The clearing reeked of blood and gasoline. The originals stood in a loose ring — backs to each other, fangs bared, chests heaving. Forty, maybe fifty enemies pressed in from every side. Witches chanting. Wolves snarling. Vampires grinning like they'd already won.

The enemy leader — a hulking vampire with a jagged blade — stepped forward, clearly savoring the moment.

Then the trees rustled.

Not with wind. With bodies. Dozens of shadows dropped from the branches above, landing in a perfect silent circle around the entire battlefield. The enemy froze. The chanting died. And then — she landed.

In the center of it all, her long black dress sweeping the blood-soaked ground, a blood-red hooded cloak hiding her face. Black curls spilled from the hood like ink. But Y/n didn't need to show her face. The moment her feet touched the earth, the screaming started.

They did. Or tried to. But Y/n's people were faster. The night turned to chaos — vampires and wolves and witches loyal to her cutting through the enemy like they were nothing.

Y/n lifted one hand, and he froze mid-step. Not by magic. By sheer terror. She lowered her hood slowly, and the moonlight caught the scar slicing across her eye — one eye violet, one eye blood red. The originals stared, rooted to the spot.

The battle was over in seconds. Y/n's people moved like a single living shadow, dragging survivors away into the trees, silencing every scream. And when the clearing fell quiet again, only the originals and Y/n remained. The cloak couldn't hide the swell of her belly.