The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

The pathway carved by Ayanna's spell was narrow, dimly lit, and lined with ancient, pulsating runes that cast a faint blue glow on the jagged walls. The air was heavy with foreboding, each step deeper into the cavern pressing on their senses like an invisible weight.

Ivar moved forward with measured strides, his cloak trailing behind him. The faint hum of ancient power resonated around him, but his focus was entirely on the end of the corridor, where a desiccated figure sat entombed in stone. Its mummified form was draped in tattered robes that had long since lost their color, and a grotesque mask obscured its face.

He stopped abruptly, his sharp gaze snapping to the old man and young woman behind him. They both froze like puppets on taut strings, their every movement dictated by unseen hands.

Ivar's voice, calm and unyielding, broke the suffocating silence. "Cut yourselves," he ordered, his tone devoid of emotion. "Feed your blood to him."

The old man's weathered face twitched, a fleeting moment of resistance that vanished as quickly as it had come. His hand, trembling ever so slightly, reached into the folds of his cloak to retrieve a dagger. His movements were slow, deliberate, yet mechanical, as though his body was no longer his own.

The young woman followed suit, her almond-shaped eyes wide with terror. A single tear escaped and trailed down her pale cheek, but she made no sound. Her lips trembled as she unsheathed a small blade from her belt, the edge catching the dim light of the cavern.

They moved closer to the desiccated figure, their steps eerily synchronized, like marionettes on strings.

The old man hesitated for a fraction of a second as he knelt before the tomb. His gnarled fingers clenched the hilt of the dagger tightly, his knuckles whitening. A flicker of defiance danced in his gray eyes, but it was extinguished when Ivar's sharp gaze locked onto him. The old man's jaw tightened, and he drew the blade across his palm with a practiced motion, the crimson blood pooling and dripping onto the mummified remains.

The young woman whimpered softly, the sound barely audible over the pulsing hum of the runes. She bit her lip so hard it turned white, but her hands didn't falter. She pressed the blade to her palm and winced as it bit into her skin, a thin line of blood welling up and sliding down her trembling fingers. Her gaze darted to Ivar, searching his face for mercy, but she found only cold detachment. She, too, let her blood spill onto the figure.

The desiccated body began to shift, the ancient cloth fluttering as though stirred by a phantom wind. The runes on the walls flared brighter, casting eerie shadows that danced across the cavern.

Ivar stepped forward with a calculated grace, his boots making no sound against the stone floor. He reached out, his hand steady, and gripped the mask that obscured the figure's face.

The old man and young woman both flinched as Ivar's fingers curled around the ancient artifact, their faces etched with expressions of fear and reluctant awe. The old man's jaw tightened, the veins in his neck bulging as he struggled internally against whatever force compelled him to stay silent. The young woman's shoulders shuddered with barely contained sobs, her wide eyes darting between Ivar and the figure.

Ivar's grip on the mask was firm but unhurried. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with a predatory satisfaction as he began to lift it.

The mask resisted at first, as though bound by unseen chains. Ivar's lips curled into a faint smirk, and he exerted more force, his muscles flexing beneath the fabric of his cloak.

The mask came free with a faint, echoing snap, and a burst of stale air escaped the tomb, carrying with it the metallic tang of ancient magic and decay.

The young woman gasped, her trembling hands flying to her mouth as though to stifle the sound. Her wide eyes locked onto the exposed face of the figure—skeletal, hollow, with eyes that glowed faintly with an unnatural light.

The old man's expression hardened, his brows furrowing deeply, but his hands remained at his sides, clenched into fists. Sweat beaded on his wrinkled forehead, and his breathing grew shallow.

Ivar turned the mask over in his hands, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings etched into its surface. A flicker of something crossed his face—curiosity, perhaps, or triumph—before his expression smoothed into its usual cold detachment.

"Silas," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate with the very stone around them.

The skeletal figure stirred, its head jerking unnaturally as it turned toward Ivar. Its glowing eyes fixed on him, unblinking, and the runes flared once more, bathing the chamber in their ominous light.

The young woman whimpered again, her hands clutching at the old man's arm as though seeking protection. He didn't move, his focus entirely on the figure and the man who had unleashed it.

Ivar met the creature's gaze without flinching, his smirk returning. "Awake, at last," he said softly, his tone dripping with dark amusement.

The figure opened its mouth, a low, guttural sound emerging—a voice that hadn't been used in centuries.

The moment Ivar stepped closer to Silas, the dim glow of the runes intensified, casting a cold, eerie light across the chamber. Silas's skeletal hands, gnarled and discolored, twitched as if sensing the presence of fresh life. His body remained slumped, desiccated and hollow, but his grasp on the vial—what Ivar called the cure—loosened.

Ivar's eyes gleamed with triumph as he reached out, his movements smooth and calculated. The cure, encased in a translucent vial and glowing faintly with a pale, golden light, slipped from Silas's grasp with a brittle crackle. Ivar caught it effortlessly, holding it up to the light for a moment as if marveling at its potential.

But as soon as the vial left Silas's hands, the ancient being stirred, his head snapping upright with unnatural speed. Sunken eyes, dark pits of hunger, locked onto the old man and the young girl, who were still standing like marionettes under Ivar's control.

The old man gasped softly, his breath hitching as Silas's fingers shot out and latched onto his wrist. The young woman flinched, her lips parting in a silent cry of fear, but she didn't move to escape. Her body remained rigid, her face pale and streaked with cold sweat.

Silas's mouth cracked open with a guttural groan, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth. His lips barely moved as he rasped, "Life… give it to me."

Before either of them could react, Silas pulled the old man closer with unnatural strength, his frail frame belying the raw power in his grasp. The old man winced, his features contorted in a mix of terror and pain, but his body moved obediently, his free hand rising as if to offer his wrist willingly.

Silas sank his teeth into the old man's arm, his desiccated face twitching with satisfaction as the first drops of blood touched his parched tongue. A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep within his chest, a twisted mockery of pleasure as he drank greedily. The old man's eyes fluttered shut, his body trembling but still unmoving, locked in Ivar's invisible grip.

The young woman's almond-shaped eyes widened in horror as she watched, her lips trembling. Tears began to pool in her eyes, but she didn't dare look away. When Silas turned his gaze to her, a cruel, predatory glint flickered in his hollow sockets.

Her body jerked forward as though pulled by invisible strings. Her trembling legs carried her to Silas against her will, her hand raising shakily to bare her wrist.

"Please…" she whispered, her voice cracking, but her lips froze as soon as the word escaped. She flinched as Silas grabbed her wrist, his grip cold and unyielding.

He bit down, and she gasped sharply, tears streaming down her cheeks as the ancient being began to drain her. Her eyes rolled back momentarily before she steadied herself, her breaths coming in shallow, uneven bursts. Her free hand gripped her cloak tightly, the knuckles white with strain, as if holding on to the last vestiges of her will.