CHAPTER ZERO, THIS HOW IT BEGINS
"I had a family that fought like wolves and loved like immortals. Loyalty. Legacy. Always legacy."

𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐏.
A heartbeat.
𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐏... 𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐏.
Slow. Steady. Ancient.

Above the world, the night sky was painted in shades of blood and smoke. Crimson clouds drifted like bruises across the heavens, parting just enough to reveal a full moon unlike any seen in generations—bloated, ominous, and burning red, as if soaked in the memory of war.

"I was born the night the sky bled red."

The storm hadn't yet broken, but the air pulsed with warning. Thunder grumbled low over the bayou, like a beast pacing beyond the horizon. On the edge of New Orleans—where flickering streetlamps cast long shadows and whispers of old magic clung to brick walls like moss—stood St. Anne Church. Its stained-glass windows cracked with age, ivy climbing up its rotting frame like nature trying to reclaim it.

Inside, the shadows danced with candlelight.

The altar had been stripped bare. The pews shoved aside. Where prayers once echoed now came only ragged breath and soft cries. Hayley Marshall lay atop a makeshift bed of crates and linens, her body slick with sweat, her dark hair plastered to her temples. Her jaw clenched with each contraction, every breath sharp and shallow. Her hands gripped the linen like it could tether her to this world.

And beside her stood Elijah Mikaelson—not the composed aristocrat known across centuries, but a man undone. His suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to the elbows, one hand hovering helplessly near hers, the other holding a damp cloth he'd long forgotten to use. His composure, his elegance, his control—they had all shattered the moment he realized he could lose her.

His expression was a fragile war between reverence and fear. He had faced gods, battled monsters, outlived nations. But nothing—not war, not time, not even death—had prepared him for this.

For her.

For their child.

"It was called a blood moon. Rare. Dangerous. Beautiful. My mom said the air that night was thick with magic—thicker than she'd ever felt. My dad said the world felt like it was holding its breath... waiting."

And then, I came.

A single cry pierced the humid air—sharp, fierce, and new. The church didn't shake with magic, but something more profound. Presence. As if the building, the bayou, the world itself had been waiting for this moment.

Elijah stepped forward, breath caught, lifting the tiny, crying creature wrapped in damp linen and raw potential. His eyes—so often cold and unreadable—filled with awe, terror, and a reverent kind of love. Hands bloodstained and trembling, he brushed his fingers against her cheek, and the child—Riley—quieted at once.

Across the room, Hayley stared through the haze of exhaustion. Her body trembled from the storm it had endured, but her eyes were clear, shining. She smiled—small, tired, radiant.

Her voice cracked as she whispered, "Riley. Riley Isabelle Labonair Mikaelson."

"They named me Riley. Riley Mikaelson. And yeah... that name carries a lot more weight than most people can handle."

A storm of memories unfolds—fragmented, raw, and unshakably intimate.

Hayley and Elijah fighting side by side in the French Quarter. Blood and moonlight streak across their skin. Her claws tear through enemies while he moves like a blade—precise, deadly, elegant. Their movements are in sync, almost instinctual. A pair forged not in love, but in fire.

A tense near-kiss behind the ruins of a burning compound. Smoke clings to their clothes, ash to their lashes. Hayley leans in, chest heaving, her lips parted. Elijah's hand hovers at her cheek—so close, trembling—but he stops. Always stops. The space between them burns hotter than any flame.

A shared glance across a battlefield, corpses at their feet, the city in chaos behind them. Blood splatters their faces, and for a moment, it looks like they'll crumble under the weight of it all. But then she nods—just once—and Elijah, jaw clenched and eyes full of silent devotion, nods back.

A quiet moment in a safehouse. Hayley sits against a wall, knees pulled up, a baby blanket folded in her lap. Elijah stands at the window, watching the street with haunted eyes. Then, without a word, he walks over and drapes his coat around her shoulders. She doesn't thank him. She doesn't need to. Their silence is the thank you.

"My parents weren't supposed to fall in love. Not really. She was a werewolf-turned-hybrid searching for her family, her place in the world. And him? He was... Elijah Mikaelson. The noble brother. The peacekeeper. The man who wore suits in the apocalypse, and carried the weight of the world like it was stitched into his shoulders."

FLASHBACK –
Hayley shoves Elijah during a heated argument—furious, protective, raw. He barely flinches, but she's in his face, her voice raised, accusing him of trying to control her life again. He snaps back, composed but cracking at the seams. They stare each other down. Tension thick. Her breathing ragged. His jaw tight.

Cut to later that same night.

They're quiet now. Hayley sits with her arm bloodied from the earlier battle. Elijah kneels before her, meticulously cleaning the wound. His fingers are gentle, reverent, the cloth moving slowly across her skin. He doesn't say a word. But the way he touches her—like she's sacred, like she's the last real thing in a world gone mad—says everything.

She watches him. And for once, doesn't look away.

"It wasn't easy. Nothing ever is when your bloodline is cursed and the past keeps trying to kill you. They were hunted, haunted, betrayed a hundred times over. But in the middle of war, and loss, and chaos... they found something rare. They found each other. And the crazy thing?"

"They kept choosing each other. Over and over again."

Back to the church. The stained glass glows as moonlight pours through in slanted, blood-red beams.

And beneath that cursed and sacred light, a child was born.

Riley Mikaelson.
Daughter of chaos and honor.
Of wolf and vampire.
Of two souls who were never meant to find each other... but did anyway.

"This is where it begins. My story. My name. My blood. And trust me—nothing about it has ever been ordinary."