Hilda Dáíre

Chapter 2: Hilda

There were two of them. Two Grisha.

Hilda didn't know how she knew they were Grisha. They weren't wearing keftas, the traditional Ravkan clothing that all Grisha wore, but somehow, she knew. There was an air to them. An air of distinct power. It rippled through the air as they moved, following them as they made their way upwards to the deck of the fishing boat, Hilda following them wordlessly.

When they stepped out of the pit of darkness Hilda had spent weeks in, she realized they had indeed arrived in Ravka.

The day was clear and brisk, with hardly a wisp of cloud in the pale sky. Ships flocked in the harbor, sailing off in different directions, their flags waving in the breezes coming off the water. Hilda breathed in the crisp air of the docks. The smell of fish and salt was overpowering, but less so then it had been in the hold.

Her eyes fell upon the fisherman, lying motionless in the center of the deck. His eyes were white, rolled up into his head. Hilda gasped and rushed forward, kneeling by his side.

"What did you do to him?" she sputtered in rough Ravkan, looking to the two Grisha who stood, watching her.

"He's not dead," one of them said. Her voice had a slight accent. Kaelish, possibly? She certainly looked the part, with her bright red hair that only those from the Wandering Isle seemed to have.

"Do not worry," the other one said, her eyes watching the face of the unconscious fishermen. "I lowered his pulse. He should wake up in ten or so minutes."

"Who are you?" Hilda asked nervously. "Are you Grisha?" She already knew they were, of course, but she thought it would be best to make sure it was definite before she went along with them.

"Yes, naturally," the second one responded. This one had light brown hair, tugged up into two bundles on the top of her head, and a slightly upturned nose. Her accent was unfamiliar to Hilda. "Come on now. We'll want to be getting you to the Little Palace with no more trouble."

Hilda thought it best to follow them.

They leapt down onto the dock, leaving the fishing boat behind. Hilda was surprisingly sad to leave it. It had been her home for a rough two weeks. But the memory of the fish made her turn her head away and follow the two Grisha through the bustling crowd.

It proved difficult. There were so many people. Kerch merchants laden with jurda and silk finery, shouting out to the crowd. Zemini scholars making their way to Os Alta University, their arms carrying heavy books. Fishermen hollering deals on the latest catch. Hilda even thought she saw a glimpse of a blue Fjerdan eye and turned her head, worried someone might recognize her. It was hard to follow the young Grisha women. As they made their way towards the end of the docks, a middle aged man, drunk on kvas most likely, called out to her.

"Oi, lapushka!" Darling, the man was calling her. Hilda ignored him. She kept her eyes trained on Grisha. Then she stumbled.

"Miss, are you alright?" a woman cried as she fell hard to the ground.

"I am fine," Hilda pushed herself up, shaking her hands. The woman gasped, her dark eyes widening. Hilda looked around, confused. The people around her were slipping glances at her, their faces astonished.

And then it came to her.

Her hood had slipped free when she stood up.

Her curse was showing.

"Oi, she's a Volk'e Babink!" the drunk man called, swaggering against the crowd. A wolf barbarian. Hilda's eyes stung with tears. It was a crude term for Fjerdan, the enemy of these people.