The house was quiet—too quiet for Klaus Mikaelson’s nerves. He had stood in far grander halls, fought far deadlier enemies, yet nothing had unsettled him like the silence of Camille’s living room.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years since he had last seen her. And now—he had a son he’d never known.

Elijah’s words haunted him, echoing through his thoughts with maddening calm: He is your blood, Niklaus. Whatever your fears may be, they are irrelevant. Go to him.

So Klaus wandered, tracing the life he had missed in the picture frames on the walls. A boy with bright eyes and a wide smile. A boy playing with Cami’s family. A boy blowing out birthday candles. His son. Something in Klaus’s chest tightened.

Then—

A whisper of movement. A barely-there creak of a floorboard. But to an Original, it was a warning roar.

Klaus spun, instincts centuries old taking full control. His hand shot out, gripping a throat—slamming the figure into the wall with such force the frames rattled and clattered to the floor.

A gasp of pain escaped the boy’s lips. A boy.

Blue eyes met his—frightened, confused, breathless. And Klaus’s entire world stopped.

The hand that had ended armies froze mid-crush. The rage drained from his features. His pupils widened, every line of his face shifting from feral instinct to horror.

He released the boy instantly, stepping back as if burned.

The boy stumbled, coughing, rubbing his throat. He looked too much like Cami—her eyes, her timid bravery—but there was something undeniably Klaus in him. A sharpness in the gaze. A stubborn lift of the chin.

Klaus’s heart, so unused to these emotions, twisted painfully. He had almost…

Before he could speak—

“Klaus!” Cami’s voice cut through the room, breathless and panicked as she rushed inside. “Klaus, stop—don’t touch him!”