The name Siren followed Freya Helvar around like a curse from the moment her powers first manifested in a raid on her village. With the image of her father's charred corpse and her brother's disgusted face on her mind, she is hauled to the Little Pa...
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IT TOOK A year before Freya was allowed into the Grisha school with other children – mainly because she did not speak Ravkan, but also because the General did not outright trust her. She could not blame him, Fjerda used to burn Grisha at the stake, and now they hunted them like dogs. By the time Freya learned Ravkan properly, three seasons had passed, and her birthday along with them. The General had assigned tutors to her for everything, all Fjerdan-speaking.
She had a tutor for etiquette, an old woman who was most likely a governess in the past. She had a constant small smile on her face, and even though Freya despised learning how to curtsy before the royal family and how to hold a teacup correctly – because apparently that would be required of her when she reached an older age – she adored the woman and came to the lessons happily.
Then there was a middle-aged Alkemi with descent from Fjerda just like her. He was meant to teach her the Ravkan language, and Freya had to admit he was a far better teacher than Erik had been, as she picked up thrice as many things in half as much time. It was he who she thanked at night when she felt extra lonely. He was the reason she wasn't as isolated anymore. It was astonishing how knowing the language around her opened doors.
She was finally able to actually talk to people properly. With the other children at meal times, with her roommate – a young Suli Squaller with a gorgeous appearance named Zoya –, and even with the already adult Grisha soldiers that came and went to the Little Palace. It was freeing, she had to admit.
Then, of course, there was the old grouchy woman in a hut that was in charge of teaching her how to use her powers. Baghra was her name, and she seemed to find great amusement in hitting Freya's knuckles with her cane until the girl managed to do what was asked of her. It was not the training she thought she would receive, but she supposed it was better than nothing.
The pain she received with each session was quickly soothed by the sixteen-year-old Heartrender who had been assigned to escort her everywhere. He spoke four languages, Fjerdan among them, and he was the friendliest person she had ever met in her entire life. She did not think there was anyone in the world that smiled or laughed more than he did. Whenever she would walk out of Baghra's hut, he would automatically grab her hands and run his fingers over her bloodied and bruised knuckles until the skin stitched itself back together. Freya had long gotten used to the tingling feeling of Corporalki work.
It was on another such day when she walked out of Baghra's overly hot and stuffy hut, rubbing her knuckles to suppress the aching soreness. What she was met with was an already grinning escort.
"Fedyor," she asked cautiously in Ravkan, voice heavy with an accent, "why are you smiling so much?" It wasn't like it wasn't a common occurrence, this particular grin just seemed different. Fedyor reached out his hand and she immediately placed her own in it. In a practised movement, he sealed the cane-made wounds until there was nothing left but unblemished skin covered in flecks of blood.
