𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 ⚜️ ELIJAH MIKAELSON

[ The Bridge ]

CHAPTER 38
[ New Orleans, 2013 ]

Freya was hunched over a table in the Mikaelson compound, her eyes scanning old pages filled with cryptic symbols and prophecies, as she clutched the skull of Lucien's prophetic witch. Despite hours of effort, the pieces refused to come together. Her frustration grew as each potential vision faded like smoke the moment she thought she was close.

She heard footsteps approaching from behind but didn't turn. Elijah's presence was unmistakable. He stopped near the edge of the table, his voice low and tense.

"Anything?" he asked, his gaze steady on her.

Freya sighed heavily. "There are too many pieces. Every time I get close to seeing something, it just... fades away."

Elijah stepped closer and gently rested a hand on her shoulder. The moment they made contact, a violent vision surged through him, pulling him into a vivid nightmare.

Georgia stood at the center of the vision, her figure almost statuesque under an eerie, flickering light. Her face was void of emotion, her eyes glazed and unseeing, as if she were caught in a trance. Around her, shadowy, spectral figures drifted—the ancestors. They circled her like vultures, whispering in voices that felt like icy fingers tracing down the spine. Their words echoed ominously, weaving a dark mantra through the air: "Restore the balance... They must be punished... Georgia, our justice..."

The scene shifted abruptly, and Marcel emerged from the shadows, his silhouette sharp and imposing. His fangs glinted dangerously, and his eyes burned with an intense, cold fury. There was no mercy in his expression, only rage—relentless and consuming. He looked like a man who had crossed a line from which there was no return.

Another image flickered in. Marcel now held Georgia in his arms. She sobbed uncontrollably, her face buried against his chest as her shoulders shook with the weight of her pain. Marcel's expression softened slightly in this moment, his hands steady and protective as he cradled her like she was the last fragile piece of his world. He whispered something to her, words of comfort or perhaps a promise, but they were lost—drowned in the static distortion of the vision. Yet despite his tenderness, there was a shadow over him. The same determination and fury that had driven him moments before still lingered beneath his gaze. It was obsession—an oath to tear the world apart if it meant protecting her.

The visions intensified, flashing faster and more violently, each one hammering a new horror into Elijah and Freya's minds.

Elijah, collapsing. Georgia standing over him, unmoving. Freya, chanting, blood streaming from her eyes. A coffin, slamming shut.

Then, Marcel reappeared, this time standing tall amidst a crowd. His gaze was steely and unrelenting, daring anyone to challenge him. The people surrounding him, witches and vampires alike, bowed their heads in either loyalty or fear. He stood as their undisputed leader, his power undisputed and his rage palpable.

The image cut to Georgia again, standing alone before a shattered mirror. Her reflection stared back at her with bloodstained hands. Tears streamed down her face, unchecked and unrelenting. She didn't bother to wipe them away. Instead, her broken voice whispered softly, "This isn't who I am..." Her reflection flickered, as if mocking her words, and the blood on her hands grew darker.

Finally, the vision stilled, and the last image froze in Elijah's mind like a warning. Marcel stood before them. The soft glow of street lights, illuminated his face—a mask of defiance and resolve. His voice echoed, deep and resonant, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

"For her, I'll burn it all down."

Elijah and Freya gasped in unison as the vision ended. Elijah staggered back, momentarily disoriented by the intensity of what he had seen. Freya pressed a hand to her forehead, her breath coming in shallow bursts.