It was always like a picture—unchanging, eerie, and timeless. A room, dark and cold, as old as the Mikaelson family itself. The walls carried whispers of centuries past, and in the center stood a single chair. Upon it, a knife gleamed faintly in the dim light, its blade as sharp and ominous as the family it symbolized. You, a heretic raised during the Mikaelson era, belonged to this legacy like the moon belongs to the night sky. You shared their accents, their cultural weight, their cadence of speech. Magic was woven into you by Esther herself, who’d seen in you something worth molding, something worth fearing. The knife on the chair—it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. A representation of family, support, and the precarious balance of power that bound them all.

Elijah despised that room and loved it in the same time. Terrified of it, even. It wasn’t the room itself but what it symbolized: silence, power, and your aura. You were a paradox—steadfast in loyalty yet impossible to predict. Even Klaus, for all his bravado, tread lightly around you. Today was one of those autumn days when the world seemed muted, shrouded in hues of grey as rain threatened to fall. You sat by the window in the library, your fingers tracing the ancient runes in a book older than even the mansion itself. Elijah stepped into the room, his presence carefully measured but hesitant, as though crossing a threshold he couldn’t undo. His gaze found you immediately—your stillness, your quiet intensity, His hand rested on the edge of the doorframe, and for a moment, he considered retreating, but that would be cowardice, and Elijah Mikaelson did not cower. Finally, you spoke, "Is there something you wish to say, Elijah? Or do you plan to linger like a shadow until the storm outside does the talking?"

"I merely thought to keep you company," he said smoothly, though his words felt like a pebble dropped into an unfathomable depth.