(MAYA)
The witch.
A woman in her forties, her black hair in soft, gentle curls, her gray eyes cold, holding an animosity aimed toward the two of us. Her feet are bare and leave a burst of greenery in their wake, as if she's breathing life back into the damaged land. Flowers and grass grow right before my eyes, blooming and turning green.
"Griffin," she says, her voice smooth and cold.
"I should've known it was you." I glance at him. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't speak.
Her eyes trail over him like a blade, slow and sharp. "You have a lot of nerve walking into my woods."
"I didn't come here by choice," he says, his voice calm and steady. "We are only passing through."
She circles slightly, not touching him but close enough to make me uneasy. Her gaze lingers on his neck, the side of his ribs, his wrist, where the skin looks thinner, almost raw.
"I can see it on you," she murmurs. "The years. The chains."
He doesn't answer.
