At the Salvatore Boarding House, the air felt heavy with an unspoken tension. Damon lounged carelessly on the leather couch, a half-full glass of bourbon in his hand, swirling the amber liquid without much thought. His piercing blue eyes flicked toward Stefan, who stood by the fireplace, arms crossed, his face set in that familiar brooding expression.

Stefan had been pacing for a while now, trying to make sense of the latest disaster that had befallen Mystic Falls. It seemed that no matter how hard they tried, trouble always found them, and this time, it felt different—darker.

"You're awfully quiet tonight, brother," Damon finally spoke, his voice carrying that usual teasing edge, though there was an undertone of concern. He took a sip, eyes never leaving Stefan.