(Freya's POV)
The wind carried the scent of wet earth and wilted herbs, creeping into the small cottage like a thief. Freya sat on the ground beside the grave, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The rain had stopped, but her world hadn't shifted back to normal. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The grave was fresh—its edges still soft, the soil uneven from her shaking hands. She hadn't waited for help. She didn't need it. Miami wouldn't have wanted it either. It was just her now.
Just Freya.
She stared at the handmade stone marker—etched with a crescent moon and thorny vines—and said nothing. There were no words that could fill the hollow that Miami's absence left behind.
A gust of wind brushed her golden hair into her face, but she didn't flinch. The silence was heavy, oppressive. A silence that used to be filled with that sharp, sarcastic voice—"Back straight, girl. Magic doesn't flow through the lazy."
She almost smiled.
But the rustling of leaves behind her pulled her from the memory.
Freya rose slowly to her feet, spine straight, eyes sharp. She didn't bother wiping the dirt from her palms. The cottage door creaked open on its own, as it always had when someone stepped too close. She heard them before she saw them—three cloaked figures approaching with cautious steps. Not fearful. But not friendly either.
Witches.
They never came unless they wanted something.
She didn't move as they entered the clearing, their hoods low, their gazes hidden. The tallest one held something small in her gloved hand. A flower. A black rose. Freya's jaw tightened.
"She was respected," the woman said, laying the rose beside the grave.
"Now she's buried," Freya replied, voice flat. "Go home."
One of the others shifted, uncomfortable. The youngest—nervous, twitchy fingers and uncertain eyes—took a small step back.
"She raised you well," the eldest said, studying Freya with unsettling calm. "Too well, perhaps."
Freya's ocean-blue eyes locked onto hers. Cold. Guarded. "You didn't come for her. You came to see if I'm broken. Sorry to disappoint."
"We came to pay respects," the woman said.
"And to get a good look at the girl Miami died protecting?" Freya snapped. "You've seen me. You've stared long enough. Now leave."
A tense silence followed.
Then, the eldest dipped her head, and with a motion of her hand, the three turned and left as quietly as they came.
Freya didn't relax until their footsteps faded entirely.
She knelt again, staring at the grave, letting out a long, shaky breath.
"Never trust a witch who smiles too easily," Miami had warned her once, slicing herbs with steady hands. "They only smile when they want something."
Freya had asked, "Do you want something?"
Miami had smirked, crooked and tired. "Only for you to survive."
Freya's hand dug into the soil beside the stone, fingers clenched.
"Damn you, old woman," she whispered. "Why didn't you tell me anything?"
The woods around her were watching. She could feel it. Magic always came alive after a death. The problem was—so did everything else.