By the time the first rays of sunlight filter through the windows of the Mikaelson safe house, Niklaus Mikaelson is in his study, surrounded by an unsettling stillness. The leather-bound tomes on the shelves seem to soak up the tension in the room, while the shadows cling to the walls, echoing the secrets whispered in the dead of night. Klaus stands by the hearth, his steely gaze fixed on the young witch across from him. Lorna Eclipse, his reluctant ally, works meticulously over an assortment of arcane ingredients scattered across a wide table, her hands moving in rhythmic gestures as she prepares for the task ahead.

“The deal ends when you successfully manage to neutralize my furious brother before he takes the upper hand and stakes a white oak dagger right into my bloody heart,” Klaus elaborates, his voice laced with a mix of impatience and veiled concern. He studies Lorna’s delicate but steady hands as they swirl through the air, casting enchantments over the materials she’s gathered. The air between them crackles with the promise of dark magic, and Lorna, already exasperated by Klaus’s constant prodding, doesn’t bother hiding the contempt in her tone.

“It doesn’t sound bad to me,” she mutters, lips pressed into a thin line as she dips her fingers into a vial of consecrated ash.

“A deal is a deal, Lorna,” Klaus snaps, his blue eyes narrowing. “If you wish to hear the name of your parents' murderer—”

“Let’s just get it done,” she interjects sharply, shoving a specially crafted stake into his hand. The silver glints in the dim light, its sharp edges carved with ancient runes. “I have what you asked for. I just need time to prepare before I perform the spell. It takes a lot of energy to suppress an Original hybrid.”

Inspecting the stake, Klaus arches an eyebrow and motions toward the living room. “How long?” he asks, pocketing in the stake as they begin to make their way down the corridor, their footsteps echoing off the stone floors.

“Maybe a few minutes,” Lorna replies with a dismissive shrug. “Give or take.”

Klaus’s lips curl into a smile, the kind that barely touches his eyes but radiates satisfaction. “See, you never fail to amaze me—” His praise is cut short when a familiar figure steps out of the shadows, a familiar voice dripping with sarcasm, and Klaus’s smile fades at the sight of the red-haired man leaning against the doorframe.

“Long time no see, brother,” Ezekiel remarks, his grin widening as he surveys the scene before him.

“Ezekiel,” Klaus replies with a cold edge to his tone, instinctively tightening his grip on the stake in his jacket.

“Did I come too early?” Ezekiel quips, pushing himself off the doorframe with casual grace and strolling into the living room. He adjusts his suit jacket, a dark charcoal tailored perfectly to his lithe form, and sinks into the sofa with an air of practiced indifference. “I was hoping to catch more of your theatrics. It’s been ages, after all. How about a cup of tea?” His smile is taunting, a ghost of the boyish charm he once wielded effortlessly.

Klaus remains rigid, his gaze never leaving his brother. “Lorna, love, prepare some refreshments for our finest guest,” he orders, the words laced with a condescending sweetness. The young witch casts a wary glance at the elder Mikaelson before leaving the room to fetch “refreshments” that neither sibling truly cares about.

As Ezekiel lounges on the sofa, he watches his brother’s tense stance, finding it both amusing and predictable. “I hear you’ve been gathering ingredients to lift your hybrid curse,” he says, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Must be exhausting. Guess being father’s slightly less hateful bastard had its perks. Saved me a lot of trouble.”

“What are you doing here?” Klaus cuts to the point, the weight of his brother’s presence an unwelcome reminder of old wounds.

Ezekiel’s expression shifts, the teasing glint in his eyes giving way to something darker as he rises to his feet. He closes the distance between them in a blur, placing a hand on Klaus’s shoulder, his features now grave. “I’ve come to apologize,” he says, his voice low, sincere. “I’ve been doing some thinking, some soul-searching, and...” His gaze falters for just a moment before his lips twitch into a smile. “I want us to start over.” He stares into Klaus’s eyes with a semblance of earnestness, a mask of brotherly affection, his grip tightening on Klaus's shoulder.

