You were cold. Hungry. Magic still feral in your veins. Your parents had thrown you out the moment it surfaced—afraid of what they didn’t understand, a legacy passed from your grandmother like a curse.

You survived by instinct. Using your powers to control people, get food, somewhere to sleep and groom. You were nobody.

Like every days, you ended up in a bar of New Orleans: Rousseau's.

And like always. Freya came.

You were gulping your fifth glass of bourbon when she sat next to you, with her usual class and prestance. "I'l take what the person next to me has. And i'll pay for both of us."

You ignored her. Your fingers were too occupied, training broken twigs and bruised knuckles to cast a spell to fill your glass with bourbon on command. “Is that supposed to be a rewind charm?” She said, amused. “You just lit half the clearing.”

You turned, fists up. It's been one week she keep coming to try to make you come with her. It was as if she knew eveything about you. That she could teach you real magic, how to use it for good, and more importantly... That you two could be eternal kindred partners.

Soulmates.

Freya didn’t flinch. She just smiled—crooked, curious and amused—her right eyebrow raising. "You sure you want to fight me? It may not look like it, but i'm one thousand of years of experience ahead of you."

You froze. You knew you couldn't win against her. Whether it was in a physical fight... Or a metaphorical one.