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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THERE WAS A man locked away in the hold of the ship.
Calling him a man was an exaggeration. The slumped-over body Nikolai had dragged on board earlier that day in Os Kervo was little more than a boy shoved into a First Army uniform. Freya saw only a smudge of his face – bloodied and bruised – before he was dragged below deck.
And now she was here, standing in front of the door of the man's makeshift cell with sweaty hands and panicky breath. Please, just trust me, was what Nikolai told her when she berated him with questions about the man. They didn't take prisoners, especially not Ravkan soldiers who looked like they'd seen spectres. And Freya did trust him. She really did. But she'd been fidgeting all day thinking about the man.
So now she would walk into that room. And she would see who that man was. Stupid pale hair and saint worshippers, she cursed in her mind, not for the first time. It was too risky for her to get off the ship in Ravka, especially in such a populated city as Os Kervo. People there had mourned her death, if Nikolai was to be believed.
She would be far too recognizable. The paleness of her hair was rare even in Fjerda, though not so much that she couldn't move inconspicuously in her home country. Not in Ravka though. And especially not if she wanted to wear anything in the same colours as kefta had been. Even if the people of the city didn't recognize her, government officials and army officers riddled the streets. And they'd known her personally.
Freya refused to risk it. She did not want to be dragged back to the Little Palace and be forced to return to service at best, put on trial for desertion at worst.
The doorknob was cold against her palms, the metal slippery with her sweat. She pushed the door open and slipped inside. There were no guards stationed there. Nikolai did not see a reason for it. He trusted everyone onboard. And well, looking down at the crumpled lump on the floor, kept from direct contact with the ground only by a thin blanket beneath him, Freya wasn't at all surprised that Nikolai didn't think the man would flee.
He looked up at her with terrified blue eyes, glassy with unshed tears. "Who are you?" he croaked out. Freya wondered how long it had been since he'd drank any water. "What do you want from me?"
Freya tilted her head. "I was hoping you could answer that question for me." The man scrunched his brows together, the corner of his mouth turning downwards in confusion. He raked his gaze up and down her body.
"You don't look like an inquisitor." Freya stifled a laugh at that. No, she supposed she didn't. She wore a similar violet wrap-around skirt she'd received in Novyi Zem and a dark blue blouse. She'd been let off duty that evening, so there was no need to dress in practical clothing, and she enjoyed the Novyi Zem fashion.
"Believe me, I am no inquisitor. If I was I would be questioning the captain instead of you," she sighed, kneeling on the ground beside the boy. He grunted as he pushed himself up on his elbows, accepting Freya's help to get into a proper sitting position. He slumped on the wall behind him. "What is your name?"