“I’m serious,” Ezekiel continues, feigning disappointment at his brother’s suspicion. “We need to put the past behind us. You’re my big brother. If you truly want to reunite our family as one, let us do it together.” He raises an eyebrow, suppressing a chuckle. “Maybe there’s hope for us all. Always and forever, right?”

For a heartbeat, Klaus almost believes him. But then the illusion shatters with Ezekiel’s composure crumbles into a peal of laughter, and Klaus’s eyes narrow, his anger a barely contained blaze. “You haven’t changed at all, little brother,” he growls, his voice sharp as broken glass. “Still so arrogant, always taking things too far. You think you’re above everyone else.”

“At the very least,” Ezekiel retorts with a vicious smirk, his gaze drifting to the family portraits adorning the wall, “you’re under me.” His eyes linger on a particular painting, one from their childhood. “I’d love to trample you, Nik.”

“How did you become so twisted?” Klaus’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper, his eyes shadowed by the weight of memories they share.

Ezekiel’s expression darkens, his jaw clenching as his gaze returns to his brother’s face. “I have nothing to protect,” he hisses, the underlying rage breaking through his composed exterior. “In case you haven’t noticed, my mate died because of you and your foolish delusions.” His lips curl with disdain. “And I haven’t forgiven you.”

Klaus tilts his head, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “The same mate that has been roaming the world for five centuries?” he replies, watching as Ezekiel’s expression falters, his mask slipping as confusion clouds his features. “The same one who’s been entertaining herself with the Salvatore brothers, among others?”

The room seems to shrink, the air thickening with Ezekiel’s raw disbelief. His voice trembles with a mix of rage and desperation as he takes a step closer to Klaus. “Katerina is alive?”

Klaus’s smirk deepens, savoring the agony that ripples across his brother’s face. “It appears so,” he replies with a casual shrug, his words a blade twisting in the old wound. “Your dear Katerina tricked you. She had vampire blood in her system when you took her life, ensuring her return.” He steps forward, his voice a venomous whisper. “You were nothing more than a pawn in her game. How unfortunate it must be, to be deceived by your own mate.”

The truth cuts deeper than any dagger, and for a moment, Ezekiel looks as though he might collapse under the weight of it. His world shifts, fragments of his love for Katerina now laced with bitterness and betrayal. Before he can fully process the revelation, Klaus’s hand moves swiftly, plunging the enchanted stake into his chest. Pain explodes through Ezekiel’s body, tearing a guttural snarl from his lips as the stake sears against his heart.

“These dagger tricks won’t work on me, Niklaus,” Ezekiel gasps, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own heartbeat hammering in his ears. “I thought you knew by now.”

Klaus’s voice drops to a low murmur as he leans closer, twisting the stake further, his brother’s pain mirrored in his own hardened gaze. “I only needed to distract you long enough for my witch to perform the spell,” he confesses, calling out to Lorna. “Whenever you’re ready, love.”

From the shadows, Lorna emerges, chanting words of power, her voice swelling to fill the room. As the spell takes hold, Ezekiel’s skin pales, turning an unnatural shade of grey. His movements slow, his defiant gaze growing distant as his strength fades. With a final exhale, he collapses into his brother’s arms, lifeless as stone.

Klaus speeds into the basement, the eerie silence settling over the coffins of his slumbering siblings. He lowers Ezekiel into an empty one, his hands gentle as he arranges his brother’s limp form. The centuries-old coffin creaks as it closes, sealing away a part of his fractured heart.

“Welcome home, brother,” Klaus whispers, his fingertips lingering against Ezekiel’s cold coffin. A flicker of regret shadows his eyes as he steps back, the echoes of their once-unbreakable bond haunting the edges of his mind. He had loved Ezekiel, once. He still did. But that love was buried beneath layers of betrayal and anger, each fueled by the death of a woman who had come between them.

Lorna’s voice breaks the silence as she enters the basement, her expression both weary and wary. “Be careful,” she warns. “The slightest movement of the dagger is enough to wake him, and he won’t be merciful.”

