Lyja Claire had never been one to seek the spotlight. She was a survivor, a fighter, someone who thrived in the shadows—unlike her younger sister Davina, whose powers had made her the center of attention in New Orleans' supernatural world. But as Lyja stepped off the Greyhound bus into the heart of the French Quarter, she felt an unmistakable shift in the air. This wasn't just a new beginning—it was the start of something bigger than she could have imagined.

The streets were alive with music and energy, tourists laughing and snapping photos, unaware of the dark, supernatural forces that governed the city. Lyja adjusted the strap of her worn leather bag, her gaze darting over the faces around her. She wasn't here for sightseeing. She was here to protect Davina—and maybe, just maybe, find a place for herself in this chaotic world.

Lyja's first stop was Rousseau's, the bustling bar where Davina said she could always find a friendly face. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Lyja was hit with the scent of alcohol and Cajun spices. Behind the bar stood Cami, blonde and beautiful, her sharp eyes softening as she spotted Lyja.

"You must be Lyja," Cami said warmly, wiping her hands on a rag. "Davina's told me about you. She's going to be thrilled you're here."

Lyja offered a small smile. "Thanks. Is she around?"

Cami shook her head. "Not right now, but I can call her. In the meantime, why don't you grab a drink? You look like you've been traveling forever."

As Lyja slid onto a barstool, her eyes wandered to the back of the room—and froze. A man stood there, tall and lean, his dark skin gleaming under the dim lights. He had a casual confidence about him, the kind that came from knowing he owned the room. Marcel Gerard. Davina had warned her about him, about his charm and his control over the vampires in the Quarter. But seeing him in person was something else entirely.

Marcel's gaze met hers, and for a moment, the rest of the bar faded away. He smiled, slow and deliberate, and began to walk toward her. Lyja's heart thudded in her chest, but she straightened her shoulders. She wasn't about to be intimidated.

"New in town?" Marcel asked, his voice smooth as silk.

"Something like that," Lyja replied, tilting her chin up. "I'm Lyja. Davina's sister."

Marcel's smile widened. "Ah, the infamous big sister. Davina's mentioned you. Didn't think you'd be so… striking."

Lyja rolled her eyes, though her cheeks warmed at the compliment. "Is that how you charm all the girls around here?"

"Only the interesting ones," Marcel said with a wink.

Before Lyja could respond, the bar door swung open, and the atmosphere shifted. Lyja turned to see another man enter—taller than Marcel, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to see straight through her. Klaus Mikaelson. The infamous hybrid.

Klaus's gaze flicked between her and Marcel, his lips curving into a sly smile. "Well, well. What have we here? Another Claire witch, gracing us with her presence."

Lyja stood, her pulse quickening as Klaus approached. "I'm not here to cause trouble," she said evenly. "Just here for Davina."

Klaus chuckled, his voice low and dangerous. "In this city, love, trouble has a way of finding you."

Marcel crossed his arms, his playful demeanor hardening. "She's with Davina. Leave her alone, Klaus."

Klaus raised an eyebrow. "Oh, don't be so possessive, Marcel. The girl can make her own decisions."

Lyja's eyes darted between the two men, their rivalry palpable. She could already feel the weight of their attention, the unspoken challenge in their words. It was a dangerous game they were playing—and now, she was caught in the middle.

Lyja took a step back, her voice steady despite the tension crackling in the air. "I don't need either of you fighting over me. I can handle myself."

Klaus smirked. "I like her already."

Marcel's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his gaze lingering on Lyja as she turned and walked toward the exit. She could feel their eyes on her as she stepped into the night, her heart pounding.

She'd come to New Orleans to protect Davina, but now it seemed she'd walked straight into a storm of her own. And as much as she wanted to keep her distance, a small part of her couldn't deny the thrill of being seen—truly seen—by two of the most powerful men in the city.

Lyja Claire had always been a survivor. But in the French Quarter, she would have to decide: was she a pawn, or was she ready to be a player in the game?