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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THE FIRST ARMY encampment near Ulensk was a ragged, worn down mesh of small tents and roughly set up perimeter defences. Everything was monotone and bland. A mixture of browns, greys and dark olive greens. The only lighter colour was the white canvas tent with a red cross on it, marking the medical tent. Everyone would notice it from miles away.
Harshaw was immediately taken there, his unconscious body carried away on a stretcher. A heavy olive green coat had been used to cover him at some point during their three-day journey. They had hoped to keep him as warm as possible. Chase away the fever by getting him to sweat it out. His state hadn't changed. But he was alive, and what more could Freya ask for in a situation such as theirs?
The ground she walked on was muddy and slippery and she had almost fallen thrice by the time they stopped. Her legs were sore and her feet had blisters all over them. She could sleep for four days straight.
Luckily, it had stopped raining and only grey clouds remained. She prayed for the sun to show itself for even a moment. Its rays of sunlight would warm her freezing skin better than the worn down and torn kefta she was wearing. The clothes beneath that were even thinner. Peasant's clothing that Leanne had lended her so she wouldn't have to walk in dirty and blood-covered clothes. The appearance of it was similar to what the Grisha usually wore beneath their kefta, but the material was far more worn down.
Despite the General wanting the Grisha to keep up appearances as ordinary people, he certainly did not let them dress like them.
"Come, girl," one of the soldiers that Freya had found out was named Vladimir, beckoned towards Leanne. She shrunk away from him, pulling the thin shawl around her shoulders tighter around herself. The piece of fabric was so torn and used that it hung like a spiderweb from her body. It was the best thing she had had in her home. "There are men who will take you to the orphanage near here."
Freya stepped quickly towards Leanne, gripping her hand tightly and tugging her towards her body. Nikolai, who had been walking beside her basically the entire journey to the camp, gave her a weird look. He raised one blond eyebrow.
"She stays with me," Freya proclaimed loud enough for the other soldiers to hear. "She is Grisha and should be brought to the Little Palace." Some of the soldiers instantly stepped away from Leanne, their nostrils flaring as they curled their noses. Contempt rose inside of Freya at their reactions. Of course. As long as Leanne was a sweet and innocent peasant girl, it was alright to be near her, feed her and joke around with her at the campfire. But the moment she was Grisha... well, she was worse than the devil.
Even if Ravka was safer towards Grisha than most other countries, it was far from perfect. Prejudice was common enough in the north that Freya would be afraid to venture into a town alone on a day off. It could be the blending of cultures this close to the border. Or it could simply be what it always was. Vile hate.
Freya was glad that she was stationed at Ryevost. Though the largest river city was located farther north than most, it was nowhere as bad as Ulensk. She felt the shift in the air every time she travelled farther and farther away and towards the border. The careful and sometimes worried smiles of the common people in the villages she passed through slowly melted into loathing.
