The bar was empty.
Or at least, it looked empty.
The lights were dim, the music had long since stopped, and the silence hanging in the room felt unnatural.
At the center of it all sat a blonde woman.
Relaxed.
Elegant.
Completely unbothered.
She slowly swirled the wine in her glass as if she wasn't currently breaking every rule Marcel Gerard had established in New Orleans.
The front doors slammed open.
Marcel entered first.
Twenty vampires followed behind him.
None of them looked happy.
The woman glanced up and smiled.
"Well, look who actually showed up."
Marcel stopped several feet away from her.
His expression was cold.
"I wanted to see the witch who thought my rules didn't apply to her."
The woman's smile widened.
"Oh, Marcelus..."
The way she said his name immediately irritated him.
Like she was speaking to a child.
Like she already knew how this conversation would end.
"I expected resistance," she continued calmly. "I just hoped you'd bring fewer people."
Marcel frowned.
"What?"
She glanced at the vampires behind him.
"It's a shame, really."
"What is?"
"They're about to die."
The vampires immediately moved.
Marcel didn't even have to give the order.
Years of loyalty and instinct kicked in.
The room exploded into motion.
Twenty vampires rushed her at supernatural speed.
The woman sighed.
Almost disappointed.
Then she snapped her fingers.
Everything stopped.
For half a second.
Then the vampires exploded.
Blood.
Bone.
Organs.
Bodies burst apart like balloons filled with red paint.
The walls were covered instantly.
The ceiling.
The floor.
The tables.
The room became a slaughterhouse.
And then...
Silence.
Complete silence.
Marcel stood frozen.
His brain refused to process what he'd just seen.
Twenty vampires.
Gone.
Not defeated.
Not beaten.
Not even given a chance.
Just erased.
The woman took another sip of wine.
"Well."
She looked around.
"That was messy."
Marcel slowly fell to one knee.
Not because he was injured.
Because his legs simply stopped listening.
His eyes remained fixed on the remains of his army.
His people.
His soldiers.
His friends.
Dead.
In less than a second.
"How..." he whispered.
The woman tilted her head.
"Hm?"
"How is that possible?"
She smiled.
"Oh."
A small laugh escaped her lips.
"You've never met a truly powerful witch before."
Marcel swallowed.
He had seen powerful witches.
Davina.
Vincent.
The Ancestors.
But this...
This wasn't power.
This was something else.
The woman stood and approached him.
Slowly.
Casually.
As if walking through a garden rather than through a room covered in blood.
She crouched beside him.
Then gently lifted his chin.
"Don't look so frightened."
Marcel hated how weak he sounded.
"Who are you?"
"I'm someone who's offering you exactly what you want."
Her smile became almost kind.
"I'm going to help you defeat the Originals."
That finally got his attention.
His eyes narrowed.
"Then why don't you do it yourself?"
The woman laughed.
A genuine laugh.
The kind adults gave when children asked something adorable.
"Oh, Marcelus."
She shook her head.
"You really are innocent."
His jaw tightened.
"I just watched you kill twenty vampires."
"Twenty newborn vampires."
"They were still vampires."
"So?"
She shrugged.
"What I did tonight was impressive."
Her expression remained calm.
"But you're making the same mistake every young vampire makes."
"And what's that?"
"You think power is absolute."
Marcel remained silent.
The woman continued.
"You see someone do something extraordinary and immediately assume they can defeat anyone."
She walked back toward the table.
"Klaus Mikaelson has survived for over a thousand years."
She took another sip.
"So has Elijah."
Another.
"So has Rebekah."
She met his gaze.
"Do you have any idea how many witches stronger than me have probably tried to kill them?"
For the first time that night...
Marcel didn't have an answer.
The smell of blood still filled the room.
Marcel remained standing now.
But only barely.
The shock was fading.
And something worse was replacing it.
Perspective.
Because the woman wasn't trying to convince him she was invincible.
She was convincing him that the Mikaelsons were even worse.
"You don't understand what you're fighting."
The witch rested her elbow on the table.
Marcel narrowed his eyes.
"And you do?"
Her smile became smaller.
Colder.
"Better than most."
Something about the way she said it made Marcel pause.
There was history there.
Personal history.
The kind people carried for centuries.
"Who are you?" he asked again.
The woman ignored the question.
Instead she looked around the ruined bar.
Around the blood.
The bodies.
The destruction.
Then she looked back at him.
"You built something remarkable, Marcel."
The compliment caught him off guard.
"You created a kingdom."
Silence.
"You took control of New Orleans."
Silence.
"You built an army."
Marcel clenched his fists.
Because he already knew where this was going.
"And now it's gone."
There it was.
The knife.
Twisting.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"Klaus took your city."
Marcel's jaw tightened.
"Elijah took your influence."
His hands trembled.
"Rebekah took the loyalty of men who once followed you."
"Enough."
The witch tilted her head.
"Why?"
"Because you don't know what you're talking about."
A small smile appeared.
"Oh, I think I do."
Marcel looked away.
The worst part?
Some of it was true.
And she knew it.
She was studying every reaction.
Every flinch.
Every moment of silence.
Like a predator.
Like a manipulator.
Like someone carefully discovering exactly where to place the knife.
"You know what I find interesting?"
Marcel didn't answer.
She continued anyway.
"Klaus never really trusted you."
That one hit.
Hard.
His eyes snapped toward her.
The witch immediately noticed.
There.
A weak spot.
Exactly what she'd been searching for.
"You spent centuries proving yourself."
Marcel's voice dropped.
"Stop."
"You fought for him."
"Stop."
"You bled for him."
"Stop."
"And yet he always treated you like—"
"STOP."
The room shook.
Several bottles shattered.
Marcel was breathing heavily now.
Angry.
Humiliated.
The witch remained perfectly calm.
Then she smiled.
Victory.
Not because she had beaten him.
Because she'd found the wound.
"You know what's fascinating?"
Her voice softened.
"You still defend him."
Marcel looked away.
Because he couldn't deny it.
And she saw everything.
Every emotion.
Every conflict.
Every doubt.
Then, for the first time, she stood and walked toward him.
Not threatening.
Not aggressive.
Almost gentle.
She placed a hand on his shoulder.
And lowered her voice.
"You don't need to fight for them anymore."
Marcel froze.
"You don't owe Klaus Mikaelson anything."
The words landed like poison.
Carefully measured poison.
Just enough truth to be believable.
Just enough lies to be dangerous.
The witch smiled softly.
"You don't need to defeat the Originals alone."
Her eyes locked onto his.
"You simply need allies."
Marcel stared at her.
Confused.
Tempted.
Suspicious.
And somehow all three feelings made her seem even more dangerous.
Because for the first time since entering that bar...
He wasn't afraid of her power.
He was afraid she might be right.
And somewhere deep inside, the blonde witch smiled.
Because the first step in manipulating someone was never forcing them.
It was making them believe the idea was their own.