𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 ⚜️ ELIJAH MIKAELSON

[ The Threat ]

CHAPTER 39
[ New Orleans, 2013 ]

The cold wind off the Mississippi River howled through the night, sharp as a blade, carrying with it the scent of rain and something heavier—something inevitable. It rattled the flickering lanterns lining the rusting iron bridge, their dim light shifting uneasily, casting jagged shadows across the damp planks.

At the center of it all, Marcel stood unmoving, his face carved from stone, grief simmering beneath the surface like a dormant volcano. His jaw was clenched, his breath measured but shallow. His eyes—burning with fury, with defiance—held none of the warmth they once had. The man who had once sought peace under the Mikaelsons' rule was gone. In his place stood a storm, waiting to break.

A few feet away, Klaus lingered at the edge of the confrontation, his body taut, every muscle coiled with anticipation. His gaze flickered between Marcel and Elijah, reading the storm in one and the calculation in the other. He had seen this play out before—too many times. This would end in blood if no one backed down. And yet, he did not move.

Elijah did.

His steps were slow, measured—a predator circling prey, yet betraying no hunger for the kill. His face, usually so composed, was taut with unspoken tension. Regret warred with resolve in his dark eyes, shadowed with something close to fear. He knew where this road led.

And still, he walked it.

"Step aside, Niklaus," Elijah said at last. His voice was low, controlled. But the weight of the words, the threat beneath them, was unmistakable. Klaus didn't move. His expression tightened as he turned just enough to meet Elijah's gaze—a silent warning, one brother to another. Not now.

"Elijah, this is a private conversation," Klaus said, his tone edged with impatience. "Your concerns can wait."

"No, they cannot," Elijah countered. There was an urgency in his voice that hadn't been there before, a quiet storm gathering beneath the surface. Another step forward. His eyes never left Marcel, who let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow, grating against the night.

"Same Mikaelson drama," he muttered, shaking his head. "One of you is always trying to make peace, while the other stares me down like I'm some kind of rabid dog."

Elijah's gaze sharpened. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, a quiet, coiled tension winding tighter. "Then tell me my concerns are unfounded, Marcellus," he said, his voice cool, even. But beneath the measured words lay an accusation, heavy as iron.

Marcel's expression darkened, his breath coming faster as fury finally took shape, raw and unrestrained.

"What do I have to prove to you?" His voice cracked under the weight of it all—grief, rage, loss pressing in from all sides. "Davina was like a daughter to me, and you condemned her to a fate worse than death. You all did! So how is it my job to prove anything to you?"

The wind howled louder, whipping between them, and for a moment, the whole bridge seemed to hold its breath.

"That's enough," Klaus snapped, his voice cutting through the night like a blade as he stepped between them. "Both of you."

But Elijah didn't move. His eyes, locked onto Marcel's, didn't flicker—not with regret, not with hesitation, only a steady, unrelenting certainty. His voice dropped to something quieter. Something final. "You tell me where it is."

The words landed like a challenge, a weight between them that could not be ignored. Marcel stilled. Slowly, he reached into his jacket with no hesitation or fear. When his hand emerged, it held a small vial, the dark liquid inside catching the dim light, glinting like something dangerous.