Sowhere deep within South Arica hidden from the reach of Aurors, newspapers, and the world alike stood a villa, elegant and untouched. The estate was cradled by lush, towering trees and kissed by sunlight that filtered through thick erald canopies. A mosaic pool shimred like liquid sapphire in the courtyard, surrounded by blooming orchids and thick ferns that lent the air a sweet, humid perfu.
On a reclining sun-lounger near the poolside, a woman lay stretched beneath the afternoon sun. She wore a sleek black bikini, her skin kissed bronze by months of quiet sunbathing. One of her arms ended in a smooth, pale scar just below the shoulder—her left hand long gone, though she seed to hardly mind it. She balanced a floating magical newspaper in front of her with practiced ease, its animated photographs shifting gently with each breeze.
The woman was enjoying the sun. if Eira were present, she would have recognized her instantly—as Ann or as Anastasia.
A breeze danced across the courtyard as Anastasia’s eyes narrowed at one particular moving image on the newspaper’s front page: Eira, standing confidently before the charred remains of a luxury hotel, speaking to reporters with fire in her eyes and command in her voice.
A slow smile curved across Anastasia’s lips.
"Oh, my dear friend... you’ve grown," she murmured. "And now, you’ve beco the most powerful woman in Europe."
She gave a low chuckle, brushing a dark lock of hair behind her ear. "Who would have thought you’d co out of all that alive? I’ll give you credit. Every ti the world tried to bury you, you crawled out from beneath it—stronger, sharper. And now, the very person who tried to kill you... is already dead."
She sighed, the smile lingering like a shadow. "It had to be you... or soone loyal enough to kill for you."
With that, she folded the paper in half and let it drop lazily onto a side table. Reaching for a glass of chilled white wine, she took a slow sip as the sun soaked into her skin.
The mont of peace broke with a voice from the veranda behind her—loud, familiar, and irritated.
"Anni! How much longer do we have to hide away like this? It’s been nearly a year since I’ve stepped foot in my tavern!"
Anastasia turned, grinning at the older woman who approached. Her mother—sun-hatted, draped in a loose cotton dress, and barefoot—looked thoroughly unimpressed with paradise.
"Co on, Ma," Anastasia said, her voice teasing. "Don’t pretend you hate it here. After twenty years of running that noisy little tavern, you finally get to relax. You’ve got palm trees, fresh fruit every day, and not a single drunk wizard to scream at. What more could you want?"
Her mother sighed dramatically. "I do love it here. The view is beautiful, the weather is perfect—but this muggle-like living? It’s so strange! No magic in the walls, no house-elves, no self-cleaning spoons... I’m still not used to it."
Anastasia arched a brow. "Right. And it’s who watches TV every ti I walk into the house?"
Her mother sniffed. "Well, what can I do? It’s fascinating! These people put their entire lives into that little box. No privacy at all! And so of them even show their... intimate nights. Disgusting!"
Anastasia burst into laughter. "Ma, how many tis do I have to tell you? They’re actors. It’s just storytelling—like plays, but with moving pictures. None of it’s real."
Her mother blinked innocently , and said . "But it looked so real! That one woman, the mother who lost her child—she cried so much it broke my heart. So you’re telling that was fake?"
Anastasia softened. "Yes, Mama. They’re just good actors. It’s all staged to make you feel sothing."
Her mother went quiet for a mont, then sighed. "Well... they’re good at it."
A pause.
Then the older woman leaned forward, eyes twinkling mischievously. "So. When are you getting married? I want a grandson to help run the tavern soday. Don’t make sign you up for one of those dating shows. You know, the one where won choose their husbands on national show or sothing ?"
Anastasia groaned. "Oh, rlin’s bones, Ma. First of all, I’m not interested in marriage. Second, if you want a child so badly, I’ll adopt one—but you’re changing the nappies."
Her mother gave her a sharp look. "Tsk. You’re getting old, Anni. In a few more years, you won’t even be able to have children. You’ll die alone with no one but your cats."
"I don’t have any cats."
"You will."
Anastasia rolled her eyes. "We’re witches, Ma. There’s always a way to make babies, if it cos to that."
As her mother wandered off, still muttering about matchmaking spells and grandchildren, Anastasia turned back to the newspaper. Her gaze lingered on the image of Eira once more—now frozen mid-sentence, defiant and radiant under the press lights.
She raised her wine glass again, her expression unreadable.
"To survival," she whispered, and took another sip.
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