NiklausAfter the grim task I’d just completed, the warm shower feels almost cleansing, though it does little to wash away the weight of my actions. I need to wash away the grime and the guilt, the literal and metaphorical blood on my hands. The hot shower is a small sanctuary, steam curling around
Liam raises his glass slightly, acknowledging the plan. “To Ares, then. May he find some peace.”We clink glasses, the sound sharp in the quiet of the room. “To Ares,” I echo, and we drink, the whiskey; a small fire against the chill of what’s to come.***After Liam leaves, the weight of the night
VerenaThe sun is warm on my back as I move among the tables laid out on the pack lands, the laughter of children bubbling around me like a cheerful stream. I’m arranging the final touches for the picnic we’ve promised them, smoothing a tablecloth here, straightening a plate there. The ladies of the
“I didn’t teach you any dark magic because I was terrified of the implications it would have. You have Peter’s blood; my blood, and with that comes an addiction to dark magic,” she admits. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The pull? The lure to take things a step further? I know how it feels, darling, a
NiklausI’m perched at my desk, staring blankly at the papers strewn across it, but my mind is miles away, focused on the ticking clock and the phone beside it. The quiet of the office amplifies the occasional rustle of leaves outside, a cruel reminder of the waiting game I’m now playing. Three mon
I nod, understanding her struggle. “That’s completely valid, and I get it. Kris disappeared when you needed her. It’s not something you can just forget.”She sighs, looking down at her hands before meeting my eyes again. “I know. And I’m glad she’s doing good now, really. But you’re right, it feels
VerenaThe pain is indescribable, a relentless, consuming force that grips my entire body. I’m clutching the sheets, my knuckles white, screaming as another contraction hits. Niklaus is beside me, his face etched with concern, his hands attempting to comfort me, but right now, I’m not having any of
“A son…” he whispers, then he murmurs something in Greek, I’m assuming—a prayer or a promise, perhaps both—before leaning over to kiss my forehead.“Thank you, Verena,” he chokes out, his voice breaking. “Thank you for giving me a son, a blessing.”His gratitude, so heartfelt, so raw, eases the last