Mystic Falls, Virginia — 1837
The sun rose over acres of fertile land that once belonged to tribes long since forced westward. The Lockwoods and the Gilberts called themselves founding families now, though only a few remembered the real reason they were here — the ley lines that pulsed beneath their feet, binding magic to blood.
Aleksandr Mikaelson sat in the grand parlor of the Lockwood estate, boots propped on a table as he watched the dawn burn away the mist. He could smell the salt of the nearby quarry, the wildflowers along Wickery Bridge, the old blood soaked into the earth from centuries past.
Kol lounged beside the fireplace, twirling a silver dagger. "You trust them far too much."
Aleksandr's eyes flicked over the gathered men — Lockwoods, Gilberts, Fells, and the new Salvatore boy, no older than seventeen and eager to prove himself. Each wore their nervousness like a badge. Each thought themselves important.
"They are loyal," Aleksandr murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
Kol scoffed. "They're human. And humans break."
Aleksandr's smile was thin. "So do we, brother. That's why we adapt."
Later, the founding families' gathering
The makeshift council convened in the Lockwoods' candlelit dining hall. Maps of the surrounding land were spread out across the long oak table. Timber magnates. Iron mine owners. And, at the head, a vampire older than every stone in the building.
A young Thomas Gilbert cleared his throat. "And what exactly do you want from us, Mr. Mikaelson?"
Aleksandr's gaze cut through him like frost. "What I have always wanted. A sanctuary."
A hush fell over the men.
"It was your grandfathers who made the pact with my family," Aleksandr continued. "Your bloodlines have kept it hidden. Mystic Falls is to be neutral ground. No wars. No hunters. No witches burned on pyres. This town will be protected — from the monsters outside, and the monsters within."
Zachariah Lockwood shifted uncomfortably. "And what if… one of your kind… breaks that truce?"
Aleksandr's lips twitched. "Then I will remind them who forged the truce."
Kol cackled from his corner, fangs glinting. "He means he'll rip out their hearts."
Aleksandr didn't bother denying it.
Outside, under the full moon
Aleksandr stepped into the clearing where the Lockwoods had gathered the wolves — their bloodline still cursed, still fragile under the hybrid line's shadow. A young man, eyes bright with fear and hope, knelt at Aleksandr's feet.
"You are the Alpha now?" Aleksandr asked softly.
The boy — barely older than Stefan Salvatore — nodded. "Yes, my lord."
Aleksandr rested a hand on his brow. "Then you will remember: the moon does not own you. The curse does not bind you. Your line is mine now. And when you howl, you howl for the serpent."
The Lockwood Alpha felt the Stigma flare as Aleksandr's magic sank into him, stabilizing the wolf's blood, making it stronger — and forever linked to Aleksandr's will.
Salvatore Estate, a year later
The night was warm with cicada song. Young Giuseppe Salvatore poured whiskey for Aleksandr, hands shaking just enough to betray his nerves.
"You wanted a word, Mr. Mikaelson?"
Aleksandr sat in the dark, the firelight making his eyes burn like banked coals. "Your sons. Stefan and Damon."
Giuseppe stiffened. "What about them?"
"They are to inherit your seat at the council. Your lands. Your name. Keep them clean. Keep them loyal. If they stray —" Aleksandr's fingers drummed once on the arm of the chair, so softly that it was like a heartbeat. "I will correct them."
Giuseppe tried to swallow his fear. "You have my word."
Aleksandr rose, coat sweeping behind him like a funeral shroud. "Good. Pray you never break it."
The caves beneath Wickery Bridge
Kol whistled as he traced his fingers over the runic sigils Aleksandr carved into the stone. "Do you really think binding the ley lines like this will keep them loyal?"
Aleksandr worked in silence, pressing his palm to the raw magic that pulsed through the cave walls. The Alpha Stigma drank greedily — absorbing, weaving, rewriting. His runes grew brighter, deeper, older.
"It's not loyalty I'm binding," Aleksandr said at last. "It's inevitability."
Kol tilted his head. "Meaning?"
Aleksandr looked up, eyes filled with Stigma script. "No matter how many generations pass… Mystic Falls will always draw the blood back to us. Doppelgängers, witches, hunters, hybrids — it will all come home."
Kol laughed, wicked and delighted. "You really do want the world to spin on your axis."
Aleksandr pressed his hand deeper into the stone. "I don't want it, Kol."
The runes flared one last time, then sank into the walls, pulsing like a heartbeat in the dark.
"I am the axis."
When the founding families signed their charter, they did so with pens dipped in a hidden ink — blood drawn under Aleksandr's watchful eye. No one remembered the pact in its true form, but the old runes lingered in the hidden corners of the church, the caves, the woods.
To the mortal world, Mystic Falls became a quaint Virginian town, famous for its festivals and ironworks.
To the supernatural world, it was a silent promise: a safe haven, if you obeyed the serpent's law.
And beneath it all, the Ættar grew — now a network of witches, vampires, and humans stretching from the old plantations to the bustling port cities of the East Coast. Slavery, rebellion, industry — Aleksandr wove it all into the serpent's coils, using every shift in human power to tighten his hold.
1864
Rebekah sat by the window of the old Mikaelson manor outside town, reading a letter by lamplight. Aleksandr had left her in Mystic Falls this time — while he moved through the shadows of the Civil War, keeping the family's interests untouched by the bloodshed.
My dearest Rebekah,
When this war ends, the world will not be the same. The old ways are dying, and something new claws its way out of the ashes. The witches sense it. The hunters smell it. Our family must endure, no matter how the world changes.
One day, the bloodline will test us again. The doppelgängers will return. The witches will break their pacts. But they will find me waiting. And when they look into my eyes, they will remember —
— I am Aleksandr Mikaelson.
— Eldest of the Originals. The serpent that coils around the world.
— A.M.
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