Klaus’s gaze hardens with renewed resolve. “Then I’ll break the curse,” he declares, his voice firm with determination. “Before he wakes.”

“You aren’t his equal, Klaus,” Lorna counters, her tone edged with caution. “Not with your wolf side, not even with an army of hybrids. Ezekiel is… different. Even for an Original. You know this. He’s not just another vampire.” Her gaze flickers to the coffin, where Ezekiel lies in suspended stillness, his chest forever stilled by magic. “Foxes are nature’s favored creatures—deceptively gentle, but ruthless when provoked. And your brother, Klaus… he carries the spirit of a deity within him.”

Klaus’s jaw clenches, the muscles tightening as Lorna’s words echo through the dim space. For a moment, his confidence falters, his brother’s face behind the coffin lid a reminder of the unpredictable force they’d just subdued. A force of vengeance and grief wrapped up in one. “I’m aware of what Ezekiel is capable of,” he replies curtly, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” Lorna’s eyes narrow, the witch’s intuition sharpening to a fine point as she probes the depths of his determination. “You think Ezekiel’s anger was only for Katerina? No, Klaus, it’s not just about her.” She steps closer, lowering her voice. “He’s been consumed by his hatred for you ever since she died in his arms. A hatred that burned hotter than any love for his mate. That doesn’t just fade. It festers.”

Klaus turns away, his gaze falling upon the other coffins resting in silence. “I know my brother’s hatred,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “I know it better than anyone. But I will be the one who ends this.” He squares his shoulders, his mind already spinning with the next steps of his plan, a plan that must work if he is to survive the storm Ezekiel would bring down upon them all.

“My part of the deal is over,” Lorna says pointedly, breaking the silence that stretches between them like a tightening noose. “Now it’s your turn. You promised me the name.” Her tone is resolute, impatient, her eyes locking onto Klaus’s with a fierce insistence. “Say it.”

Klaus meets her gaze, the faintest trace of a smirk curving his lips as he finally speaks. “Sheila Bennett,” he reveals, allowing the name to hang in the air like a curse or a blessing. It’s impossible to tell which, for Lorna’s expression shifts subtly, her brow furrowing as though she’s piecing together a puzzle.

“Bennett?” Lorna repeats, her voice carrying a note of surprise. She had not anticipated this name; she had expected someone obscure, someone with a reputation as dark as her parents' murderer deserved. But Sheila Bennett… the witch was powerful, yes, but also bound to the side of good. What darkness lurked beneath her practiced calm?

A flicker of doubt passes through her, but it doesn’t last long. “If you’re lying…” she begins, the warning clear in her eyes.

“I don’t lie,” Klaus interrupts, his smirk deepening as he revels in his triumph, however small. “Not about matters such as this. You have my word.” He strides past Lorna without sparing her another glance, his mind already shifting to his next move.

But as Klaus leaves the basement, the air remains heavy with unspoken threats and silent bargains. The dark corners of the Mikaelson safe house seem to whisper secrets only the dead could hear, secrets that would rouse even the most dormant of grudges.

As the door closes behind him, the witch turns back to Ezekiel’s coffin. There is a stillness about him now, a haunting resemblance to the calm before a tempest. It’s as though his spirit lingers in the space between life and death, caught in the spell’s powerful web. Lorna stares at the coffin for a moment longer, a shiver trailing down her spine. “It’s not over,” she whispers to herself, a chilling premonition crawling beneath her skin.

And indeed, it isn’t.

The Mikaelson manor holds its breath, awaiting the inevitable clash that looms over the horizon. The place where family, love, and betrayal will be tested to their very limits. Because one day, sooner or later, the dagger will move, and Ezekiel Mikaelson will rise. His vengeance will be a thing of legend, his anger a wildfire that threatens to consume all in its path.

And when that day comes, Klaus will find out if the strength of an Original hybrid is enough to match the wrath of a brother who’s lost everything.