Marcel found me three days later.
He looked... diminished. The confident king who'd ruled New Orleans for a century had become something smaller—a refugee in his own city, hiding from the monster he'd once called family.
"You survived," he said.
"So did you."
"Barely." He slumped against the wall of our hidden meeting place—a warehouse on the outskirts, far from Klaus's patrols. "My army is gone. My city is gone. Davina is..."
He couldn't finish.
"She's alive."
Marcel's head snapped up. "What?"
"I saved her. The Harvest took her body, but I preserved her soul. She's hidden somewhere safe." I watched understanding dawn on his face. "She's waiting for you. When you're ready."
"When I'm—" He pushed off the wall, crossing to me in seconds. "Where? Take me to her NOW."
"No."
The word hit him like a physical blow. "No? She's MY—"
"She's not your anything. She's a sixteen-year-old girl who's been used as a weapon her entire existence." I met his rage without flinching. "You'll see her when she's ready. When she's healed. When she's processed the fact that she DIED because of choices you and the witches made."
Marcel's hands clenched. For a moment, I thought he might attack—and in that moment, I calculated exactly how that fight would go.
He'd lose. Badly.
But the moment passed. His shoulders sagged.
"Is she okay?"
"She will be. With time. With support. With people who treat her like a person instead of a weapon." I stepped closer. "That can include you, Marcel. But only if you approach it differently. Only if you let her set the terms."
He absorbed this, processing through layers of grief and guilt and desperate hope.
"Take me to her," he said finally. "I won't... I'll let her decide. But I need to see her. Need to know she's real."
I considered this. The Marcel I'd observed over months of careful watching wasn't malicious—just desperate, shaped by a century of ruling through fear and loyalty. Could he change?
Only one way to find out.
"Follow me."
---
The safehouse was deep in the Bayou—a cabin I'd prepared weeks ago, warded with magic from three different realities. Davina sat on the porch, painting, when we emerged from the trees.
She looked up. Saw Marcel. Froze.
"Hey, kid." Marcel's voice cracked. "I hear you've been through hell."
Davina's brush clattered to the porch. She stood slowly, like she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing.
"You came."
"Of course I came." He moved toward her, stopping a respectful distance away. "I should have come sooner. Should have protected you better. Should have—"
"Shut up."
Marcel blinked.
Davina crossed the distance between them and threw her arms around him. He caught her, held her, buried his face in her hair.
"I died," she whispered. "It hurt. And I was so scared."
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in each other, while I watched from the tree line and considered the weight of what I'd done.
I'd saved her. Changed the timeline irrevocably. Klaus would notice eventually—the Harvest had failed to produce the ancestral power he'd expected. Questions would be asked.
But that was future Paradox's problem.
Present Paradox had a girl to protect and a city to watch burn.
Life was good.
---