The house was still.
Not the kind of stillness that came from abandonment—no, this was something different. Something unnatural. It was a silence that clung to the walls, thick and heavy, pressing against the skin like an unseen force waiting to make itself known. The kind of silence that only existed in places where time had stopped.
Sam had been in enough of these places to recognize what he was walking into.
Enzo stepped in beside him, boots scuffing against the dust-coated wooden floors. The air was stale, the scent of rotting wood mixing with something more metallic—something long dead. He exhaled through his nose, expression carefully blank. "Well, mate, this is a bloody horror show waiting to happen."
Sam didn't respond. He scanned the room, eyes sharp, cataloging everything. The remains of furniture draped in decayed cloth, an old fireplace blackened with age, faded paintings whose subjects had long since faded into shadow. But what caught his attention most—what made his fingers twitch toward the knife at his belt—was the bodies.
Or what was left of them.
They weren't just corpses. These were remnants of something old. Skeletal remains, slumped over in chairs, curled in corners, scattered across the floor like discarded puppets. Some still had pieces of their clothes—centuries-old fabric, faded but unmistakably once grand.
Kol's witches.
The realization hit like a slow-moving blade. Sam had read about this place, had known it was more than just a prison. It was a tomb.
Enzo let out a low whistle, crouching beside one of the remains, poking at the tattered robes. "Well, they didn't exactly die fighting, did they? Looks like they just… sat here and let time eat them."
Sam crouched next to one of the bodies, running his fingers over the remains of a necklace. A protection charm. It hadn't worked. "They didn't have a choice." His voice was quiet, but certain. "This house wasn't just keeping them in. It was feeding off them."
Enzo's smirk faded. "Magic?"
Sam nodded. He reached into his coat, pulling out a small, flickering lighter. A flame danced to life with a quick flick of his thumb. He held it close to one of the bodies—and the fire bent away.
The air shifted.
Enzo frowned. "What the hell—?"
Sam stood. "Residual magic." His jaw tensed. "They weren't just sealed in. They were bound to this place, their energy drained until there was nothing left."
Enzo muttered a curse under his breath. "No wonder this place feels wrong."
Sam took a slow breath, forcing himself to focus. He hadn't come here for the dead. He was here for something else—someone else.
His eyes swept the room once more. The witches had been trapped, their magic siphoned. That meant there had to be a conduit. Something holding all that power, something keeping the spell alive.
Something valuable.
Then he saw it.
Tucked into the ribcage of one of the skeletons, nestled where a heart should have been, a diamond.
Not just any diamond.
A paragon diamond.
Sam moved quickly, careful as he reached into the bones and lifted the gem. It was large—too large to be natural.Perfectly cut, flawless in a way that no human hands could achieve. And the moment his fingers wrapped around it, he felt the hum of power inside.
Enzo's brows lifted. "Well, now. That's not something you find in a graveyard every day."
Sam turned it over in his palm, feeling the cool weight of it. He knew what it was—a relic of Kemiya, the Arabian branch of magic that specialized in crafting dark objects. This was no ordinary gemstone. It was a tool, a weapon in the right hands. With the right magic, it could be used to forge something that could take down an Original. Even Klaus.
Not kill. But put him down.
And that… that was something worth keeping.
Sam pocketed the diamond. "Let's move."
Enzo gave the skeletons one last glance before following. "Remind me never to get locked in a room with you if you're willing to rob the dead."
Sam didn't respond.
Freya was waiting.
——
The first floor was just as untouched as the rest of the house. Dust coated everything. Paint peeled from the walls in long, curling strips. A grandfather clock stood silent, frozen at a time long forgotten. But at the end of the hall, past doorways that led to nowhere, there was a room.
Sam pushed open the door.
There, lying motionless on an old bed, was Freya Mikaelson.
She looked untouched by time. Long, golden hair spilled over the pillow, her features soft and serene, as if she had merely drifted off to sleep instead of spending a century in magical hibernation.
Enzo exhaled. "Well. She's certainly not rotting, so that's a plus."
Sam didn't waste time. He reached into his coat, pulling out four talismans etched with Norse runes. Carefully, he moved to each cardinal position of the room—North, South, East, West—placing a talisman at every point.
The runes glowed faintly, reacting to the energy in the air.
The moment the fourth talisman touched the ground, the pressure in the room shifted.
The spell cracked.
The magic that had held Freya in slumber snapped like a severed thread.
Sam turned back to the bed, watching as her breathing changed. Deeper. Sharper.
Then—her eyes shot open.
Freya Mikaelson gasped, her body jerking upright as if she had been drowning and had just broken the surface of the water.
Her eyes, blue and piercing, locked onto Sam.
And then—the room exploded.
A pulse of raw magic blasted outward, knocking Enzo against the wall and sending Sam skidding back a step. The air crackled, the runes flaring bright before flickering out.
Freya moved.
Fast.
Before Sam could react, she was on him, fingers gripping the front of his jacket, yanking him close. Magic surged around her, dangerous and unstable.
"Who are you?" she demanded, voice sharp, thick with an Old Norse accent.
Sam met her gaze evenly, not flinching despite the raw power pressing against his skin.
"Sam Gilbert." His voice was calm, steady. Unyielding. "And I just woke you up."
Freya's grip tightened. Her magic surged, violent, ancient. "Why?"
Sam's smirk was slow, deliberate.
"Because I need a Mikaelson."