Chapter 7

Freya

   The caravan left me at a crossroads just after dawn on the second day. The driver didn’t look at me when I climbed down. He only pointed with two fingers toward the east road.

“Follow that until you see the old birch split by lightning,” he said. “After that, ask again.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

He grunted like gratitude was unnecessary and flicked the reins. The wagons rolled away in a cloud of dust, leaving me standing alone with the wind tugging at my coat.

For a moment, I wondered if I had just made the worst mistake of my life. It looked like it, but I quickly shook it off, then I started walking.

By midday my legs ached, and the soles of my shoes felt too thin for the gravel roads. I stopped at a roadside stall where a woman sold dried apples and watered wine. She squinted at me when I asked about neutral territory roads.

“You’re headed to Thornfield?” she asked, lowering her voice instinctively.

“Yes.”

She studied my face like she was trying to place me and I held her gaze steadily.

“That way,” she said at last, pointing south. “You’ll know it when you see it. They don’t hide.”

There was something in her tone I couldn’t quite read. Pity? Respect? I wasn't sure, but since I didn't have much time on my hands, I thanked her and kept moving.

By the time I saw the settlement, the sun was low and gold against the horizon, and when I say I was surprised, you just had to believe me. 

I had imagined something else, something bleak and straight out of a dystopian novel. 

I had pictured sagging roofs and hollow eyed wolves sitting in doorways with nothing left in them but resentment. I had prepared myself for the smell of despair, but what I found instead was smoke from cooking fires and the sound of laughter.

Children ran between buildings that were small but sturdy. Someone was arguing loudly about bread prices near a cart stacked with turnips, and tlwo men were repairing a fence while debating something with the intensity of generals planning a war.

The buildings were simple, the roads were made of dirt, even though there were no polished gates or carved insignias declaring status, there was life.

Real life.

I slowed without meaning to and surprisingly, no one stared, no one bowed, and not even one person whispered.

I was just another woman walking into town. Before I reached the first building, a woman stepped out to meet me.

She was compact and straight backed, her grey streaked hair pulled tight at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were sharp enough to cut through pretense.

She looked me over once, slowly, the way a healer examines a wound.

“You walked,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“How far?”

“Two days by wagon.” I swallowed. “The rest on foot.”

She nodded once, filing that away. Her gaze dropped briefly to my stomach, then back to my face. It was subtle, but I noticed.

“I’m Mira,” she said. “And you look like you’re about to fall over.”

“I’m fine.”

“You can fool everyone else but not me.” She lifted one eyebrow. “You’re pale, exhausted, and pretending very hard not to sway. That’s not fine.”

Something in her tone, dry, and unimpressed, almost made me smile. Maybe this place wouldn't be so bad at all. 

“I won’t cause trouble,” I said quietly. “I just need somewhere to stay. I can work.”

“Really?” She studied me again, this time less like a patient and more like a puzzle. “What’s your name?”

“Freya.”

She didn’t react to it. Good.

“Freya,” she repeated. “You can work after you sleep. Come on.”

She turned without waiting for agreement and I hesitated only a second before following. I didn't know how long we were going to walk for, but luckily for me, it wasn't too long. 

Inside, the building smelled like herbs and woodsmoke. Mira pressed a bowl into my hands before I could protest.

“Eat.”

“I can pay…”

“You can eat,” she corrected. “Then you can sleep. We’ll argue about payment later.”

The soup was hot enough to sting my tongue. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until the first spoonful hit my stomach and warmth spread through me.

Mira watched until I finished half the bowl.

“There’s a cot in the back room,” she said. “It’s yours for now and the door locks from the inside.”

The last sentence landed heavier than the rest.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Sleep, Freya.” She shrugged like gratitude bored her. “You look like someone who hasn’t in years.”

Her words got to me, because in a way, she was right. 

After eating, I headed straight to the room. I didn’t remember lying down. I only remembered closing my eyes, and then, I saw light. 

It was soft and golden and wrong. I blinked up at a ceiling I didn’t recognize. For a disoriented second, panic shot through me. My body tensed automatically, my heart racing, and my ears straining for footsteps in a corridor. For a door opening, for the shift in air that meant someone’s mood was about to decide my night.

But nothing came. No heavy steps, no slammed doors, and no voice calling my name like it was an accusation. Just quiet, real quiet.

I turned my head slowly toward the window. Afternoon light streamed through thin curtains, and dust motes floated lazily in the beam.

I pushed myself up on my elbows and my body felt heavy, not with fear, but with rest.

I had slept, through the night, through the morning, maybe longer, and not once had I woken braced for impact.

The realization hit harder than the rejection had.

For years, my sleep had never been sleep. It had been waiting, half-alert, half-ready, and always listening for the shift in someone else’s temper.

That bracing was gone.

My shoulders weren’t up around my ears, my jaw didn’t ache from clenching. I lay back down slowly, staring at the ceiling.

“I slept,” I whispered to no one, and this time, there was a warmth in my chest, not the sharp, aching burn of a bond, but something steadier.

Eliza.

She was there, curled inside me like a cat finding the warmest corner of a room. She was calm and present and as I pressed my hand over my heart, she whispered. 

“This place is safe,”

Her voice was simple and it was the most she had offered without being pulled.

I swallowed.

Safe. The word felt foreign, fragile, and almost dangerous to believe, but my body had already believed it. My body had let go before my mind could argue.

I closed my eyes again, just for a moment.

“I think you’re right,” I told her softly.

And for the first time since I walked out of that hall, I allowed myself to exhale without waiting for something to break.