The dormitory hallway was quiet, lined with identical doors, each bearing a wooden number nailed to the front. Alaric walked up to the second-to-last door, stopped in front of it with the key in his hand, and hesitated for a second longer than he should have.
Maybe he shouldn't put Ethan in this room.
It was Landon and Rafael's room. The two of them had arrived at the school fairly recently, and because of that, they still had an extra bed. It was the only room with a vacancy in the entire building, and Alaric, after weighing his options, decided that whatever trouble might come from this was better than leaving the kid to sleep in the hallway.
— Here — he said, opening the door. — This is the only one left. It's going to have to do.
Ethan looked inside. It was a simple room: two wooden bunk beds pushed against the walls, a small table in the middle, a window looking out over the garden, and a few things scattered around—clothes, books, a stray sneaker in the corner. He didn't know whose things they were, and in that moment, he didn't really care. He was tired. Tired in a way that no single night's sleep felt capable of curing.
— It's perfect — he replied.
Alaric lingered in the doorway for another second and said, "Tomorrow, at 9 AM, come to my office."
Ethan walked in. There were two bunk beds. On one of them, both the top and bottom bunks were already occupied, sheets tangled and a backpack tossed on one. The other bunk had clothes piled on the bottom bed, leaving the top one empty. It was the only spot left.
Without thinking much of it, he took off his jacket, tossed it over the chair, and climbed up to the top bunk. He lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling, and closed his eyes.
The mattress was thin. The pillow was hard. And he thought it was the best place in the world.
A few minutes later, the door opened.
Landon walked in first, hair messy and a towel draped over his shoulder, looking like he'd just stepped out of the shower. He went to the table, dropped a stack of books on it, and only then looked up and saw it.
There was someone lying on the top bunk.
Landon froze. He recognized the boy in the leather jacket—the same guy who had pulled a "fatality" on the monster, the same guy who had made Hope blush in front of everyone—and his jaw clenched without him meaning to. He didn't say a word. He just stood there, staring, his hands gripping the towel.
The door opened again, and Rafael walked in, scrolling on his phone.
— Man, that bathroom is... — He stopped mid-sentence as he saw what Landon was looking at. He raised an eyebrow. — Ah. So that's what Alaric meant about a new roommate.
Landon didn't answer. Rafael shoved his phone into his pocket, crossed the room, and stopped next to the bunk bed, crossing his arms.
— Hey — he said.
In the top bunk, Ethan didn't move.
— You. Newbie.
Ethan kept his eyes closed, breathing slowly.
— Stay away from Hope — Rafael said, his calm tone doing nothing to hide the warning. — You might be stronger than Jed. You might have even done that thing to the monster. But if you get too full of yourself, you're going to fall hard.
Ethan's reply came unhurried, his voice lazy, like someone right on the edge of sleep.
— And who are you again?
— My name is Rafael. — He took a step to the side and nodded toward Landon. — And this is Landon. The boyfriend of the girl you hit on today.
Hearing his name, Landon squared his shoulders and took a step forward, trying to look steadier than he felt.
— Exactly — he said, his voice dropping a little deeper than normal. — Who do you think you are?
A short silence settled over the room.
— You're her boyfriend? — Ethan asked, a thread of irony so thin in his voice it was barely noticeable.
— Exactly, man. — Landon crossed his arms, tilting his chin up. — I'm Hope's boyfriend. So you better stay away from her.
Ethan smiled.
It was a small, crooked smile, full of irony, the kind of smile someone gets when they hear an inside joke nobody else understands. He didn't even bother opening his eyes. He stayed on his back, hands behind his head, as if the two boys standing next to his bed were just background noise.
In his head, a casual remark Alaric had made hours earlier echoed. I thought she was dating Landon.
His smile widened, just a fraction.
— Alright — Ethan replied, still with his eyes closed, his tone lazy and unbothered. — I'll stay away from her.
I just thought she was interesting because she's like me, that's all, man, relax.
He was lying, of course.
Landon and Rafael stared up at the top bunk, both frowning, hit with the vague sensation that they had just heard something that didn't match the tone it was said in. But neither of them said anything else. Landon grabbed his towel, tossed it over the chair, and lay down on the bottom bunk, facing the wall. Rafael turned off the light.
In the darkness, Ethan smiled one more time, and fell asleep.
