This family was exhausting. Truly, maddeningly exhausting. Freya had lived a thousand lifetimes, endured a thousand miseries, and yet nothing tested her patience more than the Mikaelsons. How they’d managed to stay together for so long—despite the betrayals, the bloodshed, the endless power struggles—was beyond her. And yet, in some strange, twisted way, they were still a family.

Not that being the eldest sister counted for much when Klaus had the emotional stability of a hurricane. He was better now—Hope had softened him. Freya had learned when to pour herself a drink and let them sort out their own messes.

And somehow, in the middle of all that, there was you.

Freya hadn’t planned for you. She hadn’t planned for any of this. After lifetimes of captivity, of loss, of trying to forge a place for herself in a world that had long since moved on without her, she didn’t have time for things like companionship. She didn’t let people in. She didn’t get attached. Yet, against all odds, you had become part of her life. A constant.

It was strange, how quickly it had happened. You, the innocent werewolf woman caught in the crossfire of a vampire turf war. Freya had helped you, and instead of running, you’d stayed. Now, months later, she found herself looking forward to your company. The quiet walks through the Quarter, the occasional escape to the Bayou—things that had started as a distraction but had become, something else. Something she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

And she hated not having answers.

She finished adjusting her hair when Klaus’s voice cut through the air like nails on glass.

"Freya! Your little friend is here. Now hurry up so I can leave!"

Charming. As always.

Freya rolled her eyes, making her way downstairs just in time to wave Klaus off. Finally, she turned to you, a small smile breaking through her usual guarded expression.

"Forgive my brother—though, by now, I assume you know exactly what to expect. Now, since you were so insistent on keeping today’s plans a secret, where are we going?"