𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗦𝗘 𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗦 || 𝖭𝗂𝗄𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗂 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌𝗈𝗏

𝘪𝘹 - 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺-𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵

A YEAR AT the Fjerdan front had taught Freya Helvar a lot about the cruelties of war. She had lost count of how many deaths she had witnessed. How many deaths she had caused? It was the cycle of everyday life this far to the northern border, a habit that became imbedded into her bones as surely as her summoning. And yet, nothing could have prepared her for how utterly wrong this mission had gone.

It was meant to be a simple rescue mission. In and out, kill a few Fjerdan soldiers if they got in her way. A group of young Grisha had been taken hostage. They had just been discovered by the Grisha testers in a border village, awaiting an escort to be brought to Os Alta when the Fjerdan struck. The village was burnt to the ground, and the young Grisha were taken. Freya had seen the ruins of the once prospering town. Despite the war raging around it, it had gone untouched until then.

The young Grisha had been taken to Mosava, another town even closer to the border, where only old women and young children remained and no one dared to fight the Fjerdan soldiers, lest they lose their own life. Freya had been chosen for the rescue, alongside a few other Grisha and a few First Army men.

In and out.

Except they hadn't gotten out.

Freya's back was pressed to the cold stone wall of the fountain that sat in the centre of the village. A rather rich structure surrounded by huts of decaying wood. It stood out vividly in its surroundings. Utterly out of place. The water was freezing, turning her legs numb where she sat in it. She could barely remember how she had gotten there. Only the burn of her thighs as she sprinted towards it and towards the child huddling inside it, hiding from the gunfire.

She had been so sure that she would get to him. So sure she would save him. She had just jumped the edge when a bullet split the boy's skull and he collapsed, turning the water red with his blood. His head rested in her lap now, the skin morbidly pale already.

The last of the gunshots were going off now. How had the information they had been given been so wrong? There were only supposed to be about twenty Fjerdan soldiers here. Instead, there had been forty, and their guns were much better than that of the First Army soldiers in the group.

A bullet whizzed just above Freya's head, but she did not even flinch. They were not aiming at her, she knew that. She had taken a bullet too, just as the boy had collapsed. Her kefta had snagged on something in the chaos of the fight. It tore open and left her chest and abdomen completely exposed. The thumping pain in her belly where a bullet had ripped through her was enough proof that she should've been more careful. A wheezing breath escaped her lips. Blood seeped between her fingers where they were tightly pressed to her wound.

She thought about crying out, to see who was still alive. Perhaps one of the Healers they had taken with them, or even a Heartrender. They would be able to staunch the bleeding, at least a little. But both of the Heartrenders had gone down first and a Healer had met his end soon after. The Fjerdans knew who to target.