Meredith.
The walk back to the main house felt longer than it should have.
My arms still trembled faintly from gripping the training sword, and the weight of Draven's words settled like an ache between my shoulders.
As I stepped into the hallway, cool stone under my boots, I nearly collided with Wanda.
She was pacing—phone pressed tightly to her ear, red-painted lips parted in sharp, clipped words I couldn't quite catch. Her free hand twisted the edge of her dress, a gesture too raw for the perfectly polished witch I'd grown used to.
She looked up, caught me watching. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes — annoyance, maybe, or something closer to fear.
Then she stopped pacing, turned her back slightly, and muttered something low into the phone before hanging up.
Without missing a beat, she brushed past me, perfume sharp in the air between us.
I didn't move or speak. Things were better off this way.
