Miriam felt the woman’s gaze cut through her like a blade — sharp, and heavy with accusation. The words landed slow: ❝ This whole time, and you didn’t say a word? ❞ There was no real surprise in her tone, only the satisfaction of someone who had just uncovered a secret that was meant to stay buried.
The woman wasn’t asking out of curiosity. No, this was a challenge, a carefully aimed jab designed to unsettle her, to crack open the walls Miriam had built so carefully around herself. She wanted to stir the pot, to throw everything into chaos and watch what spilled out. And Miriam was the perfect target — quiet, guarded, weighed down by secrets she’d never dared to share.
Miriam remembered the late nights, the stolen moments when she’d watched the woman from afar — always so confident, so fearless. Now, here she was, standing too close, her voice low but sharp, like she enjoyed the power of holding that truth over her head.
Why had the woman said it? Because she knew. She knew that Miriam had been carrying something too heavy to speak aloud. She knew the silence wasn’t ignorance or denial, but a choice — a shield forged from pain, fear, and perhaps a deep-rooted hope that if she kept quiet, the past might stay buried forever.
The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. Miriam felt a rush of something she hadn’t expected — anger, maybe, or defiance. She could feel the woman waiting for a crack, a slip, any sign of weakness. But Miriam held herself still, letting the silence stretch, thick and suffocating between them.
Because sometimes silence was a weapon, sharper than any confession. Sometimes, saying nothing spoke louder than words ever could. And in that moment, she realized the woman wasn’t just stirring the pot — she was daring her to burn it down.
˙ ˖ ✧・* @heiliqe slides a knight into play ─── plotted starter
The hood was lifted from his head, releasing Stiles from the darkness he’d been plunged into. However, the lighting around him remained dim, pupils barely constricting as he let his gaze wander, taking in his new surroundings. They had forced him into a chair—Stiles remembered the pressure on his shoulders when he didn’t comply fast enough. Even with the hands on him gone, the tension of the moment still lingered. The air was thick with it, circumstances made worse by the fact that the room Stiles found himself in was windowless. Dangling above the table, a single lightbulb struggled to combat the consequential lack of natural light, casting a flickering glow across the room. Stiles’ inquisitive gaze skittered along the bleak walls, eyes straining as he struggled to make out what material they were made of. Stone, maybe? It was hard to tell.
“So, what is this place? Some kind of bunker?” Neither of the two men guarding the door stirred at Stiles’ question. He might just as well not have spoken at all. Taking in their faces, Stiles found they didn’t look unkind, despite their refusal to acknowledge him. The man to his left still gripped the hood that he’d removed from Stiles’ head in both hands, and though he was staring blankly ahead, Stiles thought to recognize a kindness to his eyes, their corners slightly wrinkled. Like he’d spent many years laughing freely. His equally mute counterpart—a tall, broad-shouldered blonde with a hand resting lightly on his gun—looked hardened in comparison, his features dulled by years of survival. Yet, neither struck Stiles as cruel. He knew cruelty when he saw it.
“Oh-kay,” he drawled, clicking his tongue. “Tough crowd, I see.” In the silence that followed, Stiles’ fingers started drumming a nervous rhythm against the tabletop, appreciating its smooth surface underneath his calloused fingertips.
That morning, when Jasper poked his head of messy black hair into his room, Stiles’ attention barely strayed from his current project.
Ration cards were among the easiest to forge but also carried the highest risk of exposure. Stiles wasn’t picky when it came to the people he worked with. Free choice of customers was a luxury he’d never been able to afford. He mostly dealt with smugglers, but his clientele ranged anywhere from other survivors to a mere few corrupt FEDRA soldiers. Over the years, Stiles had come to know his clientele well. At least well enough to know that a shockingly high number of them would not hold up well under pressure, and should they ever be caught with one of his forgeries there was no doubt in his mind that they’d rat him out, no questions asked, if it meant saving themselves. How could he blame them? All was fair in war and survival. At the end of the day, his clients didn’t owe him anything. They were barely more than strangers after all, bound together solely by the weight of their shared secret. So all Stiles could do to minimize the risk of being found out was make sure that his forgeries were immaculate.
