The Training Yard
Steel rang sharply through the courtyard.
Malik's blade clashed with Marcel's in a flurry of movement — unrefined, but fast. He was adapting. Reacting. Not quite in control.
Marcel blocked, twisted, and kicked Malik back a few paces. "Come on. You got fangs now — act like it."
"I'm still new to this," Malik muttered, circling again.
"Doesn't matter. You're in Klaus's city now. Weak don't last."
They came together again — a fury of steel and speed. Malik ducked a sweep, countered with a hard elbow, and then unleashed a pulse of stolen magic from his core. The air rippled. Marcel was thrown off his feet, skidding across the dirt.
He groaned, grinning as he sat up. "Okay. That one stung."
Klaus, watching from the upper balcony, gave a slow nod before calling down.
"He's sloppy, but he's learning."
Malik sheathed his blade. "You gonna keep watching or step in?"
Klaus descended with deliberate steps, holding a half-empty glass of blood. "You think you're ready for me, boy?"
"No," Malik said honestly. "But I don't fear you."
Klaus tilted his head, amused. "You should."
He looked at both of them now — Malik standing, chest heaving; Marcel leaning on his sword with ease.
"I built this city with blood and fire. Every inch of it cost me something. And I'm not handing it off to anyone. Not yet. But..." He looked at Malik. "I am watching."
The Courtyard – AfterMarcel approached Malik as he wiped the sweat and blood from his brow. "You're not bad. Little wild."
"Still adjusting."
"You ever fought before?"
"Only when I had to," Malik said. "Emily taught me magic. Not murder."
"You think this is murder?" Marcel asked, almost laughing. "This is survival. Around here, you don't wait to be hunted."
Malik glanced up at the skyline. "She always said New Orleans had teeth."
"She wasn't lying," Marcel replied. "Klaus runs this place, but people are always testing him. Us. Especially now that they know you're here."
"They already talking?"
"They're always talking."
The Quarter – NightMalik and Marcel moved through the Quarter — not as friends, but as two men learning to walk the same road. Klaus had sent them to investigate rumors: witches pushing forbidden spells, and a vampire going rogue near the docks.
Malik's senses twitched as they passed the apothecary district. The magic was thick here. Alive.
"You feel that?" Malik asked.
"Yeah," Marcel muttered. "Something's brewing."
They followed the source to a back room where five witches stood inside a runic circle, mid-chant.
Marcel kicked the door open.
The witches hissed, defensive spells rising fast — but Malik was faster. His siphoner instincts flared. The wards shattered as he pulled the energy into himself with an instinctive draw. His eyes flickered black for a moment.
One witch fired off a blast — flame, pure and hot.
Malik took the hit — then used it.
He spun it, redirected the force, and sent the fireball crashing through the far wall.
The room went still.
Malik stepped forward, his voice low. "This city belongs to Klaus Mikaelson. You do magic here, you answer to him."
The lead witch trembled. "What are you?"
"A Heretic," Malik said. "And I'm still learning."
Compound Balcony – LaterKlaus stood alone when they returned.
Malik dropped the name of the coven. Marcel described the skirmish.
"They tested us," Marcel finished, "but we put 'em in their place."
Klaus turned his attention to Malik. "So you can siphon from fire now?"
"I can siphon from anything" Malik replied.