THE TWO WEEKS they spent travelling from Ulensk to Os Alta for the upcoming winter fete were the best in Freya's life. Never before had she felt so giddy and exhilarated. So ready to continue to the next day. If ever asked, she'd completely deny that it had everything to do with a certain golden-haired Prince of Ravka. Because no, she most definitely didn't kiss the second son of the King and no, she most certainly wasn't craving his touch every moment of every day.

Her desires were fulfilled every evening when they stopped for the night. She'd end up with her back pressed to a wall or a tree, a firm chest pushing into her and hands grasping her waist, hips, and jaw. And Nikolai's lips would always find her own, heated and taking what he wanted. Sometimes, it was the other way around and he was the one who was getting ravished. Freya didn't think she'd ever tire of mouthing her way from his lips to his jaw, then his neck and his collarbones.

Every whimper and muffled moan she drew out of him was like music to her ears, sending goosebumps down her skin. It must've been the same for him as well because she didn't know why he'd spend so long kissing her every night when they finally found a way to be alone if that wasn't the case.

When she snuck her way back to the group afterwards, Luca and Vanya would be there every time waiting for her. Vanya always pretended that she didn't know anything, but Luca raised a mocking brow at her every night. Sometimes, even Harshaw would tease her, but he'd drifted off towards the Grisha he was more familiar with.

Their time together in Mosava was something they both wished to forget. It was easier if he didn't have to look at her. Freya understood, she did. At times, she found herself feeling suffocated when she looked at Leanne. The girl was innocent of everything, but her presence managed to reel in unwanted memories now and then. Freya chose to ignore that to the best of her abilities because Leanne often made her way towards her during the day.

She was the one she was most familiar with, save for Harshaw, and that led to her always seeking either of their presence. Harshaw was constantly aloof though, not a good person to lean on for stability and surety. Freya was nineteen, scared and lonely herself, but she tried her best to provide Leanne with anything she might need.

By the end of the second week, the Grisha had to separate from the First Army soldiers escorting Nikolai. The towers of Os Alta came into view and soon after they were riding off towards the Little Palace. The sight of the familiar dome roofs sent a thrill up Freya's spine. It had been a little over a year and a half since she was last here. She'd almost forgotten what it all looked like.

The walls surrounding the Little Palace provided some much-needed comfort. A shield between her and everything that had hurt her on the outside. And when the sound of children laughing filled her ear, bright and carefree, Freya couldn't help but smile the widest grin she could. The young Grisha students were running around, tossing snowballs at each other and making snow angels in the cold white layers blanketing the ground.

As Freya rode by, they looked up at her and stared. Some already knew her. The older ones had been there a while and had known her before she left to fight in the war. But some of them were new to the Palace, new to being Grisha and everything that came with it. The older ones whispered Siren into the youngers' ears, pointing at her kefta of violet embroidery. Some of them pointed at Luca too, explaining how he was the General's son.

When they dismounted their horses, an all too familiar voice resonated throughout the courtyard of the Little Palace. Freya's head whipped around painfully fast, but she ignored it as a burst of excitement exploded in her chest.

"Zoya!" she cried back and instantly launched herself in the direction where her friend was running from. Zoya had gotten even more beautiful in their time apart. It felt unreal when Freya launched herself into her arms, giggling like a little girl. She swore she let out a squeal as the two of them rocked back and forth, unable to keep themselves from the embrace. They'd been separated for so long. At times, Freya thought she'd never see her friend again.

"I can't believe you're here!" Zoya laughed, finally drawing away from Freya. By then, Luca had dismounted his horse as well and made his way over to them. He and Zoya hugged as well, a quick but firm embrace. "You too, Shadowspawn." Luca rolled his eyes at the nickname but smiled nonetheless.

Zoya encircled each of their arms with one of her own, tugging them along towards the Little Palace entrance. Her voice was loud and clear as she talked to them, telling them that they had to tell her everything and that she had so many things to share.

And they did. In a matter of minutes, the three of them were sprawled over Zoya's bed, shoes kicked off, and keftas tossed over the backs of chairs. Zoya had finally gotten her own room, which meant Freya would soon enough. The bed felt surprisingly empty without Vanya and David there as well, but the golden-haired Heartrender had been tasked with bringing Leanne to the General and David was off somewhere with his experiments. He was not one for gossiping anyway, and he would join them eventually when he remembered that they were there.

Hours were spent with Zoya talking about her escapades on the southern front. The people near the Sikurzoi mountains were strange, she told them, the Ravkan culture mingling with the Shu one in a way she'd barely seen before. She talked about the Suli caravans she saw there as well, and how they reminded her of the home she'd long left behind.

Then there were the stories of her tumbling some random soldiers for the thrill of it. When Zoya finished telling those stories, the three of them lay on the bed in silence for a while.

Freya bit her bottom lip hard, but eventually, she sighed and said, "I kissed the Prince of Ravka." Silence. And then Zoya burst up into a sitting position, twisted to lie on her stomach and barked a sharp what. Luca's laugh was closer to a snicker than anything else, and he did not even try to hide that he was enjoying this a little bit too much.

