WAR OF HEARTS ↠ KOL MIKAELSON [1]

THE ONE WHERE THEY LEARNT KEMIYA

Arabian Desert, 1604 — Near the City of Al-Hasa

The desert at night was deceptive.

Its stillness carried the illusion of peace, of endless silence beneath the stars. But beneath the wind's gentle fingers and the hush of dune-shifting whispers, there was an old rhythm. Ancient. Relentless. Magic hummed through the caverns like a second heartbeat—one Kol Mikaelson hadn't heard in nearly a millennium.

He stood at the edge of the ritual chamber carved into the sandstone, eyes fixed on the impossible.

The fire in the center burned a fierce, unnatural blue—suspended in midair like a living spirit. It hovered above a stone basin inscribed with sigils from a language even older than Latin. And at its heart, Rhea Monroe stood like the embodiment of the very elements she manipulated.

Her hair clung to her back in damp, wind-tousled waves, streaked with desert ash. Her fingertips glowed faintly as they hovered above the basin, guiding threads of molten energy through a suspended blade that was neither solid nor liquid—only potential, hovering between worlds.

Opposite her, Dunya bint Zahrah, the oldest and most revered of the desert witches, spoke in a low cadence of Arabic, her incantation rhythmically precise. Her voice threaded through the fire like silk through needlepoint, steadying the magic, anchoring the dangerous transformation unfolding between them.

Kol watched like a man starved.

Because this—this was what he had lost when he was turned.

Not power. Not immortality.

Connection.

Rhea's body was taut with effort, her expression sculpted in focus. Sweat ran from her temples to her collarbone in slow, deliberate paths, catching the light of the fire as though gilded. The blade between her and Dunya twisted midair—its atoms unraveling, then weaving together again in new, unnatural formation.

Kemiya.

Magic that crossed into alchemy. Witchcraft that understood the fundamental laws of the universe—and then rewrote them.

Kol stepped forward without thinking, his voice low, reverent. "That's the fourth this week. You planning to start a war?"

Rhea's lips curled faintly, eyes still fixed on the blade. "No," she replied calmly, each word sculpted with breathless clarity. "I'm planning to make you feel whole."

The words landed like a strike across his heart.

He said nothing—just watched her, devoured her, believed her.

Dunya's voice sharpened. "Now. Let go."

Rhea stepped back, releasing her focus. The fire snuffed out with a hollow exhale, and the blade clattered into the basin like bone on stone.

Kol approached slowly, reverently. He reached out and lifted the blade.

It was smooth and cool. But it hummed beneath his fingers. Hummed for him.

He looked to Rhea, astonished. "It's not just a weapon."

"No," she said, brushing strands of hair off her damp temple, her breath slowly steadying. "It's an extension. A focus. It amplifies what's already inside you. Rage. Instinct. Control."

His throat worked silently as he stared down at the dark object in his hand. "This is what it used to feel like... before. Before I lost the connection."

"And now?" she asked gently.

He looked up. "Now it feels like coming home."

Rhea moved toward him, slowly, deliberately. Her fingers ghosted over the back of his hand, grounding him. "Then we make more. As many as it takes."