IT TOOK A year before Freya was allowed into the Grisha school with other children – mainly because she did not speak Ravkan, but also because the General did not outright trust her. She could not blame him, Fjerda used to burn Grisha at the stake, and now they hunted them like dogs. By the time Freya learned Ravkan properly, three seasons had passed, and her birthday along with them. The General had assigned tutors to her for everything, all Fjerdan-speaking.

She had a tutor for etiquette, an old woman who was most likely a governess in the past. She had a constant small smile on her face, and even though Freya despised learning how to curtsy before the royal family and how to hold a teacup correctly – because apparently that would be required of her when she reached an older age – she adored the woman and came to the lessons happily.

Then there was a middle-aged Alkemi with descent from Fjerda just like her. He was meant to teach her the Ravkan language, and Freya had to admit he was a far better teacher than Erik had been, as she picked up thrice as many things in half as much time. It was he who she thanked at night when she felt extra lonely. He was the reason she wasn't as isolated anymore. It was astonishing how knowing the language around her opened doors.

She was finally able to actually talk to people properly. With the other children at meal times, with her roommate – a young Suli Squaller with a gorgeous appearance named Zoya –, and even with the already adult Grisha soldiers that came and went to the Little Palace. It was freeing, she had to admit.

Then, of course, there was the old grouchy woman in a hut that was in charge of teaching her how to use her powers. Baghra was her name, and she seemed to find great amusement in hitting Freya's knuckles with her cane until the girl managed to do what was asked of her. It was not the training she thought she would receive, but she supposed it was better than nothing.

The pain she received with each session was quickly soothed by the sixteen-year-old Heartrender who had been assigned to escort her everywhere. He spoke four languages, Fjerdan among them, and he was the friendliest person she had ever met in her entire life. She did not think there was anyone in the world that smiled or laughed more than he did. Whenever she would walk out of Baghra's hut, he would automatically grab her hands and run his fingers over her bloodied and bruised knuckles until the skin stitched itself back together. Freya had long gotten used to the tingling feeling of Corporalki work.

It was on another such day when she walked out of Baghra's overly hot and stuffy hut, rubbing her knuckles to suppress the aching soreness. What she was met with was an already grinning escort.

"Fedyor," she asked cautiously in Ravkan, voice heavy with an accent, "why are you smiling so much?" It wasn't like it wasn't a common occurrence, this particular grin just seemed different. Fedyor reached out his hand and she immediately placed her own in it. In a practised movement, he sealed the cane-made wounds until there was nothing left but unblemished skin covered in flecks of blood.

"I get to give you a tour of the school today," he revealed, spinning on his heel so he could lead her down the path. "And you start your lessons tomorrow." Freya's eyes shot wide open, a smile of her own breaking across her face.

"Really?" she cried, running after him quickly. Having the same routine over and over was rather boring, especially when she did it all alone. Fedyor nodded. When they reached the end of the path that connected Baghra's house to the rest of the Little Palace complex, he walked down a gravelly path that led to the left instead of the usual route they took – to the right and directly to the Little Palace.

The school was smaller than the Little Palace by at least a half, but it was still a rather large and overly decorated building of white stone, a large dome roof and spiralling pillars. The windows were large, meant to filter in as much light into the classrooms as possible. Fedyor pushed open the large wooden door and then allowed her to walk in. With the first step she took, Freya felt a wave of giddiness wash over her. Finally, she thought, looking at the carvings marked on the wall. They told stories of Grisha, of the various powers they wielded and their histories. Of mythical creatures that were tied heavily to the folklore surrounding Grisha. Some, Freya recognized, some she did not.

Firebird, thunderbird, basilisk, sea serpent, griffin, a nine-tailed fox, a strange creature with a human head but a feline's body. They all danced in their stilled forms of rock, underlaid by mother-of-pearl like everything else in the Little Palace's proximity. And when Freya looked up, she saw the stars. The ceiling was one big black dome, resembling the canvas of the night sky. And just like the night sky, thousands of silver-white specks littered the surface. The design was made just like the carvings on the outside of the Little Palace and the school, except it was so far away from her that Freya could barely tell the difference between them and the real thing at all.

