The gallery was a converted brick warehouse, its bones old enough to hum with ghosts. The floor was polished wood, the walls exposed, hung with canvas after canvas, each bathed in warm, amber light. Jazz murmured from hidden speakers, smooth and slow like a lazy river. The wine flowed freely—aged reds, French whites—and the scent of lavender and oil paint hung faintly in the air, as if the soul of the work itself had lingered.

It was, by all accounts, a successful evening.

New Orleans’ elite crowded the space—women in black cocktail dresses, men in tailored suits, pearls clinking against crystal, conversations drifting like smoke. They sipped and nodded, murmured critiques in half-finished thoughts, as if pretending to understand would somehow make them cultured.

In the far corner, standing half-shrouded in shadow, was Klaus Mikaelson.

His suit was black, sharp-cut, with no tie—elegant, effortless. A glass of wine rested in his hand, though he hadn’t touched it. His eyes, dark and unreadable, moved from face to face, then to the paintings.

His paintings.

Most didn’t know they were staring at the artist himself. The name on the placards was a pseudonym. Something forgettable, something French. Humans were always more drawn to mystery when it was wrapped in foreign ink.

“Rather morbid,” a woman in red murmured near the center of the room, her hand idly clutching a diamond-studded clutch. “Is it pain? Or madness? I can’t tell.”

Her companion, a well-fed man with a glass of champagne and an ego twice the size of his intellect, scoffed. “It’s derivative. Passion without discipline. Probably a war veteran. Or someone who thinks tragedy is art.”

Klaus’s lips curled in a slow, tight smile. Tragedy is art, you ignorant swine, he thought, swirling his bourbon.

n truth, the gallery was a curated cathedral of his memories—centuries of loss, rage, betrayal, and love captured on canvas. The burning of Rome. The collapse of Carthage. The thousand lonely years beneath the weight of immortality. Every painting was a secret. And they were all staring right at them.

A few feet away, a young art critic in round glasses scribbled notes into a leather-bound journal.

“Unmistakable grief laced with divine arrogance,” he muttered. “Primitive brushstrokes. Raw. Possibly war trauma?”

A few feet away, a young art critic in round glasses scribbled notes into a leather-bound journal.

Klaus raised a brow. War trauma. If only he knew.

Then, behind him, a familiar voice—cool, laced with elegance and wit.

“I always thought your art was just another way to bleed without making a mess.”

He turned. Elijah stood there, dark-suited, poised as ever, a half-smile playing on his lips.

Klaus raised a brow. “Come to critique me, brother?”

Elijah glanced at the nearest painting. “Hardly. You’ve always known how to speak through silence. I simply came to see if the artist would show his face.”

Klaus lifted his glass at that, a silent toast. “Well. Here I am. The madman behind the brush.”

Elijah stepped beside him, both brothers now staring at the canvas of the child’s hand.

“You still think you can outrun your past by framing it in oil and linen?”

Klaus's voice was low, but steady. “No. But perhaps I can teach it to hang quietly. At least for a night.”

Outside, thunder rolled low over the bayou.