CHAPTER 19: THE PLANTATION RAID
POV: Alen
Midnight descended over Louisiana like velvet curtains, humidity thick enough to taste while supernatural energy pulsed through cypress swamps with ancient rhythm. The plantation house crumbled beneath Spanish moss and decades of neglect, Gothic architecture reclaimed by wetlands that had witnessed centuries of human suffering.
Thirty cultists gathered in the shadow of ruined columns, their chanting rising like smoke toward stars that seemed too distant to matter. Greta's followers moved with the coordinated precision of people united by shared fanaticism, robes rustling as they arranged ritual components with practiced efficiency.
Alen watched from the treeline with his sisters, studying faces through enhanced vision while cataloging threats and opportunities in equal measure. Josie crouched beside him with nervous energy barely contained, magic flickering beneath her skin like electricity seeking ground. Lizzie maintained characteristically perfect posture despite their surroundings, though her usual dramatic flair had been tempered by genuine tension.
"Three cultists with murder charges," Alen noted silently, memorizing features and positioning. "Documented atrocities, systematic torture, innocent blood on their hands. They qualify for soul harvesting without moral ambiguity."
But the tactical situation presented problems that went beyond simple identification. Harvesting souls required twelve hours of intensive ritual torture, psychic assault that would horrify witnesses and raise questions he couldn't answer. With Josie and Lizzie watching, the soul hunt would have to wait for different circumstances.
"Unless I can separate them from the group," he considered. "Find an excuse to pursue individual targets while my sisters handle the larger threat. But that means abandoning backup during active supernatural warfare."
The chanting reached crescendo, and magical energy crystallized around the plantation's central clearing like heat shimmer given form. Then Greta's presence manifested—not physical appearance but projection spell that carried her voice across impossible distances.
"Children of purity," her words carried centuries of accumulated hatred. "The Mikaelsons believe themselves safe behind their ancient walls and Original strength. But we will awaken the Old Blood—vampires who ruled when Klaus was still mortal, when Elijah knelt before creatures that make today's Originals seem like pretenders."
Josie's whisper cut through the humid air. "She's insane."
"Also scary organized," Lizzie added, studying the ritual setup with analytical precision that missed nothing.
Greta's projection continued, fanatical conviction lending weight to impossible promises. "The tribrid will fuel the awakening. Her blood carries vampire, werewolf, and witch essences—power sufficient to breach the barriers between dimensions and call forth our ancestors' true masters."
POV: Alen
The tactical assessment crystallized with uncomfortable clarity. Greta wasn't just planning revenge against the Mikaelson family—she intended to unleash creatures that predated supernatural civilization, ancient vampires whose power would make Original hybrid strength seem insignificant by comparison.
"She could actually succeed," Alen realized with growing dread. "Tribrid blood as catalyst, ritual site prepared for dimensional manipulation, cultists willing to die for the cause. If she completes this working, Hope becomes bait for monsters that even Klaus can't defeat."
But the immediate threat came from closer proximity. Enhanced hearing detected movement in the underbrush—perimeter guards circling their position with supernatural senses honed by paranoid preparation.
"We've been detected," Alen announced quietly, siphoning power from the nearest ward anchors. "Thirty seconds before they—"
Crossbow bolts whistled through Spanish moss, silver-tipped projectiles aimed with lethal precision. The ambush erupted around them like violence given form, cultists emerging from concealment with weapons designed specifically for supernatural execution.
Josie and Lizzie moved with twin coordination that made complex magic look effortless. Ice spread beneath their attackers' feet while fire danced between their weapons, extreme temperature manipulation that turned mundane materials into molten hazards. The combination spoke of years spent practicing combat spells together, family bonds translated into tactical advantage.
Alen siphoned from multiple sources simultaneously—ritual components, spelled weapons, protective wards that had shielded the gathering from outside detection. Magic flooded his enhanced systems faster than safe processing allowed, but tactical necessity demanded risks that would have killed normal siphoners.
A cultist lunged forward with spelled blade, enchanted steel designed to cut through supernatural defenses. Alen siphoned the weapon's magic mid-swing, redirecting absorbed power into concentrated force blast that sent the attacker flying backward into ancient oak.
Three more approached from different angles, coordinated assault that suggested military training adapted for supernatural warfare. Alen gathered power from every available source and spoke with cosmic authority.
"STOP!"
Five cultists froze mid-motion, reality bending to accommodate absolute command. The Word burned through his throat like swallowed acid, fifteen percent of his reserves draining instantly, but the tactical advantage was immediate.
