CHAPTER 14: THE COMPOUND
POV: Alen
New Orleans hit Alen like a physical presence the moment they stepped off the plane. The air hung thick with humidity and magic, jazz music drifting from distant clubs while supernatural energy pulsed through the French Quarter like a second heartbeat. This was power's birthplace—vampire courts and witch covens and werewolf packs all balanced in perpetual tension.
The Mikaelson compound loomed before them like a Gothic fortress transplanted from medieval Europe. Ancient stone and wrought iron spoke of centuries spent accumulating wealth and enemies in equal measure. Even from the street, Alen could feel the building's magical resonance—protective wards layered over time, blood magic soaked into the foundations, power radiating from within like heat from a forge.
"This is where they built their empire," he thought, studying architectural details that suggested both elegance and defense. "This is where they made their stand against everything that wanted them dead."
Hope's hand found his as they approached the entrance, her grip tight with anxiety and suppressed grief. The Hollow remained mercifully quiet, ancient whispers reduced to barely audible muttering in response to his proximity.
"Ready?" she asked, though her tone suggested neither of them could truly be ready for what waited inside.
POV: Alen
Klaus waited in the courtyard like a predator surveying his domain. A thousand years of accumulated power and violence clothed in human form, hybrid nature making him something beyond vampire or werewolf classification. His eyes fixed on Alen with the intensity of someone cataloging weaknesses and threat assessments.
"So," Klaus said, his voice carrying cultured menace wrapped in British accent. "The boy who ran from me returns."
"He remembers the threats he made three years ago," Alen realized. "He remembers breaking a fifteen-year-old's spirit with casual cruelty. And he's wondering what kind of person that frightened child has become."
"I'm not running anymore," Alen said steadily, meeting the Original's gaze without flinching.
Klaus moved with hybrid speed—supernatural blur that covered twenty feet in a heartbeat, stopping inches from Alen's face with barely contained violence radiating from every line of his body.
"Give me one reason," Klaus said softly, "not to tear your heart out for daring to touch my daughter."
The courtyard held its breath. This was the test—face down the Original Hybrid or reveal himself as the same terrified boy who'd folded under pressure years ago.
Alen smiled calmly and began to siphon.
Klaus's hybrid strength drained visibly, centuries of accumulated power flowing into Alen like water finding its level. The Original staggered backward, shock replacing menace as fundamental abilities simply... disappeared.
"Because I'm the only reason Hope is stable," Alen said, still pulling magical energy from the most dangerous creature on the planet with casual efficiency. "Sir."
Tense silence stretched across the courtyard while Klaus processed what had just happened. Then laughter broke the spell—bright, delighted sound from the mansion's interior.
"Oh, I like him," Rebekah called, appearing in the doorway with supernatural grace and obvious amusement. "Finally, someone who can handle Nik's dramatic threats appropriately."
POV: Alen
Freya Mikaelson studied magic the way scientists studied natural laws—with analytical precision that left no detail unexamined. She circled Alen in the compound's study, casting diagnostic spells that washed over him like gentle rain, each one absorbed harmlessly into his enhanced systems.
"Fascinating," she murmured, gesturing for him to extend his arms while she continued the magical examination. "Your siphoning is... preemptive. Autonomous almost. Most siphoners require conscious effort to drain magic, but you seem to be doing it instinctively."
"Because my abilities work on cosmic principles rather than learned techniques," Alen thought, carefully not sharing that insight. "Because the Entity gave me power that operates beyond normal magical limitations."
"I've trained extensively," he said instead, offering the cover story he'd been building for months.
Freya's skeptical expression suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. "No siphoner trains to this level, Alen. Most struggle with complex spells their entire lives. You're crafting original magic like it's second nature."
"What are you?" The question hung unspoken between them, weighty with implications neither could address directly.
"Motivated," Alen deflected, knowing evasion was safer than explanation.
Freya gestured for Hope to stand across the room. Black veins immediately appeared across Hope's skin as the Hollow stirred in response to distance from its suppression source. But as Alen approached, the veins faded like shadows before sunlight, ancient curse retreating into dormancy.