She traced the constellations with her eyes, recounting those she knew – those her father and Matthias had taught her – and memorizing the location of those she did not.

It was beautiful, Freya had to admit. Her life before had been so calm, so easy. So boring compared to this. The grandest building she had seen in her life was the city hall and the Temple of Djel in Halmhend. The town was not the largest in the world, but its strategic position had once been the reason for its economic growth. Now it was a damaged settlement, another scar of the war. The Little Palace – and all of Os Alta in turn – was so much more.

It was the largest city Freya had ever been to, with the largest walls to protect it and the largest palaces and the largest amount of people that lived in it. She had to admit that despite her need to go home, she could get used to living here. Instantly, she wiped that thought from her head. No, she thought, she could not stay here. She would serve her mandatory military service of five years as a citizen of Ravka – her citizenship was procured in a matter of days after her arrival, a gift, Erik had called it – and then she would leave.

She would find Matthias and her mother and Skadi and they would all be happy again. She would visit her father's burial sight, somewhere amidst the black-limbed trees and barren spiking rocks close to her village, and she would get to say goodbye. She would get to have peace.

"What do you think?" Fedyor asked as he stepped to her side again. Quiet, she thought, it's so quiet. The halls around her were empty, as was the entrance hall. There was no sound but her own breathing and heartbeat.

"Beautiful," she said instead, masking her previous sad thoughts of home with a smile that wasn't as forced as she thought it would be. Fedyor's dark eyes twinkled with mirth. He nodded, then jerked his head in the direction of one of the long winding halls.

"Come," he said, "I'll show you my favourite places."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Fedyor's favourite places, unsurprisingly, included the cafeteria, Corporalki classrooms, and a large open garden where the Grisha children could play during their breaks. The cafeteria was built similarly to the one in the Little Palace. There were three large tables instead of four for each individual Grisha order, the missing fourth table was excluded because of the Darkling's absence. He did not eat his meals with the children during their school day. In fact, she rarely even saw him eating in the dome room.

Sometimes he wasn't even in the Little Palace, instead of running around the country to help in the border wars. Djel bless all Fjerdans who had to fight against him.

The garden was a flurry of green grass and flowery bushes with a small pond in the corner. Tables and swings were also littered around the area. Freya could imagine spending some of her time here in between classes. It looked peaceful and welcoming.

Fedyor wasn't allowed to show her all of the Corporalki classrooms, as some of them were for much older students and others were currently occupied by ongoing lessons, but Freya still welcomed it. She would have preferred to see the Etherealki classrooms first if she was being honest, but the twinkle in Fedyor's eyes was enough to get her to forget that. During the tour of the rooms, they had run into another Heartrender, perhaps a year or two older than Fedyor.

He seemed to have a constant grimace on his face and his stare was cold and calculating. Fedyor had blushed immensely as they greeted each other. Freya made a mental note to tease him about it later. Bright and warm Fedyor and a gloomy and cold Heartrender boy. A strange match, she thought, but as Fedyor told her about the boy – Ivan, he said the name with glee – she thought it wouldn't be so bad after all.

After that, Fedyor led her to the Materialki rooms. The classrooms for young Durasts and Alkemi included a chemistry lab and many workshops, not that Freya was surprised. They all looked the same. Same furniture, same colours on the walls. There was only one classroom that seemed different. More personalized. Freya learned why quickly.

There was a woman there when they arrived, her brown hair pulled back into a tail and spilling down her back in curls. She appeared young, her skin not too pale and not too sun-kissed. Her eyes sparkled when she looked at them, the most gorgeous smile Freya had ever seen blooming on her face. Black gloves covered her hands, standing out against the violet fabric of her kefta.

"Freya, meet Katya Kuznetsova, our most senior Durast," Fedyor introduced the woman with an outward movement of his arm as if he was presenting some great item at an auction. Our most senior Durast, Freya remembered the exact same words coming out of Erik's mouth a year prior. She was the mother of the General's son, then. Katya was beautiful, the very picture of a goddess if there ever was one. No wonder the General had been with her. Or perhaps he still was, Freya did not know. Perhaps he even loved her.

