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 WINTER FETE that year was much more extravagant than the one Freya previously went to. The King and Queen spared no expense. Nothing was missing, from imported flowers from the Southern Colonies to rich wines from the richest Shu territories. The ballroom was an explosion of colour and scents, so much so that Freya's eyes watered when she entered.
Arm in arm with Zoya, the two of them looked around bewildered. She gaped at the contortionists and the acrobats, gawked at a man who swallowed fire and laughed at a monkey taught to do tricks. It felt like she stepped into a new world.
Zoya's first destination, unsurprisingly, was the buffet, where she took two glasses of wine into her hands. One of them, she gave Freya. She looked divine with her raven hair done up, her blue kefta much similar to Freya's own, save for the differently coloured embroidery. Freya felt just as beautiful, with her hair pulled back into a braid crown, some of the locks left to tumble down her back. A string of pearls was woven into the braid, matching the chain of pearls around her neck.
It did not take long for Zoya to leave her. The second she felt the alcohol kick in, the Squaller stalked off to flirt with a handsome nobleman. Even from afar, Freya could see the man was instantly taken with Zoya. Of course, he was. Her laugh was a melody no bard could ever recreate. No poet could ever put it into words.
Zoya's departure didn't leave Freya alone, however. Having only been to one fete, the nobles who hadn't gotten a chance to speak with her last now hoarded around her. Freya's cheeks strained from the smile she forced onto her face, and she grew increasingly bored. This one man – an Earl's son, if she remembered correctly – seemed dead set on seducing her. He went on and on about his father's lands in the south. He was not an unattractive man, Freya had to admit. But the way his words slurred and the trajectory of his eyes all over her form was off-putting.
She was glad when the trumpets sounded, and the announcer's voice boomed, "Their majesties, the Tsar and Tsaritsa!" As the man turned his head to look at the royal couple entering, Freya quickly slipped away from him, letting herself be sucked in by the crowd. A moment later, the two princes were announced as well.
Freya craned her neck to look over someone's shoulder at Nikolai, smiling when her eyes landed on him. It had been two weeks since she last saw him last. The crimson clover on her table was a constant gift sent by him. Every other day, to replace those that had wilted. Sometimes, he sent other gifts as well. Once, a servant brought her a book of poems with some highlighted with coloured ink. It didn't take Freya long to realise they were meant to be about her. On another day, she'd received a box of expensive chocolate, which she feasted upon readily.
Nikolai had never looked so well put together as he did then. His golden hair wasn't messy at all, his eyes shined brightly, and he was dressed in the creme royal regalia, sporting some of his hard-won military medals. The medal for bravery shined the brightest of them all, dulling Vasily, who walked beside him with nothing more than the badges he earned sitting behind a desk.
