WAR OF HEARTS ↠ KOL MIKAELSON [1]

THE ONE WHERE ARES FOUND THE CURE

The record spun slow and warm in the corner, a classic Miles Davis tune drifting like smoke through the open windows of the villa. Morning light spilled across the polished floors in sheets of molten gold, casting soft shadows across the antique furniture and half-read grimoires.

Ares Monroe had just stepped out of the shower, steam clinging to his bare shoulders, hair dripping in dark strands against the nape of his neck. A white towel hung low on his hips, and he moved through the bedroom with the lazy confidence of a man used to solitude and silence. For once, everything was quiet. Still. Balanced.

It was the first time in weeks he'd allowed himself the illusion of peace.

He reached for his shirt, still unbuttoned and slung across the back of an old leather chair—when the phone rang.

Sharp. Shrill. Violent.

It sliced through the jazz and the quiet like a blade to the throat.

He frowned. An unfamiliar number. New Orleans code.

His heartbeat stuttered.

Without hesitation, he snatched the phone up and answered.

"Hello?"

A breath. A beat.

Then—

"Ares."

The voice on the other end was frayed silk and broken glass. Familiar. Strained. Barely holding together.

He stilled. Cold flooded his chest.

"Hayley?"

She didn't answer immediately.

He could hear her breathing—short, shallow, caught between panic and grief. Something deep inside him coiled, ancient and violent.

He pressed the phone harder to his ear.

"Where is she?" he asked, voice sharp. Controlled. Deadly. "Where's Rhea?"

Still nothing.

Then—

The sound of Hayley swallowing hard. Her voice returned, splintered and thick.

"She's alive."

Ares didn't breathe.

"But not really," Hayley added, and that was when his knees nearly gave.

"What the hell does that mean?" His voice dropped to a rasp. "Hayley, where. Is. My. Sister?"

"She was shot. Marcel—he had a weapon. It wasn't just any bullet, it was—cursed. Enchanted. Made from something... not of this world. She collapsed. Bleeding out. And then—then Kol went down too. Bitten. Elijah was already hurt and Klaus—Klaus was taken."

That made him blink. "Taken?"

"Klaus is alive," she whispered quickly, like she knew the next question. "But he's a prisoner. Marcel didn't kill him. He's using him. Holding him somewhere deep under the city. Freya found a way to tether their lives to his—just like Dahlia once did with her. That's how they're still breathing. Rhea, Kol, Elijah, Rebekah. They're suspended. Frozen. Stuck in stasis. Klaus is the anchor."

The words hit him like a blow to the chest.

"Tethered," Ares echoed, quietly horrified. "She's not even in her own body."

"No," Hayley whispered. "None of them are. Freya cast the spell to buy us time. But that's all it is. Time. There's still venom in Kol's blood. Elijah's wound hasn't healed. Rebekah's hex hasn't lifted. And Rhea..." Her voice cracked, and when she continued, it was with a sob caught behind her throat. "That bullet's still inside her. Still moving. It's only the stasis that's keeping it from tearing through her heart."