“Got something for you,” Jasper had teased, trying to garner Stiles’ attention. Who had even let him in? Usually, Owen hadn’t allowed the smuggler past the gate. Their leader, much like the rest of the settlement, wanted nothing to do with Stiles’ business, knowing that even condoning it on their campgrounds implicated them in his crimes.
“Yeah?” Still refusing to look up, Stiles had humored Jasper, though his voice remained flat, void of any real interest. “What’s that?”
“One of my contacts claims she’s got some information for you.”
Years ago, those words would have sent Stiles spinning in his chair, eyes wide with hope—they had, in fact, done so more times than he could count. The first time Jasper had returned from one of his tours to the nearest quarantine zone, proclaiming that a FEDRA contact had extracted a location from travel permits of people being moved between QZs, Stiles had nearly hugged the smuggler in a burst of joy. And he’d never been a hugger. How painfully naive he’d been. Whether the FEDRA soldier had lied or he’d simply been wrong about the location, Stiles would never know. But the tip hadn’t panned out. None of them had. And each failed mission had chipped away at him, smothering what had once been an easily ignited flame of hope until only dying embers remained.
Still, Stiles had finally glanced up at Jasper—worn down by years of hoping against hope, but nevertheless steadfast in his resolution not to give up. Not yet.
“What does she want in return?” In this world, every interaction was a transaction. The New Haven settlement had taken Stiles in because he’d proven useful to them, volunteering easily when it came to scouting missions in search of food, medical supplies, essentially anything they needed. But soon after, his forgeries had strained whatever tentative relationship might have formed between Stiles and the other members, and he was acutely aware that they only tolerated his persistent presence around camp because they needed him. He and Jasper got along well enough, but Stiles wouldn’t go so far as to call them friends. Allies, maybe, but even that title he would only use tentatively, too aware that Jasper, too, could betray him at every turn. Every meaningful relationship Stiles had ever known had crumbled along with society’s collapse.
Jasper had scratched the back of his head and leaned against the doorframe, shrugging. “Hell if I know. Lady said she wouldn’t talk to anyone but you directly.”
That, finally, piqued Stiles’ interest. It was highly unusual for his clients to request dealing with him directly, which is why he relied so heavily on Jasper to distribute the forgeries amongst his wide network of contacts. Stiles usually paid him in forged travel permits, allowing Jasper to smuggle goods—or people—illegally out of quarantine zones while simultaneously spreading word and collecting information to then transport back to Stiles. For Jasper’s contact to be willing to meet with Stiles directly had intrigued him enough to agree to the meeting, despite not having high hopes that the information the woman claimed to have would be anything substantial.
So Jasper had taken him, leading with confidence as they departed from the settlement and set out for their journey that had led them a couple of miles north. Stiles had spent every step of the way prodding and probing Jasper for information about his contact, but hadn’t been able to extract much beyond a name from him. Lucrezia.
Withholding information was uncharacteristic for Jasper, who—much like Stiles—could talk for hours just to hear himself. The shift unsettled him, a tight knot forming in his stomach as unanswered questions piled up. What wasn’t Jasper telling him? Why wasn’t he telling him? Because he didn’t know himself? Or because there was something else at play here?
When they’d stopped just short of a clearing and two men had stepped out of the shadows of the surrounding low-hanging branches, one with a black hood in hand, Stiles had had enough. Despite Jasper’s protests that he knew these guys, that they were to be trusted—a point at which Stiles had straight up laughed at him, head shaking in utter disbelief—Stiles had verbally fought tooth and nail against having them put the hood over his head. He couldn’t care less where their lair was located, and would be hard-pressed to find anyone to reveal the location to even if he wanted to. Stiles may be many things. But he was neither a traitor, nor was he a rat. “Whatever you’ve got going on, whatever shady underground bullshit you’re part of, you’re not putting that thing on me. Over my dead freaking body.”
