Freya's fingers curled instinctively, magic crackling at her fingertips, ready to be unleashed. Her mind was already racing—trying to process, trying to understand. She had spent centuries searching for a way to break the spell Dahlia had forced upon her. Had tried everything. Had failed.
And yet, this man had done it.
"How?" Her voice was hoarse from disuse, but it was steady. Her blue eyes locked onto Sam's, sharp and unrelenting. "How did you break my slumber?"
Sam tilted his head slightly, watching her with that same calm, unreadable expression. He wasn't intimidated. He wasn't even surprised by her reaction. If anything, he looked like a man who had already calculated this moment a thousand times over before stepping into the room.
"I had help." His voice was even, deliberate.
Freya's eyes flickered to the floor, to the four talismans still glowing faintly with residual energy. It didn't take her long to recognize the runes etched into them.
Old Norse. Not just any runes—sacred runes.
Realization hit her like a blow to the chest.
She knew these symbols. She had seen them before—not in a book, not in her mother's teachings, but in the stories of gods and witches whispered in the old world.
She took a step closer, her voice quieter this time. "Where did you get those?"
Sam held her gaze. "From a long-forgotten corner of the world. A place where your mother's magic was only a shadow of something far greater."
Freya stiffened.
These were not ordinary runes. This magic predated her. Predated her family.
Predated even Esther Mikaelson.
This magic was tied to Freyja.
The goddess.
Not just a namesake—the actual goddess of witches, of death, of fate.
The witch that become a god.
Freya exhaled slowly, her mind working faster than her pulse.
This wasn't Dahlia's magic. This wasn't even her mother's magic.
This was something older. Something deeper.
Her voice dropped lower. "You pieced together an amulet, didn't you?"
Sam gave a slow nod.
Freya inhaled sharply. It made sense now. Dahlia's spell had been powerful, but it had been crafted with mortal magic.And mortal magic—no matter how ancient or refined—had rules.
But divine magic?
That was something else entirely.
Sam had used a relic of Freyja herself.
Freya stepped closer to him, searching his face for deception. For some sign that this was a trick, a lie, an illusion.
She found none.
Only certainty.
She exhaled through her nose, letting her tension ease—just slightly. "You didn't just break my slumber got nothing" Her voice was steady now, clearer.
Sam didn't flinch. "True, I'm here for something."
Freya studied him for a long moment. Then, her lips curled into something close to amusement.
"You're a dangerous man, Sam Gilbert."
His response was immediate. "I know."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"What do you want?"
Sam exhaled slowly, his gaze unwavering. "I need you to do something for me."
Freya arched a brow. "I figured as much. What exactly does a hunter like you need from a witch like me?"
Sam didn't hesitate.
"I need you to sever the doppelgänger connection between two people."
Freya frowned slightly, considering. Doppelgängers were powerful conduits of fate, intricately woven into supernatural balance. Splitting them apart? Not impossible. But it wasn't something that could be done lightly.
"Who?" she asked.
"Elena Gilbert and Katerina Petrova."
Freya stilled.
Katerina Petrova—the same Katherine that Niklaus had been hunting for centuries.
Her lips parted slightly as she processed it.
And then—she laughed.
Low, sharp, slightly disbelieving. "You want me to separate a Petrova doppelgänger from her fate?"
Sam didn't react. "Yes."
Freya chuckled under her breath, shaking her head. "That's not something you just do, Sam. It's written into them. Into their very existence."
"I know."
"So why should I?"
Sam smirked slightly. "Because I'm offering you something in return."
Freya tilted her head. "And what exactly do you think I want?"
Sam's voice was quiet. "Freedom."
Freya's amusement vanished.
Her body went still.
Because those words—that single word—held more weight than any magic ever could.
She had spent a thousand years bound to a fate she hadn't chosen. A cycle of hibernation, servitude, isolation. A life that had never been her own.
And now, standing before her, was a man offering her a way out.
Her fingers twitched slightly.
Sam's voice remained calm. Steady. Deadly certain.
"You do this for me." He met her gaze, unwavering. "And when it's done, you're free to do whatever the hell you want."
The air between them crackled.
Freya inhaled slowly.
Then—she smiled.
A slow, knowing smile.
"Alright, Sam Gilbert." She extended a hand. "You have yourself a deal."
Sam clasped her hand firmly.
And just like that, the game was set.
——
They left just before midnight.
The air outside was cool, crisp, the scent of old magic still lingering in the ruins of the Dowager Fauline Cottage.
Enzo was waiting by the car, arms crossed. "Took you long enough."
Sam didn't respond. He opened the driver's side door, glancing at Freya as she slid into the passenger seat.
"Do you even know how to drive?" she asked casually.
Sam's smirk was faint. "Better than most."
The engine roared to life, the Mustang's low growl cutting through the silence.
They pulled onto the road, leaving the cottage—and the centuries-old prison—behind.
Freya exhaled, rolling her shoulders, as if trying to shake off the weight of her slumber. "Where to?"
Sam's grip tightened slightly on the wheel.
"Mystic Falls."
And as the headlights cut through the darkness, somewhere in Mystic Falls, a car plunged off a bridge into the river.