Malik stood at the edge of the Quarter, holding the sealed note that had appeared on his windowsill before dawn. It wasn't from Klaus. It was older. Classier.
A single wax stamp — the letter "E."
Marcel watched him open it, arms crossed. "You sure you wanna deal with that one?"
"Elijah?" Malik asked, skimming the words. "I've barely seen him."
"There's a reason," Marcel muttered. "He doesn't waste time on people he doesn't think matter."
Malik pocketed the letter. "Then I guess I should go see what he thinks of me."
ElijahThe parlor was dimly lit, lined with books and aged bourbon. Elijah Mikaelson stood by the fireplace, dressed in a dark suit even in the heat. He didn't turn as Malik entered — he simply gestured toward the second glass.
Malik stepped in, cautious but composed. "You sent for me."
Elijah finally turned, his expression unreadable. "I did."
They stared at each other in silence. Elijah's presence wasn't loud like Klaus's — it was deeper. He didn't need to raise his voice to demand attention.
"I've been watching you," Elijah said at last.
"I assumed."
"You're not like the others Klaus brings in."
"Because I don't grovel?" Malik asked, lips twitching.
"Because you think," Elijah said. "You hesitate before killing. You reason before ruling."
Malik tilted his head. "And that's a bad thing?"
"That's a dangerous thing."
The OfferElijah poured a drink for both of them.
"I wanted to speak before my brother poisons your perception of this city… or of us."
Malik took the glass but didn't drink. "You think Klaus is wrong about me?"
Elijah looked him over. "I think Klaus sees a weapon. I see a man deciding what kind of legacy he wants to leave."
Malik sipped. "I didn't ask for legacy."
"None of us did. But we all leave one. The question is how loud it echoes when we're gone."
Malik sat back in the leather chair, watching Elijah with cautious interest. "And what do you want from me?"
Elijah gave a small, calculated smile. "Nothing. Yet."
Midnight AmbushThat night, returning to his side of the Quarter, Malik felt it — the shift in the air. A trap.
He spun just as the first vampire lunged from the shadows.
Fangs. Claws. Bloodlust.
Three of them, maybe four — rogues who had rejected Klaus's rule and blamed Malik for enforcing it.
Malik moved like a whip — ducking, siphoning, flaring raw power through his veins. He took one down fast, breaking his jaw with a siphoned burst and snapping his neck.
But the others overwhelmed him.
Fangs tore into his shoulder. He screamed, rage burning.
He reached deep.
His blood boiled. His hands lit with that telltale Heretic glow — magic drawn from within. He slammed both palms to the ground.
The cobblestones shattered.
A burst of invisible force threw the remaining attackers back, bones snapping, screams echoing into the alley.
Malik stood shaking, chest heaving, his coat burned through in places.
But he was alive.
The RecoveryElijah arrived just before dawn, hands calm, eyes scanning the broken bodies.
"I wondered when someone would test you," he said, looking down at the scorch marks on the brick.
"They chose the wrong night."
Elijah helped him to his feet, offering a handkerchief for the blood on his temple.
"You didn't just survive," Elijah said quietly. "You controlled it."
"I lost control," Malik muttered.
"No," Elijah said, eyes narrowing. "You used it. There's a difference."
Malik met his gaze. "And what happens now?"
Elijah's voice was low. "Now, we make sure they don't try again."