The next day began with sunlight pouring through the window, strong and golden, right onto his face.
Ethan opened his eyes slowly, and for a second he didn't know where he was. Then he remembered. The school. The room. The thin mattress. He looked down and saw that Landon and Rafael's beds were already empty, sheets tossed aside carelessly. The two of them had left without waking him.
He stretched, cracked his neck, hopped down from the bunk, and headed to the hallway bathroom to wash up. He put on the same pants, the same black t-shirt, and the same jacket, and made his way toward the cafeteria, his stomach rumbling.
The cafeteria was large, loud, packed with long tables and the smell of eggs, bacon, and coffee. It was already crowded. Ethan grabbed a tray, served himself some scrambled eggs, toast, and a glass of juice, and walked across the room looking for an empty spot.
It didn't take long for him to feel the stares.
It was inevitable. His appearance drew attention, and not just because of his face. It was his walk, the leather jacket, the aura of someone who had seen the world end and come back. And there was also the fact that many of the students there, who hadn't been at the assembly or in the courtyard the day before, hadn't seen him yet. Heads turned, whispers rippled across the tables, and a few girls let their forks pause halfway to their mouths.
One of them was Lizzie.
She was sitting at a table near the window with a group of friends. When she looked up from her plate and saw the boy crossing the room, an immediate flush rose to her cheeks.
Who is that hottie? she thought, and before her friends could say a word, she pushed her chair back, stood up, fixed her hair, and walked toward him with the confident stride of someone who had never been rejected in her life.
— Hey, handsome.
Ethan stopped, holding his tray, and turned his head.
Lizzie stood there, two steps away, wearing her most charming smile, chin tilted up, one hand already extended in front of her.
— I'm Lizzie.
For a second, Ethan couldn't speak.
It was her. The same Lizzie, with the same way of tilting her chin, the same bold spark in her eyes, just older, taller, and looking at him the way you look at a stranger. His throat tightened slightly. He swallowed and let the emotion pass. He balanced the tray with one hand and shook hers with the other.
— Ethan.
— Ethan — Lizzie repeated, rolling the name around, and took a second longer than necessary to let go of his hand. — Did you arrive yesterday?
— I did.
— How strange, because I didn't hear about it. — She crossed her arms in theatrical indignation. — I always hear about everything. I'm going to complain to my dad.
Ethan laughed.
It was a low, genuine laugh, the first one that had slipped out of him in a long time, and it surprised him.
— Your dad is the headmaster?
Lizzie blinked.
— Yeah. How did you know?
— You just said you were going to complain to your dad — Ethan replied, raising an eyebrow. — So, chances are, the only dad at this school has to be the headmaster, or one of the teachers. — He shrugged, amused. — It was a guess.
Lizzie stared at him, and a wide smile spread across her face, this time more sincere.
— Look at you. You're pretty smart.
— No — Ethan replied, shaking his head. — Just good old common sense.
Her friends watched from afar, exchanging glances and giggles. Lizzie didn't even notice. She was too busy looking at Ethan, her head tilted slightly, like someone who had found something interesting in an unexpected place.
They stood there in the middle of the cafeteria, chatting for a bit. They talked about the coffee, which was awful, the food, which was worse, and how Alaric forced everyone to wake up early. Ethan answered with short, good-humored sentences and let Lizzie talk. She spoke with the natural ease of someone born for it. There was an ache to all of it, hearing her voice again, seeing the same gestures, and he hid it behind an easy smile.
— So where are you from? — Lizzie asked after a while, tilting her head. — Because you don't seem like you're from around here.
Ethan hesitated for a quarter of a second, and answered:
— Reseda.
— Wow — Lizzie said, her eyes widening. — That's really far.
— It is.
— And what brings you here, so far from home?
— Looking for a place to start over — Ethan answered with a half-smile, avoiding details.
Lizzie seemed satisfied with the answer, or at least found it mysterious enough to be interesting. She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table where he had set his tray, without waiting for an invitation, and Ethan, after a second, sat down too.
They stayed there for a while, and Lizzie talked. She talked about classes, the teachers, the girls at school, how boring the town was, and how things only got interesting after the monsters started showing up. She talked with her hands, with her whole body, with the grace of someone who had always been the center of attention. Ethan answered politely, with short phrases and easy smiles, letting her steer the conversation.
