The Year of Our Lord 1002
Three Months Later
The Mikaelson homestead had been transformed.
Esther's magic had carved a circle of power into the earth behind the house—a space where the veil between worlds grew thin, where spirits whispered and shadows danced. Ainz had provided the blood—a small vial of ichor drawn from his skeletal form, dark and thick and pulsing with necromantic energy.
Tonight, the children would drink.
Freya was not there. She had been taken years ago by Esther's sister Dahlia, stolen away to a fate the family did not speak of. But the others remained: Finn, Elijah, Klaus, Rebekah, and Henrik. Five children who would never die.
Klaus went first.
He took the vial from his mother's hands and looked at Ainz. In that moment, something passed between them—a recognition, perhaps. An understanding that they were both different, both feared, both alone.
Klaus drank.
The effect was immediate. He screamed—a sound that was part child, part wolf, part something else entirely—and collapsed to the ground. His body convulsed. His eyes rolled back. For a terrible moment, Esther thought she had killed him.
Then he opened his eyes, and they were gold.
One by one, the others drank. Elijah endured in silence, his face a mask of stoic pain. Finn wept openly, begging his mother to make it stop. Rebekah, barely old enough to understand, clutched Esther's hand and whimpered.
And Henrik—brave, foolish Henrik—drank without hesitation and smiled through the pain.
When all had drunk, Esther began the spell.
Ainz watched from the shadows, his expression unreadable. The blood he had provided was more than a catalyst—it was a link. A connection between himself and these new immortals. Not control, but awareness. The ability to sense them, to find them, to know when they used the power he had given them.
Insurance, he told himself. In case this world proved more dangerous than it appeared.
The spell reached its climax. Power surged through the clearing—Esther's magic, wild and desperate, mingling with the necromantic energy of Ainz's blood. The children screamed again, their bodies transforming, their mortality burning away like morning mist.
When it was over, five immortals lay gasping on the blood-soaked earth.
And Ainz Ooal Gown, the skeletal sorcerer from another world, had just changed the course of this world's history forever.