"The Hollow is terrified of you," Freya breathed, wonder coloring her analytical tone. "It's not just suppressed—it's hiding. Conscious avoidance, like it recognizes something in your power that threatens its very existence."
Klaus had been silent through the examination, but now he spoke with reluctant acceptance. "Then he stays."
POV: Klaus
Klaus Mikaelson had spent a thousand years learning to read threats and opportunities with predatory accuracy. The boy standing in his study represented both in measures that made calculation difficult.
Three years ago, he'd broken Alen Saltzman with casual cruelty—threats delivered to a trembling fifteen-year-old who'd dared approach his daughter. The child had folded completely, disappearing from Hope's life with the thoroughness of genuine terror.
Now? Now that same child had siphoned his hybrid strength like plucking flowers, faced down Original intimidation without flinching, and demonstrated magical abilities that impressed even Freya's analytical standards.
"Power changes people," Klaus mused, watching Alen interact with Hope with easy familiarity. "But this isn't just enhanced ability. This is fundamental transformation. The boy I threatened was weak, frightened, easily broken. This young man is something else entirely."
But what concerned Klaus most wasn't the power itself—it was how effortlessly Alen made Hope laugh despite the crisis surrounding them. How her posture relaxed in his presence. How the Hollow—ancient curse that had terrorized his family for generations—retreated from him like darkness from dawn.
"He could genuinely protect her," Klaus realized with grudging respect. "Someone powerful enough to suppress the Hollow, confident enough to face down Original vampires, devoted enough to follow her into danger without hesitation. Hope deserves that kind of partnership."
But partnership implied equality. And Klaus had seen what happened when people grew comfortable around his daughter—how quickly protection could become possession, how easily devotion could transform into control.
"I'll tolerate him," Klaus decided, watching Alen demonstrate casual mastery over forces that should have required decades to understand. "I'll watch him carefully. And if he ever hurts Hope worse than any enemy could, I'll kill him regardless of how useful his abilities might be."
Hope deserved happiness. But Klaus would define what "deserved" meant, and anyone who threatened his daughter's wellbeing—regardless of current alliance—would discover exactly why the Original Hybrid had survived a millennium of supernatural warfare.
POV: Alen
Night fell over New Orleans like velvet curtains, jazz music drifting through French Quarter streets while supernatural tensions hummed beneath the surface. The compound's guest room felt ancient despite modern amenities—stone walls that had witnessed centuries of Mikaelson history, magical resonance soaked into every surface.
Alen lay awake listening to the building's heartbeat. This place was alive with accumulated power, protective wards layered over generations of family warfare. He could sense the magic in the walls, the blood spells woven into the foundations, the sheer weight of supernatural legacy that made ordinary spaces feel thin by comparison.
Tomorrow they would mount Hayley's rescue. Tomorrow he would face Greta Sienna in actual combat, testing enhanced abilities against an ancient enemy who'd dedicated her existence to destroying his chosen family.
"And if the opportunity presents itself," he thought, touching the resurrection coin through his pocket, "tomorrow I'll attempt my first soul harvest. Greta qualifies by any measure—cult leader, torturer, would-be destroyer of innocent lives. If I can kill her in legitimate combat, her soul becomes raw material for future resurrections."
The moral calculus felt simpler in theory than practice. Greta deserved destruction for her crimes. Hope's family deserved protection from ancient threats. The resurrection magic could save lives that mattered.
But underneath rational justification lay deeper currents of anticipation that troubled him. The prospect of testing cosmic powers against legendary opponents. The chance to prove himself worthy of standing beside supernatural royalty. The opportunity to harvest his first soul and begin building the power base necessary for larger interventions.
"I'm looking forward to this," he realized with uncomfortable clarity. "Not just the rescue mission—the violence. The chance to unleash everything I've been building toward. That should worry me more than it does."
Outside his window, New Orleans pulsed with supernatural energy. And somewhere in that ancient city, Greta Sienna waited with Hayley Marshall as bait for a trap designed to capture one of the most powerful beings in existence.
"Time to meet legends," Alen whispered to the darkness. "Time to become one."
Dawn was still hours away, but already he could feel destiny gathering like storm clouds on the horizon.
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