Eiffel Tower – Night
The wind was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of rain yet to fall. From up here, the city stretched out like a sea of golden lights, a quiet hum beneath the towering structure. Paris was alive, pulsing with stories, with moments stolen in time.
And yet, for once, none of it mattered to him.
Silas stood at the edge of the Eiffel Tower's highest platform, hands in the pockets of his fitted black suit. His dark eyes traced the skyline, but his thoughts were miles—centuries—away. The weight that had pressed on his soul for so long, the chains of a curse that refused to let him love, to let him exist freely, had finally been shattered.
Behind him, the click of heels against metal echoed in the night.
He didn't have to turn. He knew who it was.
A soft, almost hesitant voice reached him. "It still feels unreal."
Silas smiled faintly before glancing over his shoulder.
Amara.
She stood there in a flowing red dress, fabric hugging her form before cascading down like liquid fire. The wind toyed with strands of her long dark hair, pushing them across her face. Her deep brown eyes held something fragile—like a dream she was afraid to wake up from.
He turned fully now, facing her. "It is."
She exhaled a small laugh, stepping closer. "You're not helping."
He smirked, reaching out. She took his hand without hesitation, fingers intertwining with his. It was warm. Real. No more illusions, no more tricks.
No more pain.
For centuries, they had been cursed, separated by fate, by time, by forces beyond their control. She had been trapped as the Anchor to the Other Side, burdened with the weight of lost souls, unable to find peace. He had been entombed, buried alive, left to rot with nothing but the echo of her name in his mind.
And then—
Ivar came.
His doppelgänger, the one who should've been an enemy, had been the one to set everything in motion.
Years Ago – The Other Side Ritual
The Travellers had resisted at first.
"Do you think we'd hand over our strongest binding spell to a mere copy of Silas?" one of them had sneered, eyes flickering with power. "Amara stays the Anchor. That is our decree."
Ivar hadn't been fazed.
He had simply smiled.
That smile.
Calm. Unshaken. The kind that made even the most powerful beings second-guess their own convictions.
"She's not staying the Anchor," Ivar had said, hands tucked into his pockets, voice as smooth as silk. "And you're going to help us fix that."
The Travellers refused. At first.
Until they didn't.
Because persuasion, in Ivar's case, wasn't a request. It was an inevitability.
They found something—someone—to replace Amara. An eternal creature, a vampire whose name had long since faded from history. They bound the Other Side to him instead, imprisoning him in a place where time didn't move, where existence was neither life nor death.
Amara was free.
Silas was free.
And Ivar?
He had simply walked away, leaving them to their long-awaited reunion.
Present – Eiffel Tower
"You never told me why he did it," Amara murmured, watching the city below. "Ivar. He had nothing to gain from helping us."
Silas hummed, considering. "Maybe he just wanted to see if he could."
She turned to him, arching a brow. "That simple?"
He chuckled. "With him? Yeah."
Ivar was an enigma. Always had been. Whatever his reasons, whatever game he was playing—it didn't matter.
What mattered was that, after centuries of running, of suffering, of losing each other over and over again—
They had won.
Silas lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss against her knuckles. "This time, it's real."
Amara searched his eyes, as if looking for cracks in the dream. She found none.
Her lips parted, a breath of disbelief escaping before she laughed. A real, beautiful laugh.
And then—
She kissed him.
Deep, slow, lingering.
A kiss that didn't taste like desperation or stolen time.
A kiss that tasted like forever.
Paris shimmered around them. The world moved on, unaware of the two ancient souls standing above it, claiming a happiness they had been denied for far too long.
For the first time in eternity—
They were just Silas and Amara.
No curses. No gods. No war.
Just love.
Silas turned to Amara, his lips parting as if to say something, but—
"Sorry to ruin your little romantic moment, but I have something to tell you."
The voice was deep, rough with age, but steady.
Silas stiffened. He knew that voice.
Slowly, he turned—and there he was.
An old man stood a few feet away, draped in a long black coat, his presence almost unnatural in how still he was. His face was lined with time, but his eyes burned with something ancient. Something powerful.
Amara instinctively moved closer to Silas, her fingers tightening around his arm.
Silas exhaled, his expression darkening. "Orpheus."
The name felt foreign on his tongue after so long, but there was no mistaking him. Orpheus—one of the two vampires Ivar had brought with him all those years ago, when they stormed the island and shattered the cure.
The ancient vampire smirked, his sharp features barely shifting. "It's been a long time, Silas."
Silas narrowed his eyes. "Why are you here?"
Orpheus stepped forward, his boots clicking softly against the metal floor. "Because we heard whispers." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "Your old flame is back."
The words hung in the air like a storm cloud.
Silas didn't move. Didn't even blink.
Orpheus continued, his voice low. "Qetsiyah. The rumors were true. She's alive. And she's coming to finish what she started."
Amara inhaled sharply, her grip on Silas tightening.
Silas clenched his jaw.
He had known peace for only a short time. And now, just like that—
It was over.
Back to Mystic Falls
"None of my kids would help me so I leave it to you, Alaric Saltzman, awaken and help me get rid of my children, and rid the world of the curse I brought on them."