The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

The air remained heavy, thick with unsaid words and the weight of years spent hiding truths. As Ivar absorbed his father's words, his steel-blue eyes never wavered. A subtle shift in his posture, the slightest relaxation of his shoulders, marked the moment when Mikael's words settled within him—there was no going back. Yet, before the silence could reclaim the room entirely, Henrik's voice cut through.

"I'm coming with you," Henrik said, his tone resolute but not without a hint of hesitance. His broad frame stood tall beside Ivar, his deep brown eyes gleaming with an intensity born of both loyalty and desperation. Henrik's hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his dagger, his knuckles whitening with the familiar grip. His face, usually warm and open, now carried a seriousness that matched Ivar's own.

Ivar's gaze flicked to Henrik, his brows furrowing for the briefest of moments. A look of hesitation passed between them, the unspoken understanding that this journey would be fraught with dangers they could scarcely fathom. But there was no room for doubt now. Ivar nodded, a small but resolute motion. "You are welcome to come," he said, his voice steady, though there was an unspoken weight to his words. Henrik's commitment mattered, and yet, Ivar knew the road ahead would not be kind.

Henrik gave a small nod, a flash of gratitude in his eyes before they shifted to the others. It was clear his mind was already set—he would stand by Ivar, no matter the cost.

Finn, standing slightly apart from the others, had been quiet for the entirety of the exchange, but now his mouth twisted into a sharp smile. His usual bravado was absent, replaced by a quiet seriousness. He gave Henrik a quick glance, a knowing look that spoke volumes, and then turned his attention to Ivar. "I'm going, too," Finn said, his tone clipped but firm.

Ivar met his gaze, a flicker of something dark passing through his expression. "Good," he said, his voice low and steady. He wasn't sure if it was reassurance for Finn or for himself. The bond between them was older than most of their family's secrets, forged in moments far more brutal than this. They both knew the stakes.

Mikael's eyes shifted from Ivar to Henrik and Finn, a quiet pride flickering briefly across his face—though it was quickly replaced with a shadow of concern. The father's intense gaze lingered on Ivar for a moment longer, his jaw tightening as if he were fighting an internal battle. "Stay safe," Mikael muttered, his voice strained but genuine.

Esther, standing close by, managed a thin smile, though it was laced with sadness and something deeper—fear, perhaps. She looked between Ivar and Finn, her expression unreadable. "Protect each other," she said softly, her voice a tremble despite her efforts to remain strong.

Rebekah stepped forward, her sapphire eyes searching Ivar's face with a quiet sadness. She reached out, but hesitated, her hand hovering in the air as if unsure whether to make contact. She let out a breath, her features softening for a brief moment, but the tension in her shoulders remained. "Come back to us," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The words were simple, but the weight they carried was enough to bring the room to a standstill.

Niklaus, who had been glaring at his mother, turned his gaze to Ivar now. His posture remained defiant, but there was an edge of something else—concern, perhaps, but more likely frustration at being left behind. "Don't make me regret not going with you," he said, his voice thick with challenge, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper—a fleeting flash of care.

Elijah, ever the voice of reason, nodded at Ivar, his usually stoic expression now tempered by a soft understanding. "We'll hold the line here," he said, his tone quiet but unwavering. There was no anger in his voice, only a resigned acceptance, as if he knew there was no alternative.

Ivar's eyes scanned the room, noting the mixed expressions of his family. He understood them, but the resolve to leave was stronger. He had to do this. He turned to his parents last, his gaze lingering on them. His face softened, just a little, as he bowed his head slightly.

"We will return," he promised, though the uncertainty in his tone hinted that he wasn't sure whether the promise would be kept.

With a final glance at his family—his broken, fractured family—he turned and began to walk toward the door, Henrik and Finn falling in step behind him. Each of their movements was measured, deliberate. Henrik's heavy boots made a sound against the stone floor, a contrast to the quiet, nearly silent tread of Ivar's boots. Finn's pace was slightly faster, the tension in his posture betraying the excitement and unease he felt.

As the door to the Mikaelson home creaked open, the cold night air rushed in, carrying with it the sharp scent of winter. Ivar stepped into the darkness, followed by Henrik and Finn. For a moment, they stood there, facing the unknown. Henrik glanced at Ivar, then Finn, his face set with determination. "Let's end this," he said quietly.

Ivar nodded, his jaw clenched tightly. "We will."

The door shut behind them, the sound final, sealing their departure. Inside, the remaining Mikaelsons stood in uneasy silence. The weight of their family's secrets, their unresolved pasts, hung in the air like a thick fog. But for Ivar, Henrik, and Finn, there was only the cold road ahead, leading toward Dahlia—and whatever awaited them there.

They would face it together.

Ivar's footsteps slowed as he veered off the main path, heading toward a secluded part of the compound, where Ayanna's home stood at the edge of the woods. The dark silhouette of the house loomed ahead, nestled among the trees, its windows dark, the faintest flicker of light coming from within. The scent of earth and pine filled the air as Ivar approached, his heart beating steadily despite the weight of what was to come.

He raised his hand and knocked once, sharply, his knuckles striking the wooden door with a practiced precision. There was a moment of silence before the door creaked open, revealing Ayanna standing in the threshold. Her features were sharp, her eyes cold and calculating, the silver in her hair gleaming faintly in the moonlight. She regarded him with an unreadable expression, her gaze moving from Ivar's eyes to the subtle tension in his posture.

Ivar held her gaze, a slow smile curling at the corners of his lips. There was something dark in that smile, something that sent a chill down Ayanna's spine, though she refused to show any outward sign of fear. She crossed her arms over her chest, her stance defensive, as though bracing herself for what was to come.

"How about you pay an old debt?" Ivar's voice was calm, almost playful, but there was a steel edge beneath the words that made Ayanna's breath catch in her throat.

Ayanna's brow furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. She knew exactly what he meant—knew what had brought him here. Her eyes narrowed, a glimmer of suspicion flashing across her features. "A debt?" she echoed, her voice laced with disbelief. "You think I owe you something?"

Ivar's smile only grew, but his eyes darkened, sharpening with intent. "You sealed my magic," he reminded her, the words heavy with meaning. "You took something from me. Now, I'm here to make sure the favour is returned."