[ON HOLD]
'love?' when you live as long as I have, 'love' is a surprisingly rare occurrence, something that many would have given up on. Yet, as I looked into the eyes of the man in front of me - his innocent blue eyes filled with hope of what life...
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A hunter, Isabella.
Mikaelson Mansion – Early 16th Century, Night
The mansion rose from the frozen earth like a monument to grief—its towering spires devoured by cloud and moonless dark. It stood alone in the heart of the forest, where winter trees stretched their gnarled limbs toward the stone like mourners clawing at a tomb. Snow had fallen earlier that day, a thick, silent shroud, but now it melted in thin, dark rivulets—bleeding into the soil like old wounds reopened.
Within, the great hall breathed a colder silence. The arched windows let in fractured slivers of silver light, moonlight struggling through warped glass and frostbitten panes. Dust hung in the air like ash, stirred only by the occasional draft that whispered through the seams of ancient stone. Tapestries, once regal, now sagged on the walls—faded to near-ghosts of their former glory, their colors swallowed by centuries of soot and shadow.
The fire in the hearth was barely more than a wound—its embers glowing blood-red beneath blackened logs. Candle flames flickered in iron sconces, casting long, shivering shadows that danced across the flagstone floor like phantoms. The air smelled of pine smoke, old blood, and something older still—something buried beneath the stone, restless.
Klaus stood near the hearth, the fractured firelight carving sharp planes into his face. His fingers were clenched around a half-empty goblet of wine, red as freshly spilled blood. His other hand twitched at his side—a beast pacing behind his ribs, just beneath the surface. His eyes gleamed gold, molten with anger, memory, and something darker still.
At the edge of the hall, Isabella stood—her cloak soaked with frost, her hair wind-tossed and tangled from the ride. She looked like a shadow carved from moonlight and defiance. The cold clung to her, but her eyes burned. She had come here to speak truth, but now her voice had frozen to silence.
Klaus's voice broke it.
"You love him."
It was not a question—it was a sentence.
"I do," she said, steady despite the chill. The truth did not tremble.
Klaus let out a laugh like broken glass. The goblet shattered in his hand, wine exploding across the stone hearth like a burst artery.
"A hunter, Isabella. Him." He spat the word with revulsion. "Do you know what they are? What we are? Or have you wrapped yourself in some sweet little fantasy, where centuries of blood vanish if he just smiles the right way?"
Her chin rose, sharp as a blade's edge. "He is not Mikael."
The name split the air like lightning.
For a moment, Klaus stilled. The mention of their father—her father, not his—hung heavy between them, poisoned with history. Then he exhaled, slow and dangerous.
"No," he said, voice cold as winter stone. "But he is our mother's dream made flesh, isn't he? Peace. Redemption. Unity." He stepped closer, and the temperature seemed to drop. "You love him because you've spent your whole life trying not to be her. But even in your defiance, you revolve around her. You are a wretched mirror, Isabella."
Her breath caught—and then she moved.
The cloak fell from her shoulders like a shed skin. Her eyes flared—not just with fury, but with something primal, something ancient. Magic crackled faintly in the air, subtle but alive, like a storm gathering behind her ribs.
"Don't you dare," she hissed, stepping forward. "Don't you dare reduce me to her."
Klaus tilted his head, a cruel, ghost-thin smile tugging at his mouth. "Why not? You were a witch, Isabella. Just like her. Even before the blood. Always reaching for what you shouldn't touch. Always trying to hold something sacred—like it wouldn't burn you."
Her hands trembled—but not with fear.
"I practiced magic to heal," she snapped. Her voice was rising, cracking with heat. "I lit candles. I brewed teas. I held women's hands while they bled and cried and begged the world for mercy. I gave. I helped."
She stepped closer, eyes shining now with unshed fury.
"She," Isabella said, her voice sharp as frost, "used bone and blood and ancient grief to reshape fate. She twisted her love into control. She looked at her children and saw only pawns."
The shadows around her deepened. Candle flames bent sideways, whispering with her magic.
"She made monsters of us," Isabella said, her voice quieter now—but trembling with fire, "and called it love."
The tension in the room thickened, crackling like a live wire between Klaus and Isabella. The shards of Klaus's shattered goblet glittered like spilled blood at their feet, a stark testament to the storm raging inside.
Isabella's hands clenched into fists at her sides, trembling—not with fear, but fury and something deeper: grief.
"I used to have power," she whispered, voice raw with loss. "Before the curse took it all away. Before I was made... this." Her fingers twitched, as if desperate to summon magic that was no longer there.
Klaus sneered, eyes burning brighter. "You lost the gift because you were weak. Because you chose this—this madness, loving a hunter who hunts us."
Her jaw tightened, fury now a shield around her vulnerability. "I lost more than magic, Klaus. I lost myself. And for what? To be hunted? To be hated? To be reminded every day that I'm no different from her?"
The word hung in the cold air — her. Their mother, the shadow that haunted every corner of the mansion, every heartbeat in their cursed blood.