In the end, it had been Jasper’s unwavering insistence that made Stiles cave. He might not trust Jasper completely, but Jasper clearly believed in Lucrezia’s claim—and that was enough to make him reconsider. Even if they weren’t—and never would be—friends, Jasper was the closest thing to a confidant Stiles had. So for Jasper to be so sure of Lucrezia’s word… it had to count for something. Begrudgingly, Stiles had reined in his strongly-worded protest, merely sparing Jasper one last curse muttered under his breath as the hood was pulled over his tousled hair.
While Stiles had been lost in thought, mentally retracing the steps that had led him here, the guards by the door had taken up whispering to each other—but the low mumbling of voices was abruptly interrupted by the door swinging open, hinges creaking audibly with the effort. Immediately, Stiles’ shoulders tensed. His eyes tracked every measured step as Lucrezia entered the room.
It wasn’t the dark hair or her striking features that held his attention. She had a certain aura about her—subtle, quiet, yet unmistakable. An air of power surrounded her, silencing the room as she entered, muffled conversations freezing in quiet respect. Stiles, too, stilled when Lucrezia stepped in front of him, though less in awe. The power she wielded unsettled him—too much of it rested in her hands, and not nearly enough in his. But he reminded himself that she needed something from him, too—which meant he wasn’t entirely powerless. Stiles shifted forward, forearms braced on the table as he met Lucrezia’s gaze. “So. Word is, you’ve got information for me?”
"you have an odd way of showing up at the absolute worst of times. is that intentional, or purely accidental?" the tone of sebastian's voice is sharpened with slight annoyance, but most of it fades by the time he finds @heiliqe's eyes and acknowledges her with a nod. how inopportune. one minute he's on the nearby rooftop, rifle in hand, following through with a required assignment... and the next he's staring down the scope and into the eyes of a good friend. this was a terrible mistake. "did you know i was up there?" sebastian jabs his thumb over his shoulder, directing lucrezia's attention to the tall structure he'd climbed just for this failed mission. it looms above them like a portent, like a warning in the haze of his periphery. "you saw me. you must have. you stared me down like you knew i was up there. why are they..." hearing footsteps, sebastian guides his old friend away from the open space and into a tucked away corridor for privacy. "who's after you? you were my target tonight — you're very lucky to be alive."
“ tanti auguri , fra . here's to you and many more years of you being the insufferable middle child . — con amore , ezia . " ( sent by letter because lucrezia is an old soul and hatesss smartphones )
stefan's ( belated ) birthday messages from friday.
he reads the letter she wrote him, eyes rolling at the insufferable middle child part but he shakes his head with a chuckle. he grabs a piece of paper & a pen to reply to her letter.
grazie per gli auguri di compleanno, sorella. however, if anyone in this family is insufferable it's damon, we both know that. i hope to see you soon, luc. come by mystic falls, mi manchi.
— stefano.
It didn't take a witch to realise that the woman who had entered his shop was anything but average. Her presence filled the room in a way that only sunlight usually did. It met his own and seemed to feel recognised rather than threatened. Involuntarily, he had watched her silently as her disinterested face scanned the room, keeping a distance from the objects and ingredients that made her and him wonder what had brought her here in the first place. Her elegance contrasted with the village she had come to and was not much different from him. But it was not her striking appearance or her self-assured presence that made his gaze linger, but the deeper meaning of her being. Humanity had an inherent neutrality to it, which most things harboured. There was nothing inherently wrong with that, and Zeev would be the last person to condemn so-called ‘normality’. There could be something wondrous in everything. In her case, however, it was as palpable as it was tangible, but it didn't have a name. And that piqued his interest. As he watched her, his ringed fingers moved over the rim of his teacup, warm and tingling. The electrifying anticipation of being on the trail of a new insight revitalised him and drew him out of the monotony of his isolated life. It was not as if Zeev possessed clairvoyant abilities. The thoughts of a human - or any being in this case - remained locked behind the walls of the mind, yet it was possible, despite careful caution, to trace a glimpse or two between the cracks in the stonework to get an inkling of what lay behind her immaculate brow.
