Freya‘s pov.

I sat alone on the flat stone slab near the hill's edge, the twilight casting streaks of lavender and blood-orange across the sky. The evening air was cool, crisp, brushing gently against my skin, and all I could hear was the rustle of leaves—and the strained rhythm of my own breathing.

Inside my head, their voices stirred like echoes in a deep well.

"Let go," Reyna urged softly. "Let go of the fear, Freya. Let go of the pressure."

"Breathe," Hera ...