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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FREYA HAD NEVER been on the run before, and if she was being completely honest, she didn't enjoy it one bit. Henrik led them through dirty old alleys and less-than-savoury parts of town with ease. She couldn't help but wonder how he was so accustomed to the slums, but she didn't dare ask him. He might've been friendly with her up until that point, but she wasn't so stupid as to think she would be safe from any attacks. For all she knew, he was only keeping her around because he knew she was dangerous, and if she was by his side she would be able to protect him. Though, if she was being honest, he looked much more terrifying than her with his scruffy beard and tangled hair speckled with drops of blood.
She was just as dirty as he was, but there was something about him that radiated power. He walked past entire gangs of men and women who probably weren't the most law-abiding citizens, and they all leaned away from him and didn't bother him. She stayed back while he spoke with some dockworkers, all burly men with heavy accents, but they seemed friendly enough. Eventually, they pointed in a direction, and she was back to following behind him.
"What is the plan, exactly?" she asked, trying to ignore the way people looked at her. She looked so out of place in a Novyi Zem port city. There were people of all races and sizes, but Fjerdans were among the least welcome – only the drüskelle were ever allowed to pass without much trouble, and that was more because of how dangerous they were than because of anything else – and the bright blue and purple tattered kefta didn't make her any more inconspicuous.
"There is a tavern where we can rest. Maybe get some money," he said, hands stuffed in the pockets of an old scruffy coat he'd yanked from someone's clothesline. She didn't like the idea of stealing, but the will to survive had a much stronger pull than her morals. "We'll have to fence something."
"Fence?" she cried out, then remembered where they were and toned her voice down. "Isn't that illegal?" She hated how naive it sounded. But surely, they could sell to a normal vendor. When Henrik's eyes drifted to the silver bracelet around her wrist, she pulled her sleeves further down to cover it. "Not that."
"What else would you have us sell?" he demanded, but there was no real heat behind it. "If you want to find work and stay here like a good little girl for years until you make enough money to return to Ravka, then be my guest. The drüskelle will find you easily though, and I won't be there to help you then. Nobody will." She wanted to argue that she didn't need help, but she felt the weight of the past two months hard on her shoulders, and she realised that she wouldn't be able to take another fight. She couldn't blame him for his words either. She wanted to get home just as much as him. Or a safe distance away from the drüskelle, at least.
"Fine," she hissed and stayed quiet until they reached the tavern he spoke of. It was an old rickety thing with a dirt floor instead of wood flooring, and it smelled pungently of alcohol and the sweaty bodies of sailors.
Henrik approached the woman behind the bar. She was dressed in rich yellow and green fabric, which wrapped around her loosely, and her neck was adorned with thick beads. Henrick didn't even need to say anything, all it took was one look at Freya's run-down kefta and she was gesturing them towards a door behind her.