He liked Lizzie. He always had.
There was something in the cadence of her voice, in her theatrical gestures, in the way she rolled her eyes when something annoyed her, that was pure nostalgia to him. It was like returning to an old house after years away, where every corner held a familiar scent. She was a little older, taller, and also, if he was being honest, a bit flirtier than he remembered. But she was still the same girl.
Except the nostalgia came with a bitter aftertaste. Because every smile, every joke, every curious look was directed at a stranger. She had no idea who he was. She had no idea that, in another life, they had already talked, fought, and laughed together.
When the clock on the wall neared nine, he cleared his throat and stood up.
— I have to go. Alaric asked me to drop by his office.
— Oh — Lizzie pouted. — Already? I was enjoying our chat.
— I'll see you around — he answered with a subtle smile, picking up his tray.
— You can count on it — she said, and winked.
The truth was, he needed to solve a practical issue: his clothes.
Ethan only had what he was wearing—pants, t-shirt, and jacket forcibly "borrowed" from some random apartment, and he had already slept in them. Alaric had said the night before that he would sort it out, and asked him to drop by the office the next morning to figure out the details.
He walked down the hall, stopped in front of the dark wooden door, and knocked.
Knock, knock, knock.
— Who is it? — Alaric's voice called from the other side.
— It's Ethan.
— Come in.
Ethan opened the door, stepped inside, and stopped halfway into the room.
The office looked different than it had the day before. There was a side table covered in metallic objects, small vials of oil, and rags. Behind the main desk, Alaric, wearing a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, held a crossbow, inspecting it closely while turning a small mechanism with a wrench.
And sitting in a chair nearby, with a bolt in one hand and a soft cloth in the other, was Hope.
She had looked up the instant he walked in, and the two of them stared at each other for a long second.
Ethan cleared his throat.
— Am I interrupting something?
Alaric looked up from the crossbow and smiled, amused by the situation.
— No, no. We're just polishing the weapons. Part of the routine, these days.
— Hmm — Ethan hummed.
He took a few steps into the room and looked at Hope.
She sat perfectly still, the bolt frozen in her hand, the cloth forgotten, her gaze locked on him. It wasn't the curious look from yesterday, nor the embarrassed, averted glance. It was an intense, focused stare—the look of someone analyzing, trying to understand. She looked him up and down, slowly, like someone trying to decipher a riddle, her eyes lingering on his face, his jawline, his shoulders. She seemed to be searching for something, anything, that could explain the effect he had on her.
Ethan held her gaze, unhurried, and one corner of his mouth twitched upward.
— And are you an expert at this, Miss Mikaelson?
— I am, actually — Hope replied, sitting up straighter in her chair, her tone sharp and defensive. — And what does that have to do with you?
The question came out harsher than she meant it to. It was an attempt to keep her distance, to build a wall between them before anything could slip through. She knew that, and she knew it wasn't working.
Ethan raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, offering a crooked smile.
— Okay — he teased. — Alright. Forget I asked.
Alaric cleared his throat, setting the crossbow down on the desk, and pointed to an empty chair.
— So, Ethan. What were we talking about yesterday again?
Ethan sat down, stretching his legs out, and adjusted the collar of his jacket.
— Clothes — he answered. — As you can see, I'm rocking an eighties bad-boy aesthetic, and I'm drawing way too much attention. — He gestured to his pants and jacket. — I'd prefer a wardrobe that was a little more... discreet.
— Pfft — Hope scoffed.
The laugh slipped out before she could stop it—a short, muffled snort that she tried to cover up with a cough. Ethan looked at her, and his smile widened. It only lasted a second, and Hope turned her head away, blushing once again, pretending to be highly interested in the crossbow bolt.
Alaric, who saw the whole thing and once again chose not to comment, chuckled softly.
— True — he said. — You do stand out. We'll get some clothes sorted for you, especially the uniform. But I don't think that's the only thing you wanted to talk about.
Ethan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and the smile vanished.
— No — he admitted. — I wanted you to explain what that monster was yesterday.
Alaric exchanged a quick glance with Hope, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
— It was an Oneiroi — he began, adopting the tone of someone who had taught for a very long time. — A monster born from nightmares. They can't exist on their own in our plane. They're very similar to the famous Freddy Krueger—they appear, attack, and vanish. They're fast, strong, and very hard to kill. — He looked at Ethan with a hint of curiosity. — Or they were, until yesterday.