"This is what power means," he thought, watching armed killers reduced to helpless statues by single spoken word. "But there are too many of them. And my reserves won't support extended combat at this intensity."
More cultists poured from the plantation house, reinforcements that made continued engagement suicidal rather than heroic. Greta's laughter echoed across the clearing, projection spell carrying amusement that suggested she'd anticipated their arrival.
"Run, children!" her voice followed them as they retreated toward the treeline. "Tell the Mikaelsons their judgment approaches. Tell them the Old Blood remembers their arrogance."
POV: Alen
Safe within Salvatore School's protective wards, Alen paced his dormitory room like caged predator while frustration built in his chest like pressure behind a dam. The plantation raid had provided tactical intelligence but failed to achieve larger objectives—cultists remained free to continue their preparations, ancient vampires drew closer to dimensional awakening, and harvestable souls escaped justice because witnesses made soul hunting impossible.
"I saw them," he thought, resurrection coin burning against his palm like accusation. "Three confirmed murderers, systematic torturers who've destroyed innocent lives for fanatical ideology. I could have harvested their souls, converted their evil into cosmic currency that saves people who matter. But family backup prevented the twelve-hour ritual requirement."
The moral calculus felt increasingly impossible. Heroic rescue missions required witnesses for safety and support. Soul harvesting demanded complete privacy for unspeakable necessity. The two objectives couldn't coexist without revealing cosmic powers that would terrify everyone he cared about.
A soft knock interrupted his spiral toward darker considerations. Josie entered without invitation, twin intuition having detected emotional distress through walls that should have provided privacy.
"We survived," she said, settling on his desk chair with careful casualness. "That's a win."
"We learned their plan but couldn't stop them." Alen's voice carried edge that surprised both of them. "Greta's still free. Her cultists are still planning to awaken ancient vampires. We accomplished nothing except confirming that we're outmatched."
"So we prepare better and hit them harder next time." Lizzie appeared in the doorway with characteristic dramatic timing, expression mixing concern with analytical curiosity. "Though I'm more interested in why you seem angrier about escape than victory."
The observation cut deeper than intended, exposing motivations he couldn't explain without revealing soul hunting obsessions. "I just hate seeing evil people escape consequences."
"That's the truth, if not the whole truth. I hate watching harvestable souls walk away when resurrection magic could save lives that matter. But explaining that would require admitting to cosmic powers and systematic execution plans."
Josie studied his face with enhanced perception that missed few emotional subtleties. "There's something else. You've been different since New Orleans—more focused, more driven, but also more isolated. What aren't you telling us?"
The question crystallized every burden he carried—Entity's curse preventing future knowledge sharing, soul hunting secrets that would horrify family members, cosmic responsibility that demanded choices no seventeen-year-old should face. He was trapped between honesty that would destroy relationships and lies that corroded trust from within.
"I need to separate my hero work from my hunter work," Alen realized with uncomfortable clarity. "Family missions can't include soul harvesting. If I want to continue collecting cosmic currency, I'll have to operate alone. Which means more lies, more isolation, more weight carried without support or understanding."
"But that's the price of this power. The Entity gave me abilities to rewrite supernatural history, but using them requires sacrifices that go beyond simple magical cost. Every harvested soul makes me more effective at saving innocents. Every saved innocent makes the isolation worthwhile. The math is simple—even if the emotional cost keeps accumulating."
"I just need to process everything," he said finally. "Seeing Greta's followers, understanding the scale of what they're planning—it's a lot to handle."
Josie accepted the deflection with visible skepticism, but exhaustion from the raid limited her energy for deeper interrogation. "If you need to talk—"
"I know. Thank you."
After they left, Alen lay on his bed staring at ceiling tiles while plans crystallized around singular necessity. Solo missions. Individual targets. Surgical strikes that avoided witness complications while accumulating souls that could fund future resurrections.
"The next cultist I identify dies alone," he promised silently. "No backup, no witnesses, no moral complications. Just twelve hours of ritual torture that converts evil into cosmic currency."
Outside his window, Virginia night pressed against protective wards while somewhere in the darkness, Hope sensed his emotional turmoil through proximity bond that made secrets increasingly difficult to maintain.
But some burdens were meant to be carried alone.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
Can't wait for the next chapter of [The Originals/Legacies Im A Saltzman]?
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them (20+ chapters ahead!). No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1