(Freya's POV)
They burned her herbs.
Freya stood in the middle of the ruined garden, arms limp at her sides, the scent of scorched roots and dried lavender filling her lungs. The fire had long died, but smoke still curled in thin trails from the earth, like the last whispers of a scream.
The villagers hadn't knocked. They never did. They waited until the dark crept in and Miami's little house was quiet—then they came like rats, with torches and fear and curses on their tongues.
"This is for the safety of the village!"
"She was raised by a witch!"
"She'll curse our crops!"
Freya hadn't stopped them.
She'd only watched.
Not because she was weak, but because if she so much as moved, someone's child might end up blind in the morning. That's how far the fear ran—they were sure she didn't even need to touch them to hurt them.
She sat on the old porch step now, staring into nothing. The house was mostly untouched—they hadn't dared cross the stone line Miami carved into the ground long ago. A boundary. A warning.
Her fingers brushed the pendant around her neck—black stone, cold as ever. Miami had given it to her the day before she died, whispering something she hadn't understood then.
> "If the time comes… it will burn. And when it burns, run. Run fast, girl."
Freya hadn't told anyone about that.
Why would she?
No one ever came here anymore. The villagers only came to throw stones. Even travelers avoided the woods. Only the foolish or desperate wandered close to the hills, where a single road curved toward a forgotten place…
The royal castle.
It stood like a shadow in the distance—tall, isolated, cursed by its silence. Some said the prince who lived there was a monster in human skin. Others swore he drank witch's blood. One woman once claimed he had his mother's ghost bound to his soul.
Freya didn't believe in monsters.
She believed in pain. In anger. In what it meant to be feared without doing anything wrong.
And maybe, just maybe… that's what made her and the prince more alike than the world would ever know.
The wind blew suddenly, snapping her out of thought.
She looked toward the edge of the garden—where smoke rose again, but not from her herbs.
From the village square.
A crowd was forming. Loud. Aggressive. She could hear it from here, even across the trees.
Freya stood, brushing off her black skirts. Her eyes gleamed faintly—cold, calculating.
"They're coming again," she whispered.
She turned to the stone wall and placed her palm on it. No magic sparked this time.
Miami's protective spell was fading.
And that meant one thing.
Next time… they wouldn't just burn her herbs.
They would come for her.