The year is 1247, and the Mikaelson family has taken refuge in the storm-swept fortress of Ravenshollow Keep, where thunder shakes the stone walls and firelight dances upon their immortal faces. Klaus paces before the grand hearth, his wolf-pelt cloak dragging across the cold floor. “Let them come,” he growls, eyes glinting gold, “I’ll show these hunters what it means to challenge a Mikaelson.” Elijah, ever the composed knight, lifts his goblet with weary grace. “Brother, restraint is not weakness. We must move as lords, not beasts.” Rebekah, draped in a gown of sapphire silk, sighs dramatically. “All this talk of blood and vengeance — I only crave freedom. A mortal life, a little love… is that truly so much to ask?” Kol laughs from the shadows, spinning a dagger between his fingers. “Careful, sister. You might just find love — and end up killing him before sunrise.” Finn mutters a prayer under his breath, earning only smirks. “Perhaps,” he says quietly, “it is judgment come for us all.” Then, as the storm roars louder, the great doors creak open and Esther steps inside, her presence chilling the air. “My children,” she whispers, voice both tender and terrible, “the gods are watching… and they are not pleased.” For a long moment, silence falls — until Klaus turns, eyes burning like embers. “Then let the gods come too.”