiences for the century."

"You've got a few lifetimes left to go, brother," Klaus murmured.

Mercy smiled faintly but said nothing.

Freya tilted her head toward her. "What about you, Mercy? Now that... everything has changed. What do you want?"

It was a quiet question, but it cut through the noise like a blade. Every eye turned to her.

She swallowed. Slowly sat up a little straighter in Klaus's lap. Feeling the way his hand instinctively tightened around her waist. Like letting her go, even just to sit upright, was something he'd need to relearn.

Mercy hadn't let herself think that far ahead. Her return had been a gift, yes—but also a reckoning. She carried more than power now. She carried a duty. And none of them, not even Klaus, knew the full weight of it yet.

"I want to stay," she said softly. "Here. With all of you. I want to be part of this family.

A ripple of warmth spread through the room, as everyone let out a breath of collective relief. Klaus pressed a kiss to her temple, exhaling like he'd been holding it in for hours. But he didn't speak, not until the others had turned away.

Then, quietly, so only she could hear it, he said:

"You already are."

She reached up and brushed her knuckles against his cheek, and he caught her hand, held it to his mouth like a promise.

But he didn't let it end there.

Not this time.

"Mercy," he said, his voice low, quieter than before. "There's something I should have told you. Something I meant to, eventually, but the moment was never right—or I was too much of a coward to risk what it might mean."

She stilled. "What is it?"

Klaus hesitated, and it felt monumental—like even he didn't know how the words would land.

"You feel it, don't you?" he asked. "This pull between us. You've felt it since the beginning."

Mercy's breath caught. "Yes."

He nodded once, eyes flicking to hers. "It's a mate bond."

The words landed between them like thunder.

She didn't react right away, but he could feel the shift in her. The stillness. The awareness.

"I didn't think you believed in fate," she murmured.

"I don't," Klaus said. "But I believe in this. In you." A beat. "It's different for me. As a hybrid. Stronger. I feel it like a chain buried beneath my ribs. I tried to ignore it. Told myself it was magic, or manipulation. But it wasn't. It was you."

Mercy studied him—truly studied him—and then... she gave a faint smile.

"I know."

Klaus froze. "You... what?"

She reached down, fingers brushing the edge of her neckline, tugging the collar of her shirt aside to reveal the faint, glowing outline of the rune she'd been given.

"I didn't know what it meant at first. I just knew it felt like something sacred."

His breath caught audibly.

"I didn't feel it like you do," she said, voice quiet. "But I saw it. The way you looked past your pain and pride, and still chose me. And when I came back... when I stood on that bridge, and I felt it again—it clicked."

She hesitated, then let the truth fall, soft but certain. "My creator... they must've known I came back for you. Must've figured that's why I asked for eternity. They knew we were fated, even before we did."

Her fingers brushed the rune. "I didn't know why they gave me this. But now... I think it's a reminder. A way to keep me grounded. Because eternity's a long time, you know? Wouldn't want to forget what I'm doing this for."

Klaus didn't speak. Couldn't. Not for a moment.

Then: "It's not fair."

Mercy blinked. "What isn't?"

"That you still manage to surprise me." His voice was hoarse. ""Even when I think I understand you. Even when I know I'd bleed the sky dry just to hold onto you."

"Maybe leave the stars. I might want to kiss you under one someday. Just saying."

He huffed a laugh, choked with feeling.

"And Klaus?"

His eyes met hers.

"I may not know what a mate bond means for wolves. But I know what it means to love someone so much it hurts. I might not feel it the same way, but I see it. I see you. And I choose it. Every day, I'll choose it."

The table fell into a heavy silence. No one dared speak—because for once, even Kol knew it wasn't a moment to interrupt.

Mercy reached up, brushing her fingers against Klaus's jaw, grounding herself in him.

Rebekah cleared her throat, deliberately loud. "Well, if everyone's done having existential revelations, I'd like to suggest something truly radical."

They all turned to her.

"A vacation."

Kol groaned. "God, yes."

