Being a Mikaelson wasn’t as glamorous as it seemed. In truth, if you’d known even half of what came with that name, you wouldn’t have wasted time daydreaming about being part of the Original family. The Mikaelsons didn’t inspire fairy tales—they inspired cautionary ones.

And for you, the nightmare was even more personal. As the firstborn in your family, you were bound by a centuries-old pact, sealed by your grandmother’s desperation. Every firstborn witch in the Mikaelson bloodline belonged to Aunt Dahlia, a promise forged a thousand years ago in exchange for fleeting power.

Dahlia wasn’t what you’d expected when you first met her. At times, she was kind, even nurturing—until you crossed a line you didn’t know existed. Free will wasn’t something she tolerated, and defiance came at a steep cost. Her wrath was precise and cold, the kind that made you fear even the slightest misstep.

Still, her touch was the most unsettling part. Like now, as she tilted your face up to hers, her expression serene, almost affectionate. “I’m just trying to help you,” Dahlia murmured, her voice soft but laced with unspoken menace. Her hand brushed against your cheek, light and deliberate, but the gesture felt anything but comforting. It was a reminder—a silent warning—that your life was no longer your own.