𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗦𝗘 𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗦 || 𝖭𝗂𝗄𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗂 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌𝗈𝗏

𝘪𝘹 - 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺-𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵

No, there was no point. She doubted anyone would answer her even if she did shout. Her eyes remained caught on the gaping bullet hole in the young boy's skull. Tears threatened to fill her eyes, but she found that there was no strength left in her.

An ambush. That's what this had been. The Fjerdans had not cared about the Grisha children. They were simply bait to draw the First and Second Army out. It had worked. Djel, it had worked. Freya had been on the other side of an ambush plenty of times and had helped orchestrate plenty. She should have seen it. She should have known. She should not have been so caught off guard.

A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. She was now paying the price for it, bleeding in a fountain with a dead boy in her lap. He couldn't have been older than twelve.

One last bullet fired. A thud followed, surprisingly close to her. The finality struck her with a sudden nauseating wave of dread. Who won? She could not be certain. Now she should call out, see if the answering voice would be one she was familiar with, or if her answer would be the reloading of a rifle. If that was the case, she could at least prepare herself for the cold embrace of death – dark, painful, and terrifying.

When she went to find her voice, the sound died away in her throat. The irony of the Sound Bender not being able to speak did not escape her. The names of the soldiers that had come on this mission with her ran through her mind.

Cillian, a Tidemaker with such a sweet voice that she could listen to him sing all day. He was one of the older Grisha, but certainly still fun to be around. He knew every song there was to know, whether that be a mournful ballad or a cheery sea shanty.

Rain, the Healer that had been found at an orphanage that gave its residents most peculiar names. Freya remembered how she used to speak about the orphans that had lived there with her. Silver, Echo, Bay, usually something to do with where the orphans – too young to remember their names and no relatives to tell it – were found. Rain had been among the first to go when they walked straight into the ambush.

Anastasia, the only Squaller in Freya's regiment that had not yet met her end at the Fjerdan front. Until now, that was. Freya was almost certain she had heard her cry out a few minutes ago. Right after a rather nasty spray of bullets had fired in the direction of one of the huts.

Harshaw, the Kaelish Inferni that seemed to toe the edge of insanity at times. Freya liked him. He was fun to be around and kind on most days, if not a little snarky. His hair was such a bright red that it reminded Freya of blood or the colour of poppy blooms. He always seemed to be a little obsessed with the fire he summoned.

Denali, the second Healer that had joined them. Freya hoped her fate was not the same as Rain's. The Suli girl had such a talent for drawing, it would be a shame for it to be lost to the world.

The world was enveloped in silence for a moment that stretched on far too long. Anyone that had survived the skirmish was probably waiting. Seeing if anyone else would make the next move. The tinge of smoke filtered into Freya's nose. Something was burning close by. She did not have the energy to lift herself and look over the edge of the fountain.

She lifted her gaze from the dead boy in her lap, instead staring at the moss-covered statue that stood in the centre of the fountain. It was a depiction of Sankt Demyan of the Ryme. Patron saint of the newly dead. How fitting.

The sound of scrambling feet across gravel came from close by. Freya's muscles involuntarily tensed, pushing the bullet in her belly deeper into her flesh. Tears of agony welled in her eyes. The pain was so blinding that she could barely focus on whoever it was that was approaching the fountain. She thought about moving, but her legs were so so numb and she was just so tired. Her eyes felt droopy and her muscles languid, as if she had hauled a thousand tons of stone up a perilous mountain.