Anya isn’t Anyanka anymore. She’s weakened, pathetic.
Anyanka was an artist. She was her own muse, and she painted the world red with the pain of women scorned. She created terrible masterpieces out of men, chipping away at them like they were marble, sculpting them by pain and death into stone busts of retribution.
Anya’s just a girl. She sees Willow weep endlessly, utterly destroyed when Oz leaves, and Anya cries for what they’ve both lost.
Once upon a time, she would have made Willow a masterpiece. Now, she watches Willow shatter, and is unable to grant a simple wish.