An Original On Sight
Lyra had thrown herself into research, mainly because the alternative was dwelling on the fact that a broody, self-important vampire had mistaken her for some long-lost lover. That was not going to happen. Nope. She had better things to do—like figuring out why in Morgana’s name her great-aunt had abandoned the Black family and decided to set up shop in Mystic Freaking Falls of all places.
And, oh, what a revelation that had been. Cassiopeia Black, the rebellious great-aunt of Sirius Black, had not only cut ties with her darling pureblood relatives but had also co-founded one of the illustrious founding families of this charmingly cursed little town. Because, clearly, running away and making dramatic life choices was something embedded in Black family DNA.
Honestly, it was almost a tradition at this point. One Black per generation had to go rogue—it was practically a rite of passage. Cassiopeia had been the first, then good old Uncle Alford. Then Andromeda, and, of course, the reigning champion of family disappointment: Sirius Black himself. Really, she should have expected it. The moment a Black child developed enough brain cells to question their parents' nonsense, they either got blasted off the family tree or made a run for it.
But as much as she loved dissecting her family’s historic habit of rebellion, she had better things to focus on. For example, the joys of Muggle school.
She had, in a moment of what could only be described as questionable decision-making, decided to attend orientation. Just to see what she was getting into. And, oh, what an experience it had been. The academic content was so stimulating—if stimulating meant designed for people with the intelligence of a flobberworm. She supposed it was fine for the average Muggle teenager, but she wasn’t exactly an average anything. Honestly, she was just here for some stability, maybe some entertainment, and—if she was really lucky—a break from the absolute madness that had been her life thus far.
And speaking of entertainment, there was the upcoming derby. Now that was something worth getting excited about. A nearby town was hosting, and of course, the Black family's horses were expected to dominate. Because, naturally, even their horses had to be superior.
One of her own steeds, Ipocus—Ipocus for short—was an absolute masterpiece of an animal. Dark brown, nearly black, with a pale-blond mane that practically glowed under the sun. He was fast, strong, and had the personality of a nobleman who was deeply unimpressed by the peasants around him.
Much like his rider, really.
She was looking forward to it. A good, old-fashioned horse race. No vampires. No mistaken identities. No existential crises about her family’s generational talent for drama. Just her, her horse, and the sheer, unbridled thrill of the race.
At least, that was the plan. But knowing her life? She wasn’t holding her breath.
Elijah Mikaelson had always enjoyed the quiet elegance of a well-bred horse and the thrill of a race. So when he found himself passing through a small town near Mystic Falls—Whitemore Lake, to be precise—and heard whispers of a derby taking place, well… the old-fashioned gentleman in him simply could not resist.
Derbies held a certain charm, a nod to a time when nobility and skill mattered more than brute force. And, if he were being honest, there was a certain satisfaction in watching expectations crumble when an underdog proved everyone wrong. Not that he often admitted to such indulgences.
As he stepped onto the derby grounds, he immediately drew attention. A noble lord in both presence and manner, of course people would look. He was used to it. He barely acknowledged it. What did catch his attention, however, was the distinct lack of supernatural beings in the area.
Curious.
Just as the thought crossed his mind, a small child suddenly darted past him. Instinctively, he shifted, avoiding a full collision—but something in the child's presence stirred something within him.
And then, barely a heartbeat later, she followed.
A young woman, no older than eighteen, brushed past him in pursuit of the child, their shoulders barely grazing. But the touch—that touch—was a shock to his system, a current of something electric running through him. It was enough to make him pause, to take in the briefest impression of her.
Her attire spoke volumes. The polished hair, the smooth silk of her dress—clearly weighted at the hem, an intelligent adjustment for the windy day—and the impeccably placed derby hat. Every inch of her screamed nobility. Not the gaudy, attention-seeking kind, but the real kind. The kind woven into one's very presence.
For the briefest second, their eyes met. Emerald green—bright, sharp, alive.
And then she was gone, chasing after the boy.
Mother? Guardian? No, she seemed too young for the first, too refined for the second. A sister, perhaps?
Before he could linger on the thought, the horses were brought out.
And just like that, he forced himself to look away from the mystery wrapped in silk and precision. The horses were the reason he was here, after all.
But still… that spark.
Interesting.
The bets were beginning, voices rising with the usual mix of excitement and overconfidence. Elijah listened idly, already unimpressed. The crowd favorite was Nightstar—of course it was. A swift young steed with energy to spare but all the experience of a newborn fawn.
Humans. Always enamored with potential over proven skill.
Elijah allowed himself the briefest sigh before turning his attention to the other competitors, letting his gaze drift over each horse with practiced ease. And then, one in particular caught his eye.
Ipocus of Ravensmoor.
Ah. Now that was a name he hadn’t thought of in quite some time.
Elijah leaned back slightly, letting the ghost of a memory wash over him. Cassiopeia Black. Her wild, wicked smile, the way her raven locks always seemed to move even when there was no wind, those steely grey eyes that could cut through any deception he attempted.
Even now, the thought of her sent the faintest shiver down his spine.
Few knew the truth, but Cassiopeia had been one of the rare women who had truly captivated him. And unlike most, she had not been the one chasing after him. No—if anything, she had been the fleeting one. Slipping through his fingers like sand, like mist, like something never meant to be caught.
And yet, here he was, still remembering.
Elijah exhaled sharply, dragging himself out of the past and back into the present. The horses. The race. That was why he was here.
He refocused on Ipocus.