It was no wonder the classroom seemed the most lived-in. There was a vase of hyacinths on the woman's desk, a pile of books that were very obviously stories and not books for the students to learn from, a box from which a golden chain spilled over – perhaps a jewellery box or just a place for storage. Katya appeared so young, twenty-five at the oldest, and yet she held the title of the most senior Durast. Freya knew that Grisha aged slower, but all of a sudden she had to wonder how much slower. How long had this classroom been Katya's territory? How long had she spent teaching children here? It could have been more than a century.

"Miss," Freya greeted the woman with a small bow of her head. Katya's smile only widened and she greeted her back, offering to show her some of the things Durasts did in their classes. Freya was more than happy to watch as she bent metal to her will with a flick of her wrists. She did not seem like she had to focus on it at all. Freya marvelled at it. During her lessons with Baghra, she broke a sweat every time she tried to manipulate the sound.

During another demonstration, the door burst open and a dark-haired boy ran in. The General's son – Luca, if Freya remembered correctly. His eyes widened a bit when he noticed them, but visibly relaxed when he realised that it was Fedyor who was there and his mother was waiting for him with a smile. He instantly rushed over to her and Katya wrapped an arm around his red-clad shoulder.

Red. A red kefta meant Corporalki. She had been right, then. He hadn't manifested as a Shadow Summoner. The crimson cloth of his kefta did not have any embroidery on it yet, just as Freya's own blue kefta didn't. Grisha had to earn their colours by finishing training, and many Corporalki could even choose if they wanted to be a Heartrender or a Healer, the abilities so similar that any Grisha of the Corporalki do both if they wished.

"Luca, why don't you go and show Freya the Summoner's training hall," Katya eventually said, running her hand through the boy's raven hair. He looked up at her, rather sad to be dismissed, but when she added that she wanted to speak with Fedyor alone for a moment, he nodded and made his way to the door.

"I heard you are the top of your class, Luca," Fedyor called after him before he and Freya left the room. "You will make a formidable Heartrender." Luca's answering smile was visibly forced, but Fedyor did not let his cheery personality dwindle. He waved them off as they left the room.

The walk through the school was short, but it seemed to take ages. It was veiled in silence, as Luca did not speak and Freya did not know how to start up a conversation with him at all. Usually, she would at least ask questions, but Luca appeared so sad that she feared any words might push him over the metaphorical edge. She wondered what had gotten him into such a mood. He was the General's son, had a kind mother and was obviously talented in his field. What was there to not want? What was there to be sad about?

After a few minutes, Freya eventually said, "You are at the top of your class. Your father must be proud." That proved to be the wrong thing to say, as the grimace that took over Luca's face would make one think he was undergoing torture. He turned his head away from her slightly, and she saw him swallow.

"My father does not care for me," he answered, and the emotion lacing his voice was like a punch to Freya's gut. She could feel his distress, his anger and resentment and the deep disappointment as if it was her own. It was stuck inside of him like the roots of a very old tree. She blinked at him, unsure of what to say. Only a year ago, she had witnessed his father holding him like he was the most precious thing on the planet. What had changed in such a short span of time?

Luca dug his fingers into the red fabric of his kefta, and all of a sudden Freya understood. A Heartrender, not a Shadow Summoner. Not an heir, but just another soldier. She frowned because surely the General had to see more in him than that. Luca was his son, no matter what sort of powers he inherited. Would your father love you if he knew you were a drusje? The voice in her barrelled through her thoughts as fast as a bullet. Yes, she told herself at first, and then the word crumbled and twisted and bled into a firm no. Her father had spent his life fighting Grisha.

"I'm sorry," she said, though she knew that would not fix anything. Luca hummed, the only acceptance she knew she would get from him. They did not say anything after that, but Freya made sure to give his shoulder a comforting squeeze when Fedyor came to get her again.

Author's Note

Freya: I can't wait to see my brother again eventually!

Matthias: *literally becoming a druskelle*