"I mean it," Rebekah said, sitting forward. "We've spent centuries running, fighting, surviving. I say we try something new. We live."

Mercy blinked. "You really think we can?"

Elijah answered this time, his voice soft. "We can try."

And just like that, something changed in the room. Not a decision, not a grand declaration—but the quiet beginning of hope.

Of something new.

Of something earned.

⸻

Klaus's studio smelled of turpentine and ashwood, paint and old parchment. The room was dimly lit, but golden afternoon light pooled along the edges where the sun spilled through the tall windows. Time moved slowly here, untethered from the outside world.

Mercy sat curled on the old couch tucked near the back wall, sketchpad in her lap, half-forgotten pencil in hand.

Klaus stood at the center of the room, paintbrush moving with the grace of someone lost completely in what they loved. His canvas was enormous—violent strokes of color layering into something messy and emotional and alive. It was nothing like the restrained, classic pieces he'd once created. This was him, now. All of him.

And the block that had tormented him since before she'd come into his life—it was gone.

He painted like a man unburdened.

Mercy watched him for a long while, her pencil moving slowly over the paper without her really thinking about it. The scratch of graphite was quiet under the hum of the city beyond the French Quarter.

When she finally looked down at what she'd drawn, her breath caught.

A small child, hand-in-hand with two figures—a man and a woman. The woman's hair curled at the ends like hers did. The man had paint streaked across his knuckles.

Her cheeks flushed warm.

She bit her lip, then broke the silence. "Klaus?"

He didn't look away from his work, but she felt his attention shift. The bond between them had never been louder.

"I think there's something else I'd like in our future," she said, her voice soft. "If you're up for it."

Now he turned. Immediately.

Paint was smeared across his hands, a streak on his cheekbone, a darker blotch just above his brow. He looked rumpled and radiant. His shoulders no longer carried the weight of lifetimes—they hung loose, natural. His eyes were brighter than she'd ever seen them.

"Name it," he said. "And it's yours, love."

Mercy hesitated only a moment. Then she turned the sketchpad toward him.

He stepped closer, peering down with a furrowed brow—then blinked in surprise. Slowly, his mouth curled into a crooked smirk. "Not sure this is physically possible," he murmured, "but I'm happy to try."

She laughed, cheeks burning as she tugged the paper back to her lap. "I've gone my whole life without a family," she said, quieter now. "And it's always been my greatest wish. I know I have one now—I do. And it's enough. But if I get to ask for more..."

Klaus was already crossing the space between them.

"I'd like us to have a child," she finished. "He or she doesn't have to come from us. We can adopt, or foster, or whatever. But—"

He cut her off with a kiss.

It was soft at first, reverent. But they were both smiling, unable to stop, and soon it broke into breathless laughter. Their foreheads touched.

"If you'd asked me six months ago," Klaus said, voice low, "if I wanted this—I'd have laughed. Or killed you for suggesting it."

Mercy rolled her eyes.

"But now?" he said, more serious. "Now I want everything. I want to tie you to me in every human and supernatural way possible. I want to give you everything. So yes, Mercy. Let's do it. Let's have a child."

Tears prickled in her eyes. She blinked fast, then cupped his jaw in her paint-streaked hands.

"I love you," she said.

The words came without hesitation. Like they had always been there.

Klaus stilled.

It wasn't the first time he'd felt it in her gaze, or her touch. But this—this was different. This was real. Spoken. Chosen.

He closed his eyes for just a beat, as if the moment were too much, and when he opened them again, he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth saving.

"I love you too," he whispered.

And that was how the story ended.

Not with death. Not with battle. Not with fire or blood or fury.

But with a promise.

A future.

A family.

And a love that refused to die.

Chapter Text

Georgia Fair — 70 Years Later

The summer air in Georgia still smelled the same, even after all these years. Sun-warmed peaches. Fried dough and kettle corn. Sweet tea with too much sugar.

It was the place they'd met. And the place they returned to as often as they could.

Mercy walked beside Klaus through the heart of the town square, her fingers laced with his, her body tucked comfortably into his side like they'd always been carved to fit that way.

