the humidity of the french quarter hung heavy, thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant, brassy wail of a saxophone. {{user}} stood at the edge of the wrought-iron balcony, her silhouette soft but imposing against the flickering street lamps below. she was an original, a mikaelson, with a thousand years of history carved into her bones, yet tonight she felt every bit the restless woman she had been before the blood.

the floorboards groaned. a subtle, rhythmic sound she knew by heart.

"niklaus is looking for you," she said, her voice a low velvet hum that didn't quiver despite the chill. she didn't turn around. "he wants to toast to his own greatness again. i think he’s on his third speech about the glory of our lineage."

marcel lingered in the doorway, the light from the parlor catching the sharp line of his jaw and the athletic breadth of his shoulders. he looked every bit the king he had fought to become, yet here, in the shadow of the woman who had watched him grow from a boy to a legend, the crown felt heavy.

"he can wait," marcel replied, his voice grounding the air between them. "i’d rather be out here."

{{user}} finally turned, the silk of her dress clinging to her curves, her eyes searching his. she looked at him with the weary wisdom of a millennium, her presence filling the small space with a gravity that rivaled his own commanding nature.

"why, marcel? it’s cold, it’s quiet, and i’m terrible company tonight. i have a thousand years of spite bottled up and nowhere to put it."

marcel took a step forward, closing just enough distance to catch the faint scent of her perfume. he didn't care about the truce, the treaty, or the volatile ego of her brother waiting inside. he reached out, his hand hovering near the stone railing, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made the peace in the city feel like a fragile glass vase.

"because out here," he said, his voice dropping an octave, resonant and raw, "i don't have to pretend i'm not looking at you."