Ethan ignored the compliment.
— And where are they coming from? — he asked, his voice low. — These monsters. Where is all this coming from?
The air in the room grew heavier.
Hope, who had been looking down, focused on her bolt, froze.
She had heard it. Heard it perfectly. And suddenly, the words he had spoken in the hallway yesterday came rushing back with full force, as clear as if he had just said them: He smells the same as the place I came from. She raised her eyes slowly and locked them on Ethan's profile. He was looking at Alaric with an expression that was far too neutral, far too controlled. More alert than ever, she stopped pretending to polish the bolt and simply listened.
Alaric sighed and leaned back in his chair.
— There is a place — he said. — A place we call Malivore.
Ethan didn't move.
— It's a sort of prison — Alaric continued. — An abyss, a dimension of darkness on another plane, nobody knows exactly where, holding all the monsters the world has ever known, and many it's never seen. Creatures that shouldn't exist. For a long time, it was sealed, but something changed. Cracks appeared. And through those cracks, the monsters started escaping, one by one. — He looked down at his own hands.
He said more—about ancient seals, about people who had gone in and never returned, about the school's efforts to keep the rift from growing. But Ethan was barely listening anymore.
His face had gone rigid, expressionless, his dark green, lost eyes fixed on a random spot on the desk.
Malivore.
With that name, suddenly, everything clicked into place: the smell, the darkness, the damp cold, the swarms of monsters, the dragons, the crushing loneliness. For years, he had called that place hell, never knowing that hell had a name, that it was known...
His voice came out low, almost a whisper, as if he were talking to himself more than the others.
— So the name of that place was Malivore.
Hope felt her heart skip a beat.
Was that place, she thought. Was.
Past tense.
The silence in the room stretched for a few seconds. Then Ethan shook his head, like someone shaking off a thought, and sat up straight.
— Thank you — he said. — For explaining.
— Don't mention it — Alaric replied. — As for the clothes, I'll get you a school uniform. I'll have them tailor it to your size, it should be ready by tomorrow.
Ethan nodded and stood up.
His footsteps faded down the hallway.
Hope waited until she couldn't hear anything else. Then she dropped the bolt and the cloth on the desk with a sharp movement and blew out a harsh breath through her nose.
— Great — she said.
Alaric looked up at her.
— Great what?
— As if a horde of monsters pouring out of Malivore wasn't enough — She crossed her arms, glaring at the closed door. — Now this guy shows up. Don't you think this is weird, Mr. Saltzman?
— Hmm? — Alaric frowned, surprised. — Why do you say that?
— Because of everything he represents. — Hope turned to face him, her blue eyes hard and sharp. — You aren't falling for his act, are you? He shows up out of nowhere, like he dropped out of the sky, no ID, no records, nothing to prove he even exists. And he comes straight to this school? Right now, in the middle of this crisis?
Alaric stayed quiet.
He leaned his head back against the chair, staring at the ceiling, letting Hope's words sink in. They were true, every single one of them. A boy shows up at the school gates, no past, no family, no proof of identity, demonstrates a kind of power he had never seen in anyone, and a few hours later, a creature from hell materializes in the hallways. And yet, Alaric had let him in, given him a room, a bed, and a plate of food.
Why didn't I think of that earlier?
There was something about that kid—the way he looked, the way he spoke, an old, steady sadness—that had made him lower his guard without even realizing it. He couldn't explain why. It was as if, somehow, in some unreachable corner of his memory, he had already trusted him.
He looked away from the ceiling and back at Hope.
— And you? — he asked. — What do you think?
— I don't know. — Hope stood up, her jaw tightening. — But I'm going to find out. Exactly what he's hiding.
She took two steps toward the door, and Alaric, watching her with an involuntary smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, couldn't resist.
— Hmm. — He tilted his head. — So this doesn't have anything to do with you getting all flustered around him, right?
Hope stopped dead.
— W-what? — She spun around, eyes wide, her face going from pale to scarlet in two seconds flat. — Of course not! What are you talking about?
— Nothing, nothing. — Alaric held his hands up in a gesture of innocence. — Just an observation.
