WAR OF HEARTS ↠ KOL MIKAELSON [1]

3:12

| THE AFTERMATH:
CHAPTER TWELVE |

"The dying light of the sun painted the Quarter in hues of burnt orange and gold, but Rhea barely noticed. Her steps were slow, her expression drawn, as she made her way back toward her apartment. The ache in her chest still lingered—Davina's absence was a fresh wound layered on years of old ones.

She should have felt peace. Closure.

Instead, it felt like the echo of a door closing.

Kol walked beside her, quiet, protective—his presence grounding her. But just as they reached the turn toward her street, he gently stopped her with a touch to her arm.

"Go back to your apartment," Kol said softly, eyes warm but unreadable. "I'll meet you there in an hour or so, alright? There's... something I have to do."

She frowned slightly, searching his face. He offered her that lopsided smirk she knew too well—playful and fond, but not giving anything away.

Rhea nodded, though confusion flickered in her eyes. "Okay," she said quietly. "Don't be long."

He waited until she was out of sight.

And then Kol Mikaelson turned on his heel and vanished, wind swirling where he'd stood.

⸻

The doors to the Mikaelson compound slammed open, the sound reverberating through the empty halls like a storm.

"KLAUS! ELIJAH! HAYLEY!" Kol's voice rang out, sharp, commanding, brimming with uncharacteristic urgency. "NOW!"

His footsteps were thunderous, each one echoing the determination rising in his chest. The courtyard lit with the low glow of hanging lanterns, but Kol's presence burned brighter.

Within seconds, they arrived.

Klaus, drink still in hand. Elijah, composed as ever but visibly strained. Hayley, drawn but alert. And from a distance, Freya stepped forward warily, the bruises left by Rhea's earlier spellwork still fresh in her aura.

Kol saw her flinch.

"Bygones, Freya," he said quickly, waving her tension off. "For tonight—let it go."

"Kol," Elijah began, voice low and clipped, "whatever this is—tonight is not the time."

"I don't care," Kol snapped, cutting across him with rare force. "I don't care who's angry. I don't care what fallout we're knee-deep in. Because for once—just once—I need you all to come together and act like the family we pretend to be."

His voice caught, but his smile pushed through anyway—crooked, defiant, bright.

"Put on your best suits and dresses," he announced, stepping into the middle of them. "You've got a wedding to attend."