Uncertainty, not in her personality, but in her intentions, emerged and carried out fragments that revealed more than she had probably wanted. Pain, sadness, uncertainty, the search for answers to questions that she couldn't possibly find, but tried anyway. And somewhere, in the brief eye contact, Zeev recognised a grief not too dissimilar to his own. Loss.
Her Italian accent did not hide the fact that she was no stranger to English. It made him smile good-naturedly. Slowly, he rose and stepped around the rustic counter, smoothing his high-waisted trousers as he went, leaning against the wood instead, his feet crossed at the ankles. He braced himself on the edge of the counter with his hands. "Oh, I don't," he clarified. "Your thoughts are yours to keep, dear, but I know grief when I see it. You wear it like that fine dress of yours. Considering your reaction, you are aware of it." Tilting his head, he scrutinised her closely, his brow furrowing faintly. "Grief and sorrow aren't necessary if, whatever has struck that deep in you, had been intentional. Loss hardly ever is. Looking for answers in reasons why is bound to tear scars that are hard to cover. It just needs the right pair of eyes to spot it."
Bonnie stood alone in the cemetery, her red hair glimmering softly in the muted light of the setting sun. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and fallen leaves, and a chill breeze swept through, tugging at the edges of her cloak. Her amber eyes, wide with a mixture of curiosity and unease, were fixed on the headstone before her.
Bonnie McCullough.
The letters were etched into the stone as if they had been there for decades, weathered by time but still unmistakable. It was eerie, standing in front of her own grave, a grave she knew she hadn’t earned, and yet, here it was. She had visited this spot every day for the past week, each time hoping she would find an answer to why this gravestone bore her name, her exact name.
But the cemetery remained silent, offering no clues.
Bonnie knelt, her fingers lightly grazing the cold stone, the carved letters sending a strange shiver down her spine. "Who put this here?" she murmured under her breath, the question lost in the emptiness of the cemetery. She felt an odd pull to this place, a tug she couldn’t explain, and it both intrigued and unnerved her.
As she rose to her feet, brushing the dirt from her hands, she suddenly sensed another presence behind her. Before she could react, a voice, calm and deliberate, pierced the quiet.
"Why does that grave have your name on it?"
Bonnie froze, her heart skipping a beat as she turned slowly. Standing a few feet away was a woman she had never seen before. Dark hair framed her sharp features, and her eyes held an intensity that Bonnie couldn’t quite place. There was something enigmatic about her, something that made Bonnie’s chest tighten.
Bonnie swallowed, her soft, friendly demeanor taking over despite the strangeness of the situation. "I. . ." She hesitated, glancing back at the headstone as if it might suddenly offer some revelation. "I wish I knew." Her voice was quiet, tinged with a bit of nervousness, but still open and trusting. "I’ve been coming here for days, trying to understand why my name is here. . . but I’ve never found any answers. It's unsettling, to say the least."
The woman’s gaze never wavered, and Bonnie couldn’t tell if it was concern, suspicion, or something else that flickered in her eyes.
"I’m Bonnie," she continued, trying to ease the tension between them. "And, well, I’m pretty sure I’m not dead." She let out a small, awkward laugh, the strangeness of the situation hanging heavily in the air. "Do you. . . know anything about it?" She had to, right? How else would she know that it was Bonnie's name on the tombstone?
He glanced over at the dark-haired woman he hadn't often met. She was one of the Salvatore children who had stayed out of Mystic Falls' affairs and made a name for herself elsewhere. Independent of her family. And yet she was one of them. Family was forever. Elijah couldn't help but admire her for her ambition.
"At least one person agrees with me about how entertaining I am," he replies to her words with a grin. It didn't reach his dark eyes. But there was more burning on his tongue.
"But to be sure, on what points exactly, Lucrezia?"