"Which one?" Zoya cried out as if it already wasn't obvious. The two of them had spent hours chatting about Nikolai after Freya met him at the winter fete. The mere idea that Freya kissed Vasily instead was revolting, and Freya's lips curled up in a look of disgust.

"Are you kidding me?" she asked, exasperated. Zoya's nose scrunched up and she punched Freya reproachfully on the shoulder, before shoving her back in jest. "You think I'd kiss Vasily? He doesn't even have a chin!" That made Luca laugh harder.

"His chin does seem to be lacking," he remarked, sitting up to be on Zoya's level. He looked the Squaller straight in the eye. "She and Prince Nikolai were absolutely deplorable!" he continued in a tone of voice that reminded Freya of a scandalized disgruntled governess. "We couldn't get away from them."

Freya rolled her eyes, and Zoya just laughed.

It was way past midnight when Freya jerked awake on Zoya's bed. She'd fallen asleep there, too tired from the journey to walk back to her chambers. The darkness of the room stifled her as she shot up into a sitting position. For a moment, she didn't even know where she was. All she knew was that it was dark and she was cold, and her abdomen ached.

The patch of skin on her stomach felt slick and wet, and the pain worsened. Air got stuck in her lungs as she tried to inhale. With scrambling fingers, she clawed at the fabric of her shirt. There was something wet and warm on them too. Like in Mosava, the startled realization hit her harder than the bullet had all those weeks ago.

A broken gasp mixed with a terrified whimper scraped the walls of her throat, fighting its way out. Where was she? Where was Harshaw? And Leanne? Why was it so dark, and why was she bleeding? Her head snapped to every possible direction in the darkness, half expecting them to be strung up by drüskelle soldiers or burned at the stake. But there were no bodies or smell of charred flesh, and she was alone.

Alone until a pair of firm hands seized her shoulders. She shrieked, arm flying out in a haphazard attempt to save herself from her attacker. But the grip wasn't malicious, and the hands pulled her tightly against the person's chest in a soldier's embrace. That didn't stop Freya from fighting. It was a trick, she told herself as she kicked her legs and wriggled her body.

"Freya, stop!" an all too familiar voice cried. "It's just me!" That was the thing that finally drew her back to reality. The room wasn't as dark as she previously thought. Pale moonlight filtered in through the window. And the air around her wasn't chilly. It was just her body that seemed bloodless and cold to the touch like a corpse. Zoya didn't let her go for a while, holding her in place until her breathing wasn't as ragged as before.

All the while, Freya mumbled out a series of I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry as if it was a prayer. Zoya shushed her with comforting words, but Freya still couldn't rid herself of the wet and slick feeling on her hands and abdomen. She held her palms in front of her, as one might do when their hands were actually covered in blood, and they couldn't tear their eyes from the carnage. Well, Freya couldn't do that either now, but her hands remained pale and unmarred. Clean and dry.

"It was just a nightmare," Zoya eventually said, but Freya couldn't agree. She'd been plagued by nightmares many times before. None have felt quite this real. There were no boys with bulletholes in their heads, no rough stitches pulling at her skin, no Fjerdan soldiers aiming at her with a gun, and no friends slowly dying before her. This was something more than that. A nightmare imbued with so much terror, hate and anger that it seeped into the very marrow of her bones.

"I'm bleeding," Freya answered instead, mind still reeling from what she'd seen in her sleep. Zoya shifted behind her, looking her over in confusion. When she moved out from under her, Freya lowered herself carefully onto the mattress fully until her back was flat and her eyes looked straight up to the ceilings. Her hands slowly lowered down to her stomach, where she knew a barely healed wound scarred her skin. "I'm bleeding."

The repetition of the words in the hollow voice and the gestures of her fingers curling over the fabric of her shirt seemed to knock realization into Zoya. The raven-haired Squaller shook her head, grasping Freya's hand and using the other to ruck up the shirt to expose her abdomen. A warm palm flattened across her skin, and every muscle in Freya's body tensed.

"No, you're not," Zoya reassured her calmly. Her hand pressed harder into the soft flesh of Freya's belly, just enough to produce the slightest bit of pressure. "I'm no Healer, Freya, but even I know you are most certainly not bleeding." Freya gulped, trying to chase away the panicked dry feeling in her throat. Parched, like she'd not drunk in days. Slowly, she nodded, fighting every demon in her mind until the phrase I'm bleeding was no longer present there. After a few long and agonizing moments, it was only an echo of what it once was, and her skin no longer felt wet and warm and slick with blood that was and wasn't her own.

She'd never had such nightmares before. No battle, big or small, had left her so haunted. Even those months after she was brought to the Little Palace as a child were never so bad. Or perhaps she was misremembering it, the days forgotten in the time that'd passed since then. She doubted it because she'd never woken like this, unaware of everything set in reality.

