The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

The jagged cliffs towered above them as Ivar led the group through a narrow pathway carved into the stone. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the promise of ancient power and long-forgotten secrets. Ayanna's breath hitched as they approached the cavern's entrance, its maw yawning like the mouth of some great beast. The strangers lingered behind, their unease deepening with every passing moment.

Ivar reached the cavern first, his hand grazing the rocky surface as though he were greeting an old friend. The faintest flicker of a smile crossed his lips, gone as quickly as it had appeared. He turned to the group, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light.

"This is where things get… interesting," he said, his voice laced with quiet menace.

Ayanna narrowed her eyes at him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You always did have a flair for the dramatic," she muttered, stepping forward.

Ivar's lips curled into a smirk, but he said nothing, instead turning his attention to the task at hand. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a faintly glowing barrier that shimmered like a mirage. It spread out in a dome, encompassing the group.

"Psychic barrier," Ivar explained, his tone clipped and efficient. "Silas won't get into your heads. You can thank me later."

Ayanna's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she turned away, her features taut with a mix of resolve and apprehension. The strangers whispered among themselves, their voices hushed and fearful, but no one dared to question Ivar's actions.

They descended deeper into the cavern, the air growing colder and heavier. At last, they reached a vast chamber where the floor was dominated by a geometrically perfect circle etched into the stone, its lines glowing faintly with an eerie blue light. Symbols and runes spiraled outward from the center, their intricate patterns pulsing with dormant energy.

Ayanna hesitated at the edge of the circle, her heart pounding. She felt Ivar's presence beside her before he spoke.

"Remember the magic I taught you?" he asked, his voice softer now, though no less commanding.

Ayanna glanced at him, her brow furrowing. "Expression magic," she replied, her voice steady despite the unease flickering in her dark eyes.

Ivar nodded, stepping closer. "This is where it will come in handy."

Without warning, he drew a blade from his belt and sliced a shallow line across his palm. The blood welled up quickly, dark and viscous, and he extended his hand toward Ayanna.

Her breath caught as she realized his intent. "Ivar—" she began, her voice sharp with protest.

"Since I don't have the hunter's mark," he interrupted, his tone calm but unyielding, "and it's not ready, I'll have to use the best ingredient in the world—a doppelgänger's blood."

Ayanna's eyes widened, her gaze darting from his bloodied hand to his unreadable expression. For a moment, she faltered, her resolve wavering. But then she straightened, her jaw tightening. She extended her own hand, her fingers trembling slightly as they met his.

Ivar's blood was warm as it smeared across her palm, mingling with her own as he gripped her hand firmly. His dark eyes bore into hers, searching for any sign of weakness.

"Don't disappoint me, Ayanna," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she yanked her hand away, stepping into the circle. Her movements were deliberate, each step precise as she positioned herself at its center. She knelt, her hands hovering over the runes, and closed her eyes.

The air around her seemed to vibrate as she began to chant, her voice low and melodic, carrying an ancient power that echoed through the cavern. The runes flared to life, their glow intensifying as the barrier around Silas's tomb began to unravel.

Ivar watched her with an intensity that was almost unsettling, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a glimmer of something—pride, perhaps, or anticipation.

Ayanna's face twisted with effort as the spell reached its crescendo. Sweat beaded on her brow, and her hands trembled, but she didn't falter. The runes pulsed in time with her chanting, their light growing brighter until the entire chamber was bathed in an otherworldly glow.

Finally, with a final, guttural word, Ayanna slammed her hands onto the stone. The ground trembled, and the barrier dissolved in a burst of energy that sent a gust of wind howling through the cavern.

Ayanna sagged forward, her breathing ragged as she braced herself against the stone. Ivar stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate. He extended a hand to her, his expression softer now, though his eyes still held that predatory gleam.

"Well done," he said, his voice low.

Ayanna ignored his hand, pushing herself to her feet with a grimace. She turned to face him, her dark eyes blazing with defiance.

"This better be worth it," she said, her voice hoarse but firm.

Ivar's lips curled into a faint smile as he turned toward the now-exposed doorway leading to Silas's tomb.

"Oh," he said, his tone laced with dark amusement. "It will be."

Ivar's eyes glinted with finality as he gazed at Ayanna, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. "But you are no longer needed here. You can leave now. The boat has been enchanted to take you back home."

His tone was calm but unyielding, carrying an air of absolute authority that left no room for argument.

Ayanna blinked, her jaw tightening as though she might object. But then, shockingly, she turned on her heel without a word. Her footsteps echoed softly against the cavern floor, each one steady, deliberate, and unnervingly compliant.

The old man and the young woman exchanged a glance, their expressions betraying disbelief.

Ayanna—defiant, fiery Ayanna—was simply walking away?

The young woman, her almond-shaped eyes wide with confusion, whispered, "She didn't even argue…" Her slender fingers gripped the old man's sleeve, seeking reassurance.

The old man, his weathered face etched with unease, frowned deeply. His gray brows knitted together, and his lips parted slightly as though to call after Ayanna. But he stopped, his hand trembling as he lowered it, realizing there was no point.

Ayanna's silhouette grew smaller as she ascended the narrow pathway leading out of the cavern. Her shoulders, usually squared with determination, now drooped slightly, the air of rebellion extinguished.

It wasn't until she vanished into the dim corridor that the young woman turned her attention back to Ivar.

"You…" she stammered, her voice trembling. "What did you do to her?"

Ivar's lips curled into a slow, predatory smile, revealing a glimpse of teeth. He turned to face the pair fully, his movements fluid and deliberate, like a predator toying with its prey.

The old man stiffened under Ivar's gaze. He straightened his hunched frame, but his clenched fists betrayed his tension. "You're not just a wolf," he murmured, his voice low and edged with wariness.

The young woman took an instinctive step back, her eyes darting to the exit, though her feet remained rooted in place.

Ivar chuckled darkly, the sound low and chilling, as he stepped closer to them. "No," he said, his voice a silken thread of malice. "I am not just a wolf. I am the devil you've been warned about."

The young woman's lips parted in silent terror, her face pale as her fingers clenched the hem of her cloak.

Ivar's smile deepened, his eyes boring into her. "Relax, little one," he said, his tone dripping with mockery. "You're coming with me."

He shifted his gaze to the old man, who stood his ground despite the flicker of unease in his weathered features.

"You too," Ivar said, his voice sharp and commanding.

The young woman flinched at the sudden authority in his tone. She glanced at the old man, who nodded subtly, his jaw tight.

Ivar turned toward the newly revealed doorway, his cloak billowing slightly as he moved. "Follow," he ordered, his voice echoing through the chamber.

The young woman hesitated, her gaze flickering between the doorway and the path Ayanna had taken. But the old man placed a firm hand on her shoulder, his touch steadying her.

"Come," he said softly, his voice steady despite the tension in his body.

Together, they stepped forward, their movements cautious, their breaths shallow.

Ivar didn't look back as they approached, but a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Their fear was palpable, and he relished it.

As they crossed the threshold into the dark unknown, the air grew heavier, the glow of the runes fading behind them. The young woman's trembling hand brushed against the old man's arm, seeking solace in the cold, oppressive silence.

Ivar's voice broke through the stillness, low and cold. "Do try to keep up. I don't have patience for stragglers."

The young woman swallowed hard, her heart pounding as she quickened her steps. The old man followed, his jaw set in grim determination.

They knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that they were venturing into the lion's den—and the lion had no intention of letting them leave unscathed.