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 DID NOT remember much from the earlier years of her life. There were bits and pieces, but they did not fill out the holes in the much bigger puzzle. Her mother's fingers running through her hair. Her father's calluses when she held his hand. Her sister's gentle laugh. Her brother's pleasantly bright eyes. Dancing with the other village girls during the festivals. Travelling to Halmhend for the market. Her own melodic voice as she sang.
Her childhood was but a vague memory, as if someone had etched the experience into the sand on the beach and the sea had washed it away. There were but a few moments of clarity, and she clung to them when she slept in her tent at the northern front.
One such moment was the day the Inferni came to their village. It happened in the late hours of the evening, when her mother had finished putting Skadi to bed and Matthias was grumbling about something she could not remember. Her father was sitting by the hearth, Freya at his feet with a book. At seven years old, she was much better at reading than Skadi, who was a year younger. It was not something she should have prided herself in, as she had had plenty of trouble at that age as well. But she did, and she read aloud every evening before she herself retired to her small bed by the window in her shared room with her siblings.
Her father ran a hand down her head as she mulled over a particularly difficult word. He smiled down at her as he basked in the warmth of the fire. The irony of him taking pleasure from the heat did not escape her years from then when the only clear memory of his appearance was his burnt corpse, blackened and hard and horrifying.
The screams started soon after that. Not far from their home. Too close. Freya could not move from her spot on the floor, her thin nightgown not enough to chase away the shiver that coursed through her body. Her father slowly stood up and walked to the small window on the other side of the room. Her mother stood by the door to the room where Freya and her siblings slept, eyes wide and ghostly pale. Matthias was close to her as well, still as a statue.
"Gedrenen," her father said slowly. Strangers. And then his eyes widened and his breath caught and he stepped away from the window with haste. He did not say anything, ran to the corner of the room where his axe leant against the wall. Not a battle-axe like she had seen some of the soldiers and druskelle carry. Just a normal wood-chopping axe, dull, rusty and old.
"Arne?" her mother called the name worriedly, brows pulled together. "What is wrong?" Freya slowly put the book down. Her palms were suddenly sweaty, and there was a horrible feeling of angst rising in her belly. Matthias was next to her in seconds, wrapping an arm around her as she stood.
"Drusje," her father spat viciously and tore the door to their home open. He did not wait for any answer from her mother, nor did he say goodbye. Freya felt tears in her eyes. Hot and uncomfortable. Witches, the strongest forces in the Ravkan army. The years he spent as a druskelle had left a long searing hatred for them in her father. He was still broadly built years later, with muscled arms and wide shoulders. If anyone could put the dull and rusty axe to good use, it would be him.