Hope shot him a death glare, opened her mouth to say something, and snapped it shut. She spun on her heel and marched out of the office, leaving the bolts forgotten on the desk, not looking back.
The door slammed behind her.
Alaric was left alone, staring at empty space, and let out a sigh, once again feeling the uncomfortable sensation of facing something he couldn't quite grasp.
Ethan left the headmaster's office without rushing, hands in his pockets and an idea in his head.
He walked down the hall, descended the stairs, pushed through the glass doors, and stepped out onto the school grounds. The sun was high now, casting golden patches of light across the grass between the tree trunks. He took a deep breath, taking in the smell of damp earth and leaves, and walked straight ahead, unwavering, toward a secluded corner of the property.
An old friend was waiting for him there.
The tree was exactly where it had always been. Huge, ancient, with a wide trunk and sprawling branches that cast a generous shadow over the lawn. Ethan stopped in front of it, watched the leaves swaying in the breeze, and let out a quiet laugh.
His best friend was a tree. Go figure, he thought. After everything he had been through, after dragons, monsters, decades of darkness, the only place he wanted to be was under a tree.
It was a good place to think. And, in a way, it was the only one that had never forgotten him.
He looked around, and frowned. Since he had arrived, he had seen Lizzie, Alaric, Dorian, Hope. But there was someone he expected to see who hadn't appeared anywhere yet. Not in the courtyard, not in the cafeteria, not in the halls.
Where is Penelope?
She could have graduated, like Lucien. She could have left, like so many others. Two years was plenty of time for things to change. Even so, it felt strange. There was something about her—that mocking attitude, that half-smile—that he missed in a way he had never expected.
He sat down with his back against the trunk, stretched his legs out over the grass, and closed his eyes for a moment.
A few yards away, hiding behind one of the courtyard pillars, Hope was watching.
She had followed Ethan from a distance, unseen, with the determination of a detective hunting for clues. Peeking around the stone pillar, she watched him sit under the tree, analyzing every gesture, every breath, every detail, like someone reading between the lines of a text.
There was something off about him.
She knew it. She didn't know what, or why, but she knew it, with a certainty that didn't come from logic, but from somewhere deeper. The way he walked, like he owned the place. The way he looked at the hallways and the people, like he missed every single face. The way he had said Malivore in the headmaster's office, like he was saying the name of a place he'd already been.
I'm going to figure it out, she thought. Whatever it is.
There were no classes that day. Alaric had canceled everything because of the crisis, so Ethan didn't have to worry about schedules or teachers. He had the whole day to himself, and he spent it the best way he knew how: sitting, in silence, in the shade of a tree.
Hope watched him, and slowly, she noticed something shifting in his face.
Ethan was thinking about his mother.
He hadn't wanted to, but the thought crept in on its own, the way thoughts do when the mind gets too quiet. He thought about her shop, the smell of coffee, the sound of her voice calling his name in the morning. He wondered what her life was like without him. If she was okay, if she was alone, if she had anyone to help her.
To be honest, he didn't even want to think about it. Not the pain she must be feeling, not...
Or maybe not.
The next thought was crueler than the last.
She probably isn't feeling anything. She forgot about me, didn't she?
The realization sat there, heavy and crushing. His mother, the woman who had raised him, loved him unconditionally, who had given him a talisman passed down through generations, didn't even know he existed. She didn't miss him. She wasn't crying for him. To her, she had never even had a son.
And somehow, that hurt more than if she were suffering.
Ethan squeezed his eyes shut and ground his teeth. It was hard. Too hard. He dragged a hand down his face, trying to wipe the thought away, but it came back, stronger, and his chest tightened.
A look of utter sadness washed over his face, slowly, like the shadow of a cloud passing over a field, and he didn't even try to hide it. Out there, alone under the tree, there was no one he needed to pretend for.
A few yards away, behind the pillar, Hope saw the change.
His expression had shattered, and his eyes, even closed, seemed to carry an unbearable weight. His shoulders slumped, his hands gripped his knees tight. It was an old, deep sorrow, the look of someone carrying something nobody else could see.
Hope felt her own chest tighten.
Her detective routine slowly fell away. There were no more clues, no more suspicion, no more mistrust. Just a boy, entirely alone, carrying a pain she couldn't understand.
Why does he look like that? she thought, worried, not even realizing her hand had crept up to clutch her wolf pendant again. What happened to him?