IN WHICH - The last thing that Hope Mikaelson expected when she came out of Malivore was to still be alive, the second last thing she expected was to be disowned by most of her living family, and the final last thing she expected was some ancient be...
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THIRD PERSON POV
CHAPTER 33
Hope stood near one of the newly established garden beds, checking the young seedlings that had recently sprung up. The day had unfolded peacefully—almost too peacefully. The prison was alive with laughter, chatter, and the comforting hum of routine. Rick worked a short distance away, tending to a patch of herbs, while Carol handled laundry and Lori rested with her growing belly. Beth, Carl, Sophia, and Pedro were off to the side practicing some hand-to-hand moves on the grassy patch.
Out of nowhere, a sharp, searing pain tore through Hope's chest. She gasped, staggering back, the world seeming to tilt. The seedlings blurred in her vision, and her magic flared at her fingertips, uncontrolled. A guttural cry burst from her lips as agony throbbed along her ribs, shooting through her limbs like white-hot fire.
"Hope!" Rick's voice rang out. He dropped what he was holding, sprinting to her side. Carol, Lori, and Beth rushed over, faces contorted with alarm. Carl, wide-eyed, clutched Sophia's hand, confusion and fear warring across his features.
Hope collapsed to her knees, tears stinging her eyes. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and she reached out blindly, fingers clawing at the air. "D—Daryl," she choked, the single word half sob, half plea. She had no idea why she knew it was him, only that an unshakable certainty flooded her mind: This pain belonged to Daryl.
Rick knelt beside her, one arm going around her shoulders. "Easy—easy," he coaxed, glancing anxiously at the gathering crowd. "Hope, talk to me. What's happening?"
She could hardly speak. The pain spiked again, feeling like a brutal blow to her side. She cried out, and Rafael—who had been dozing in the sun in wolf form—jerked awake and ran over, whimpering as he nudged Hope's shoulder, trying to comfort her.
"I—I don't know!" Hope managed, grimacing. "It's Daryl—something's wrong. It hurts—God, it hurts so much..." She clutched at her side, tears streaking down her face.
Carol stepped forward, worry etched in her eyes. "Are you sure it's Daryl? Did he get hurt outside the fence?"
Hope only nodded, breath hitching. The agony ebbed for a second, replaced by a nausea-laced wave of dread. She saw flashes in her mind—trees, snarling, blood. She didn't know where they came from, but it felt like an echo of Daryl's experience, as if they were connected by an invisible thread that transmitted his suffering to her.
She cried out again, doubling over. Rick exchanged a swift, troubled look with Carol. Lori, wobbling on her feet, pressed a hand over her own mouth in alarm.
"All right," Rick said, voice taut with urgency. He turned to Glenn, who had rushed over from a small group by the gate. "Glenn, gear up. We need to go find Daryl—now!"
Hope shook her head vehemently, even through the pain. "Me too," she gasped. "I'm going. I can find him, I know it."
"Not like this," Rick protested, his concern flaring. "You're practically on the ground—"
