WAR OF HEARTS ↠ KOL MIKAELSON [1]

2:13

| THE STAND:
CHAPTER THIRTEEN |

"This venue is brilliant," Tristan said with a note of admiration as he cast his eyes over the high ceilings and echoing shadows of the St. James Infirmary. The way his voice carried—silken, sharp—made the entire room feel like it was listening.

"A neutral ground. A sanctuary where magic is rendered utterly inert. A perfect location for negotiation... or conquest." He turned slowly, a gleam of anticipation in his eye. "At least until I appoint a Regent worthy of shepherding the fractured witches of this city."

He smiled like a man admiring a chessboard already set for checkmate.

Marcel leaned back in his chair, arms folded, wearing a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh, that's cute. Really. Problem is, appointing a Regent here's about as easy as getting Klaus to apologize."

Tristan raised a brow in amusement, but Marcel kept going.

"Last Regent? Shunned. The one before that? Murdered. And between the political infighting and the supernatural pissing contests, nobody's exactly lining up for the gig." His smile turned sharp. "And I doubt you've got the gall to ask Rhea to play nice with the witches. Not after what you did."

Tristan's smile didn't falter. But it hardened.

"As a member of this organization, you should know—we do not wait for men to 'step up,'" he said coldly, rising from his seat and walking toward Marcel with slow, deliberate steps. "We step them up."

Marcel didn't flinch. "So what? You install a puppet and pull the strings? That's your grand plan?"

Tristan gave a slow, wolfish smile. "Not a puppet. A partner. Someone with potential. Someone young. Impressionable."

He tapped two fingers against Marcel's arm, condescending and smooth. "His name is Van Nguyen. A gifted witch. Tragically, his mother was murdered. As it happens—'tis the season—and I am, despite my reputation, feeling generous. I made him an offer."

He turned and walked away, his guards falling into step behind him.

"He'll do what I ask," Tristan called back, "because I've given him something no one else ever did."

His voice echoed as he disappeared down the hall.

"Power."

⸻

The air at the gas station was crisp and dry, wind tugging at Rhea's coat as she stepped out of the convenience store with two bags of snacks—mostly sugar and salt in garish wrappers, but she'd been craving something human, something normal. If such a thing even existed anymore.

Rebekah emerged from the restroom with a theatrical groan, grimacing in disgust as she rubbed sanitizer into her hands.

"I swear, I preferred the bottom of the Atlantic to that bathroom," she declared, tossing her hair back with dramatic flair.

Rhea chuckled, tossing her a pack of blood pops. "Still hungry, Bex?"

Rebekah rolled her eyes and snatched them. "I'm angry, not hungry. Staked by your ex, drowned by Nik's—if I didn't have PTSD before, I do now."

Elijah, refueling the car nearby, gave her a disapproving glance. "Perhaps next time, you'll consider the consequences of your romantic entanglements before antagonizing lunatics."

Rebekah groaned. "Don't start, Elijah. Honestly. You all act like I invented crazy lovers."

"You didn't invent them," he said mildly. "You just have a habit of collecting them."