After she woke, she hadn't been in the Little Palace. In Zoya's room or her bed. She'd been in the fountain in Mosava, the frigid water biting her skin like a thousand prickling needles. She'd been sprawled on the floor of the hut with Harshaw's fingers searching for the bullet inside her. She'd been in the village square as the rain battered down on her, trying with all her might to drag the bodies of her fallen friends onto one pile so she could at least burn them.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Zoya muttered the words. All usual the confidence was gone. Freya stared up at the ceiling for a while before she answered, shaking her head. How could she even begin to explain that horror? Zoya had her own demons from the southern front, Freya was sure. She probably didn't know how to talk about it either. And Freya did not wish to burden her, or at least she told herself that.

She just didn't want to revisit that town of ghosts and corpses. Who in their right mind would?

In the morning, Freya didn't feel the least bit rested. She made her way back to her room – a place she'd never even been to before, as it was assigned to her after she'd left for the front – slowly and painfully. Every muscle in her body ached as if she'd spent the entire day exercising. The day was bleak and grey, not helping her fatigue and lethargy in the slightest.

When she entered her room, she was not surprised to find it bland and empty. Furniture decorated the room nicely, but there were no personal items of any sort anywhere. They were all sitting inside the large chest placed at the foot of the large bed, waiting to be unpacked. Freya couldn't help but wonder which child had been assigned to her previous rooms and who they shared it with. She hoped they'd find a close friend in their roommate as well.

Dropping her crumpled-up kefta onto the settee to her left, she let out a heavy sigh. She wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, but she doubted she'd be able to even if she tried her hardest. After the nightmare woke her earlier, she'd not gotten a wink of sleep. The rest of the night had been spent staring at the ceiling and listening to Zoya's breathing beside her, clutching her hand as if it was the only anchor to the real world that she had. In truth, it was.

Instead of burying herself in the blankets on her bed, Freya made her way to the large chest. She knelt in front of it and opened it carefully. The lid was heavy, but she managed. Despite the many years she'd spent at the Little Palace, she didn't have many personal items. She'd always clung to the idea of going back home one day. In Fjerda, her old things would be waiting for her and she wouldn't need anything new.

That dream was long gone now, burned to ash along with every other good thing she'd ever had. Now, she wished she'd kept more things so that coming back to the Little Palace would feel more like coming home and less like coming back to an orphanage. But that was what it was, wasn't it? At least for people like her. Her father was long gone and her mother had no doubt buried any memory of her. She had no family save for the one she made for herself here.

She reached down into the chest and pulled out the thin silver bracelet that rested on top of everything else. David had given it to her for her sixteenth birthday, blushing and stammering. He was her family, Freya decided. Sweet and awkward David, remembering things he didn't need to. He fashioned the bracelet from pure silver. Foxes were etched into the metal. She'd told him of the nickname Matthias had given her in her youth. Rëv. Fox.

It had been a comment thrown into a conversation. She hadn't even known that he'd heard it, as he was too immersed in his journals to pay attention to such things. But he had heard it and he'd remembered.

Luca was her family too. As were the rest of them. Stubborn Luca, proud Zoya and selfless Vanya. Freya didn't know what she'd do without them. Her life would be that much more miserable if she never met them. If she couldn't have her old family, she would cling to them and pray they'd never be taken from her like her father, mother and siblings had.

The rest of the items in the chest were far more boring. A few books, a badly done carving from when she'd tried to whittle, her very first kefta, the one without any embroidery on it yet. She stood, brushing off her knees. Her gaze swept through the room, taking in everything. When her eyes landed on the table placed by the window, she froze.

How could she have not noticed that the moment she walked into the room? A vase stood atop the table, looking far richer than anything Freya had ever seen in the Little Palace before. She recognized the design from the Grand Palace, the familiar pattern of the Ravkan double-eagle shining brightly upon the porcelain. She stepped towards it, brows furrowed.

There was a note placed beside it, sealed in wax so only she could read it. She didn't need to open it to know who'd sent it. The red blooms in the vase told her enough. The beautiful bright colour of the crimson clover made her chest tighten. Distantly, she remembered telling Nikolai how her father brought it to her mother. A symbol of their love, she'd said then. And now, he was the one sending it to her.

Where he'd gotten the flowers in the middle of winter was a mystery to her, but she supposed nothing was impossible for the Prince of Ravka. She leaned down to smell the flowers, eyes fluttering shut at the scent. It wasn't a sweet scent like that of roses or a strong one like the one a lily bore, but it felt so familiar. Like home.

Warmth bloomed in her chest as she picked up the note and tore open the wax seal. Nikolai's elegant handwriting was scrawled on the small paper. To brighten your day, it said. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she couldn't find it in herself to fight it.

Never in her life had a man gifted her anything in a romantic way. For this was that, wasn't it? Nikolai was romancing her. Boys had barely looked twice at her, despite her unique powers. She was beautiful, but not so much to garner too much attention. Nikolai was the first one to ever pay any deeper attention to her.

Whatever his other aims were, Nikolai most certainly succeeded in the main one. It did brighten her day.

Author's Note

Freya: I'm not really that beautiful

Nikolai in his povs: she's a goddess. I would write poetry about her. literal perfection