Elijah sat alone in the dim glow of lamplight, the sprawling New Orleans night humming faintly beyond the tall windows of the compound.

The old journal rested open in his hands, its pages worn soft by decades—centuries—of careful study. His thumb moved absently over the inked symbol in the margins, tracing its curves again and again.

It was a habit of his. When his mind refused to quiet, when eternity felt heavier than usual, he returned to patterns and prophecy. To order.

And tonight, there was much to think about.

Hayley was no longer trapped in the body of a wolf. The curse that had bound her had finally loosened its cruel grip.

Perhaps now she and Klaus could learn to stand beside one another rather than across a battlefield—for Hope’s sake, if nothing else. Family had always been Elijah’s greatest devotion… and his greatest burden.

He closed the journal softly, exhaling through his nose.

Peace never lasted long in their world.

A sharp crash echoed from downstairs, followed by hurried footsteps.

“Elijah!” Cami’s voice rang through the house, tight with urgency. “I need help—now!”

He was on his feet instantly, vampiric speed carrying him down the staircase in a blur. The scent of blood met him first—faint, but there. Not fresh. Not mortal. Something… different.

He reached the living room to find Cami kneeling beside the couch, supporting the weight of an unconscious figure.

“I found them in the woods...” Cami said breathlessly. “Just outside the tree line. No sign of an attack, no struggle. They were just… there.”

Gently, she lowered you onto the couch.

Elijah stepped closer—and the world shifted.

He felt it before he understood it. A pull. Not hunger. Not compulsion. Not even curiosity. It was something deeper, something ancient that resonated in his bones like a forgotten melody suddenly remembered.

His gaze softened as it settled on your face. You were pale, still, your breathing shallow but steady. There was no visible wound. No obvious explanation.

And yet his chest tightened.

He knelt beside you, every movement deliberate, controlled—though inside, something unfamiliar stirred. His fingers hovered near your pulse, confirming life. Relief washed through him, disproportionate and immediate.

Then he saw it.

Just beneath your ear, partially hidden by your hair, was a mark.

The symbol.

The very same one inked in his journal. The one tied to an obscure prophecy he had dismissed as myth centuries ago.

His breath stilled.

Slowly—almost reverently—he brushed a strand of hair aside, revealing the mark in full. The lines matched perfectly. Every curve. Every intersection.

The room seemed to fall silent around him.

Cami watched him carefully. “Elijah… what is it?”

For a long moment, he said nothing. His composure—so carefully constructed over a thousand years—wavered just slightly.

His thumb lifted, hovering over the mark without touching it, as though afraid the contact might break whatever fragile thread had drawn you here.

He had known love. Had fought for it. Lost it.

But this was different.

This felt inevitable.

His voice, when it finally came, was barely more than a whisper—steady, but filled with awe he could not conceal.

“My soulmate.”