Chapter 9

Chapter 9: BloodBrothers

The dimly lit room smelled of dust, aged wood, and vervain—a mix of old world charm and the pungency of their secret war. Candles flickered on the table as the members of the Founder's Council gathered in the Salvatore boarding house. It was 2006, but for the families assembled here, time often felt as though it stood still. For over a century, their ancestors had waged a hidden war, and today was yet another step in that long journey.

Grayson Gilbert sat near the head of the table, his steely eyes scanning the room. His brother, Sam, leaned in the far corner, arms crossed, brooding silently. They rarely exchanged more than glances these days, especially after Grayson took it upon himself to protect the family's interests above everything else, even their own blood. Sam's disappointment in his brother's choices festered like a raw wound, though he rarely voiced it aloud.

Zach Salvatore, a distant cousin of the infamous brothers, stepped forward, setting a box on the table. "This should be enough to last us through the next few months," he said, opening the box to reveal carefully wrapped bundles of vervain. The herb glistened faintly in the candlelight, the smell instantly making the room feel oppressive.

"Good," Grayson said, his tone clipped and business-like. "We've had reports of missing animals near Wickery Bridge. Could be nothing, but we should stay vigilant."

Richard Lockwood, the Mayor, nodded in agreement. "The last thing we need is another incident like 1864."

The others murmured their agreement, and the meeting continued with a rigid efficiency. Plans were made, patrols assigned, and yet the weight of their collective burden hung heavy in the air. Every member knew the risks; every member had lost someone to the unseen horrors that lurked beneath the surface of Mystic Falls.

An hour passed before the meeting came to a close. The council members exchanged knowing looks, hands were shaken, and one by one, they left, each carrying their personal burdens back into the quiet night. The door creaked shut behind the last of them, leaving only Grayson and Sam standing in the now-empty parlor.

For a moment, there was only silence, thick with unspoken tension. Sam's eyes remained on the door, as if waiting for some ghost to walk back in.

"Are you going to say something?" Grayson's voice broke through the stillness.

Sam's gaze shifted to his brother, his disappointment radiating like a heatwave. "Do you even hear yourself anymore, Grayson? Or have you become so wrapped up in this damn council that you've forgotten what matters?"

Grayson's jaw clenched. "You don't understand what's at stake."

Sam stepped forward, fists tightening at his sides. "No, you don't understand. We were supposed to protect people, not... whatever this is." His voice grew quieter, a deadly calm overtaking it. "You're torturing people, Grayson. Is that what protecting means to you now?"

Grayson turned, his expression hardening. "It's not as simple as you think. People like Enzo are monsters. You saw what they did back in 1864—what they still do. They don't get to walk free."

Sam's muscles tensed as he stared at his brother, words dying on his tongue. This wasn't just about Enzo. It was about everything Grayson had become—cold, methodical, unyielding. He had twisted their family's legacy into something unrecognizable, and Sam's patience had worn thin.

"I'm done," Sam finally said, voice sharp as a blade. "Done watching you turn into something worse than the things we're supposed to fight."

Grayson's eyes narrowed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sam took another step forward, his towering frame now inches from his brother. "It means I'm not going to let you do this anymore."

Grayson's hand shot out in an attempt to shove Sam back, but Sam moved faster, catching his brother's wrist in a vice-like grip. "You don't want to do this, Sam," Grayson warned, his voice low.

"Oh, I think I do," Sam replied, his disappointment finally giving way to something darker. He had held back for too long.

Without warning, Grayson twisted free and launched a punch toward Sam's ribs. Sam blocked it with ease, his face impassive, as if his brother's strike hadn't even registered. Grayson followed up with a quick jab to Sam's face, but Sam ducked, his movement fluid and practiced. In a swift counter, Sam's fist connected with Grayson's jaw, sending him stumbling back a few feet.

Grayson recovered quickly, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. He squared his stance, eyes blazing with determination. For years, Grayson had trained in combat, prepared to face the worst of the supernatural threats in Mystic Falls. But Sam wasn't some ordinary opponent. He had always been stronger, faster, more instinctual in his movements, and Grayson knew that well.

They clashed again, this time with Grayson throwing a series of rapid strikes. His punches landed with surgical precision, each one calculated, but Sam absorbed them like they were nothing. Grayson grunted in frustration, pushing harder, moving faster. But Sam's movements were a blur, his strength barely contained. He deflected each hit with ease, and with a brutal backhand, sent Grayson crashing into a nearby wall.

The wood splintered on impact, but Grayson pushed himself up, determination burning in his eyes. He lunged forward again, this time trying to sweep Sam's legs out from under him, but Sam sidestepped and twisted, catching his brother in a tight grapple. With a smooth motion, he threw Grayson to the ground, pinning him with little effort.

"Stop this," Sam growled. "Before I really hurt you."

Grayson's pride flared. He struggled beneath his brother's weight, managing to land an elbow to Sam's ribs. It was enough to loosen Sam's grip, and Grayson rolled out from under him, springing to his feet. They squared off again, breathing heavily.

"I won't let you ruin everything," Grayson spat.

"Ruin?" Sam echoed, incredulous. "You're the one torturing people like they're cattle. This has to stop."

Grayson didn't respond with words. Instead, he lunged again, this time with a fierceness that made his previous attacks seem tame. He moved with the desperation of a man who believed he was fighting for something greater than himself. But Sam was faster. Stronger.

With a brutal kick to Grayson's chest, Sam sent him flying back into the wall once more, this time leaving him gasping for breath. Grayson struggled to stand, clutching his ribs where Sam's kick had landed, but his body was slow to respond.

Sam approached him, his expression unreadable. "You're done, Grayson."

Grayson slumped against the wall, defeated but defiant. "You... don't understand."

"I understand more than you think," Sam said, his voice low. "I understand that you've lost yourself. And I'm going to fix this, whether you like it or not."

Without waiting for a response, Sam turned and made his way toward the basement door. His steps were heavy, the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him. But it had to be done.

The basement was cold and dimly lit, the smell of blood and damp stone filling the air. At the far end of the room, Enzo sat chained to the wall, his body weak and gaunt from the lack of blood. His eyes flickered open as Sam approached, recognition dawning on his face.

"You're not him," Enzo rasped, his voice hoarse. "Where's... Grayson?"

"Grayson's not coming," Sam replied, kneeling beside him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife, slicing open his wrist without hesitation. Blood welled up, and he held it out to Enzo.

Enzo stared at the blood for a moment, his eyes dark with suspicion and hunger. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you don't deserve this," Sam said quietly. "Not like this."

Enzo hesitated for a moment longer before latching onto Sam's wrist, drinking deeply. Sam winced slightly but didn't pull away. He could feel Enzo's strength returning with each gulp, the life returning to his eyes.

When Enzo finally let go, his breath was heavy but steady. He looked up at Sam, confusion and gratitude warring in his gaze. "Why?"

"Because my brother's wrong," Sam said, standing up. "And I'm going to set things right."

Enzo's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, watching as Sam turned and walked back up the stairs, leaving the basement behind.

Upstairs, Grayson was still slumped against the wall, his breathing ragged. He glared at Sam, but there was no fire left in his gaze.

"You'll regret this," Grayson muttered weakly.

Sam paused at the doorway, looking back at his brother. "Maybe. But at least I'll still be able to live with myself."

And with that, he walked out into the night, leaving the house—and his brother—behind.