Now that was a horse worthy of his attention. He was built like a war stallion—strong, muscular, carrying the kind of scars that spoke not of careless injury, but of experience. Whether from actual battle or the foolish high-society duels the wealthy liked to entertain themselves with, one thing was clear: this horse had seen things.
That made him valuable.
Without hesitation, Elijah placed his bet.
"500 on Ipocus."
Let the fools waste their money on potential. Elijah knew better. Experience always won in the end.
The moment those words reached Lyra’s ears, her focus shifted.
"500 on Ipocus."
That alone was surprising enough—given that the crowd had all but dismissed her steed as a lost cause—but it was the man who had spoken that truly caught her attention.
She ensured that Teddy was still engrossed in the event before tilting her head slightly, angling herself just enough to listen in on the conversation unfolding behind her.
"Are you sure about Ipocus, Mr. Mikaelson?" came a skeptical voice. "That steed, though powerful, seems to be an old one."
"Many things are older than they seem, Mr. Nigel," Mikaelson responded smoothly, his tone carrying a weight that made even casual words sound like something far more deliberate.
"And old doesn’t always necessarily mean weak. The older, the wiser, the stronger. And this one doesn’t seem to be particularly old or particularly fresh as a form. But your crowd favorite does. So instead of bothering about my choices, you should take a look at yours."
That earned him a smirk from Lyra.
Oh, finally. Someone with a functioning brain.
She turned then, not in an obvious way, but just enough to get a proper look at this Mikaelson.
And bloody hell, he was something.
Not in the way most pureblood men carried themselves—stiff with centuries of etiquette weighing down their very bones—but in a way that was utterly effortless. His suit, dark and tailored, fit him with the kind of precision that suggested wealth, but it was the way he wore it that set him apart. The air of someone who had power, had always had power, and never needed to prove it.
And yet, none of that was what truly unsettled her.
No.
The real reason her breath hitched, just for the briefest of moments, was because she knew exactly what he was.
Undead.
A vampire.
And not just any vampire—his very presence was steeped in something ancient, something that made the air around him feel heavier, charged with an energy that Lyra had felt only once before in her life.
When she had brushed past him earlier, chasing after Teddy.
She should have known.
She had known.
And yet, facing him now, there was something unsettling about the way he carried himself. No fangs, no obvious tells, just a man who blended into high society so well that one might forget the predator lurking beneath.
But Lyra was no fool.
She let none of this show, keeping her expression composed as a flicker of amusement curved her lips.
"I didn’t expect to meet someone with such wise eyes, Mr. Mikaelson."
He turned to her then, his gaze meeting hers with something almost unreadable. There, for a fraction of a second, something shifted in his expression.
Recognition?
Interest?
It was gone before she could place it, replaced instead by a slow, knowing smile.
And just like that, Lyra knew one thing for certain.
This was going to be trouble.
bones, recognition slammed into Elijah Mikaelson with the force of a forgotten storm.
This was her.
The young lady who had brushed past him earlier, the one who had sent an electric current rushing through his body like a candle flickering to life in a long-darkened chamber. The one who, for the first time in centuries, had made him think of Cassiopeia.
His Cassiopeia.
Without hesitation, the gentleman in him took over. Graceful as ever, he reached for her hand, barely allowing himself to touch her skin as he lifted it. Her right hand, the delicate knuckles kissed by silk gloves, was warm beneath his lips.
A kiss, chaste and yet not—a mark of reverence, a whisper of something ancient.
Then, as he straightened, his gaze locked onto hers.
Green.
Not just any green, but a shade so rich, so utterly alive, it was as though the very essence of nature had been woven into her irises. Sharp, startling, dangerous—like a blade dipped in emerald fire.
And, with a voice as smooth as the finest aged wine, he murmured, "And I have now met somebody with eyes as startling as yours."
Not a flicker of hesitation.
Not even a breath between them before she responded, her lips curling ever so slightly. "The only people my eyes startle are those that belong to people with something to hide. Something buried deep within the confines of their souls… or their undead, unbeating hearts."
Ah.
There she is.
His amusement deepened, an ache of something almost fond pressing against his ribs. Clever girl.
His eyes—once merely observing—now truly raked over her, cataloging every exquisite detail with the practiced gaze of a man who had spent lifetimes in the company of aristocrats, yet never quite touched by them.
She was… art.
Not in the way mortals threw the word around, but in the way a sculptor saw the veins in marble before the first cut was ever made. A Greek tragedy made flesh, draped in deliberate elegance.
The polished hair, so dark it could have been raven’s feathers catching the light. The silken dress, its hem likely weighed against the wind—practical, intelligent. And then the hat, positioned with the kind of ease only a woman who knew her power could carry.
And beneath it all… something feral.
A pulse of magic hummed between them where his fingers lingered on hers. Not raw and untempered, but deep, old—like something that had survived.
A witch.
A wand-wielder.
And not just any.
"You would, of course, know all about undead, unbeating hearts, wouldn't you?" His voice dipped lower, amusement curling at its edges. "After all, you did rise from the dead twice, little Miss Saviour of the Magical World."
The reaction was instant.
The crackle of irritation in her aura. The way her fingers, previously still in his hold, twitched.
And then—yanked back.
"It’s My Lady. Or Duchess Black. Or Your Grace, to you, Mr. Original Vampire."
Ah.
The bite.
The venom beneath the silk.
Cassiopeia had had that too. That cutting edge, the ability to wield words as finely as a dagger slipped between ribs.
His smirk was almost instinctual.
So, this is what has become of the House of Black.
For the first time in a long, long while, Elijah Mikaelson was intrigued.