The Abomination's Awakening

The soft flicker of candlelight danced around the dimly lit room, casting shadows that swirled in the corners as she meticulously arranged her notes on the aged oak table. The scent of exotic spices filled the air, mingling with the fragrant herbs she had harvested just that morning. It was a comforting symphony of scents, her sanctuary amid chaos. She bared her soul to the world—not in want of validation, but in the constant need to prove that she existed, against all odds. To the witch community, she was an abomination, a floare, a creature they could never truly understand. Yet here she sat, surrounded by parchment covered in her intricate spells, her fingers sliding across the keys of her piano as she played a gentle sonata, lost in the rhythm that resonated through her very being. "Why do you always insist on keeping yourself locked away like a sepulchral secret, love?" a voice teased, breaking her concentration, followed by a familiar chuckle that sent her heart fluttering against her will. Kol Mikaelson leaned against the doorframe, his casual elegance undeniably infuriating and alluring all at once. His dark hair fell carelessly over his forehead, framing the mischief glinting in his eyes. Her lips curled into a smirk, her well-practiced jibe at the ready. "Some of us prefer solitude over your incessant charm, Kol. Unlike you, I don't need an audience to feel validated." He sauntered in, his presence filling the room as he took a seat across from her. "Solitude? Or are you just scared of being outsmarted?" She arched an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Smartest in the room and three steps ahead, remember? I’m not the one who needs to rely on charm to win over crowds." Kol leaned in closer, the playful banter dissolving into a heavier undercurrent. "Is that why you keep your powers hidden? Because you think it makes you more… relatable?" His voice dropped, his curiosity piqued by the veil she maintained. The smile faded from her lips, replaced by the strength of her resolve. "The world doesn’t want to understand a witch like me. They don't want to see what I can do. They just fear it. It’s easier to label me as an abomination than accept that I exist beyond their narrow perceptions." Kol's expression shifted slightly, a flicker of understanding flashing in his eyes. "Your power is something to be respected, not feared. You’re far beyond anything they can comprehend. You broke my curse, remember? You held it all together when it seemed everything would fall apart." She met his gaze, a mixture of gratitude and defiance sparking between them. "And what do I get for it? Exiled and scorned, living in the shadows of jealousy and spite. It’s just us now, Kol, and sometimes I wonder how long even that will last." His demeanor softened. "You know you’re not alone, don’t you? You’re the strongest among us, the one who understands history like no other. You’ve carved out your place even when they denied you." Their moment was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Rebekah, her voice bright and teasing. "What are you two plotting now? I hope it doesn’t involve more of those dreadful spells of yours, dear sister." Rolling her eyes, she chuckled lightly. "Nothing that concerns you, Bekah. Just the usual banter with the resident troublemaker." With a dramatic sigh, Rebekah sank into a chair, her eyes sparkling with intrigue. "You two are delightful, but let’s cut to the chase. The town is buzzing with rumors. Something wicked this way comes, and I dare say we will need all the firepower we can assemble." Her stomach clenched in a mixture of anticipation and dread. The calm before the storm was always the worst part. And here, no matter how lowkey she stayed, her abilities were bound to come into play once again. Kol caught her eye, the spark of shared understanding lighting up the air between them once more. In that moment, she felt the weight of her mantle as the most powerful creature alive settle around her shoulders. And amidst the shadows that sought to exile her, she — the abomination, the floare — would forge her own path, even if it meant stepping into the ring once more.