"Well," she said, taking a slow, exaggerated look around, "they finally upgraded the ferris wheel. Doesn't look like it's going to collapse mid-spin anymore."

Klaus huffed. "Pity. I rather enjoyed the thrill of potential death while suspended forty feet in the air."

She elbowed him, smiling. "You screamed."

"I growled," he corrected smoothly. "And only because you kissed me and nearly tipped the damn car over."

"That was like twenty years ago. You're still blaming me?"

He glanced down at her, expression softening into something only she ever got to see. "I plan to blame you for the rest of eternity."

She laughed—bright, familiar. And gods, he still lived for that sound.

They passed a small bandstand where teenagers played an out-of-tune country ballad, their parents watching with cameras and damp eyes. A line of children raced past them chasing fireflies in old mason jars, and a vendor shouted about fresh peach cobbler near the town hall.

They were heading toward the rows of vendor stalls when Mercy stopped mid-step.

Klaus felt it immediately—the subtle tension in her body, the way her hand stilled in his. His gaze flicked to her face, watching the shift. It was instinct now. Seventy years of learning the silent language of Mercy.

"What is it?" he asked, low and calm.

Her eyes drifted to a corner of the square where no one stood. Except—someone did.

A woman. Old, with soft eyes and sun-worn skin, standing near the church steps in a faded floral dress that fluttered in a wind no one else could feel. She looked confused, eyes sweeping the crowd like she didn't belong in it anymore. Like she was trying to find something she'd lost.

"She's not... here," Mercy murmured, gently tugging her hand from Klaus's. "Not really."

Klaus followed her gaze but saw nothing. Still, he nodded. "Go on, then."

That was the thing now—he didn't ask if she was sure. Didn't try to shield her from the pain of it. He knew she could bear it. All he did was stay close. Anchor her.

Mercy stepped forward slowly, weaving through the crowd until she stood in front of the woman. "Hi," she said gently.

The woman blinked. "Oh. You can see me?"

"I can."

Tears sprang to the woman's eyes. "I was looking for my daughter. I thought... I thought she might be here."

Mercy nodded, soft and understanding. "Sometimes we linger when we're not ready to go. But they're okay. She's okay."

The woman's chin trembled. "I was scared."

Mercy held out her hand. "You're not alone. I can help you across. If you're ready."

There was silence. Then a slow, fragile step forward. The woman's fingers brushed Mercy's—and passed through her. Not cold. Not burning like it once was.

It was like standing at the edge of a still lake and taking that first, deep breath before diving in. Mercy closed her eyes, felt the warmth spill through her chest as the soul passed. She heard the soft sigh of release. The peace.

When she opened her eyes again, the woman was gone.

Klaus was there immediately, arms wrapping around her, pulling her in. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

Mercy leaned into him, grounding herself. "I'm alright. I promise."

Klaus searched her face, eyes tracing every line like he'd memorized them long ago. "I know," he said, brushing her hair back. "Still don't have to like it."

She smiled up at him, her fingers curling at the edge of his coat. "You don't have to like it. Just have to keep standing here when I come back."

He let out a low, quiet laugh—one that settled in his chest. "Darling, I've spent the better part of a century doing exactly that. I'm hardly about to get clever now."

Klaus took her hand as they walked back into the heartbeat of the festival. The air smelled like kettle corn and blooming jasmine, and somewhere in the distance a fiddle started up, dragging laughter into the evening sky.

"I think this town gets smaller every year," Klaus mused, glancing around at the winding string lights and booth after booth of local art and peach-themed desserts.

"You just keep getting older," Mercy said, bumping his shoulder with hers. "Everything looks smaller when you're ancient."

"Cheeky," Klaus said with a smirk. "Remind me again why I keep you around?"

She tilted her head, mock thoughtful. "Probably my endless patience for your dramatics."

He laughed—deep and easy. "Eternal patience and a spine of steel. You're lucky I fell for you, love. Most men would've crumbled."

Mercy opened her mouth, ready with another teasing remark—but the words caught, stuck somewhere behind her ribs.

Something shifted. Quiet and subtle.

Her gaze snagged on a figure across the square—just beyond the crowd, near a cart selling honey and old books.

A little girl. Maybe eight or nine. T-shirt too big. Wild brown curls falling into her eyes.

She was staring.

Not idly. Not in the curious way kids often do. But locked in. Intent. Like she was watching something no one else could see.

As soon as Mercy's eyes met hers, the girl flinched—like she'd been caught—and quickly ducked behind the nearest corner.

Mercy's chest tightened with that strange, familiar pull.

Not fear. Not dread.

Just... the sense that she needed to move. That someone needed her.

Klaus caught the shift in her instantly.

"I think a girl was watching me," Mercy said, gaze lingering on the spot.

Klaus tilted his head, alert. "Another spirit?"

Mercy didn't answer right away. Her eyes were still fixed ahead.

"No," she said softly. "I think... I just need to go to her."

Klaus nodded without hesitation. "Then lead the way, love."

They found her near the edge of the square, sitting on the grass behind a tent painted with handmade signs for fresh honey and ghost stories. She didn't run—just looked up when they approached, wide-eyed and solemn.

"You okay?" Mercy asked gently, stepping just close enough not to spook her.

The girl didn't look afraid—just calm in that strange, old-soul kind of way. She glanced up. "Where'd the lady go?"

Mercy tilted her head. "What lady?"

"The old one. With the flower dress. She was right next to you." The girl squinted like maybe she'd missed something. "But then she wasn't."

Klaus stepped in beside Mercy, arms folded, gaze sharp. "Say that again, sweetheart?"

"She was lost," the girl said, looking at Mercy now like she already knew her. "But she looked at you and smiled. Then she was gone."

Mercy blinked. Her chest ached in that way it always did after—soft, not painful. Like something sacred passed through her.

"You saw her?" she asked quietly.

The girl nodded. "I see a lot of people no one else can."

Mercy knelt in the grass, her voice softening. "What's your name?"

"Hope."

Mercy froze. She didn't look at Klaus—didn't need to.

He had already stilled beside her.

"Where do you live, Hope?"

The girl shrugged one shoulder, glancing down as she picked at the hem of her shirt. "Nowhere right now. I used to live in the group home past the orchard, but it's... loud. And they don't see them like I do. They think I'm weird. They said I make things up."

Mercy's heart cracked just a little. She reached out and brushed the girl's hair back from her cheek. "They were wrong."

Hope looked at her carefully, like she wasn't sure how to believe that—but wanted to.

"You talk to them," she said. "The ones who get stuck. Do you help them?"

Mercy nodded. "I try."

Hope's shoulders slumped, like she'd been holding something heavy for far too long. "I try too. But I don't think I'm very good at it. Not like you."

Mercy smiled gently. "Maybe you're not supposed to do it alone."

Then she looked back at Klaus.

She didn't say a word. Didn't need to.

He was already watching Hope—not with suspicion, not even with caution. Just a quiet kind of certainty. A flicker of something in his eyes that Mercy hadn't seen in decades: recognition. Like the universe had whispered to him, and for once, he was listening.

He gave the faintest nod.

Mercy turned back. "Are you hungry?"

Hope perked up instantly. "Always."

Klaus smirked, just enough to show the wolf still in him. "Well, that settles it. Let's get you something decent. None of that deep-fried fair nonsense."

He held out his hand casually, like he did this sort of thing all the time.

Hope hesitated—only a second—then took it with the quiet steadiness of someone who'd learned not to expect kindness but took it anyway.

As they started back toward the lights, Hope glanced up. "So... do I get to stay with you now?"

Mercy paused, just slightly, and turned to Klaus again. But he was already one step ahead.

His smile was crooked, impossibly fond, and pure trouble.

"I suppose we've got room," he said, voice low and warm. "Especially for spirit-whispering strays."

Mercy laughed. "Yeah," she said, wrapping her arm around both of them. "I think we do."