“Frey!” yelled John as he ran through the tall grass toward where he knew she would be. He was the only one brave enough to venture into the grass with her. John was around the same age as her. They had practically grown up together, his father working in the Manor ever since they had come to call it home. Unlike her, who only attended lessons, John already worked—often leaving the manor grounds to run various errands in the city. She had always longed to leave the cage that held her here, even if she knew it was for her own safety.

John was somewhat taller than her, with shaggy light brown hair and warm brown eyes. After she had stopped growing in height, and he continued, he would often tease her for being so short. How could a guy be so short? He would laugh. You'll definitely have trouble with the ladies' young master. It was revenge for the years of relentless teasing from her end, but it made her happy that there was someone to spend time with. Someone who wasn't scared to treat her as an equal.

It made her cheeks flush—maybe from embarrassment? It was a strange thing to know oneself as a girl but be perceived as a boy. How would he possibly know if she had grown up as Frey? It was still strange to her. She could still not accept that he had become a man after coming of age, so to her, he had remained the same boy she had met all those years ago. He ran to her and stopped taking an exaggerated deep breath.

“I have a letter for you,” he said, holding out the yellowed parchment.

“For me? You must be mistaken,” she looked up at him from her spot on the ground.

It was strange. She had never gotten any letters; how could she if her existence was supposed to be a well-kept secret? A letter for her-it had to have been a mistake. “You can’t even read, John. How would you know it was for me?”

“I know!” he exclaimed. She could not tell if he was offended but could hear a sliver of hurt in his voice. They both came from different worlds. There was nothing wrong with not knowing how to read if you would never need to. If there ever came a time when John needed something read or written he could use the services of a scribe. That's how it worked. “The man told me that it must be given straight to you and nobody else.”

"He asked for me by name?" She asked doubtfully.

John looked at her, hurt. "Young master, you don't really think I'm as dull as a stone?"

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She sighed, she knew it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t read, she rumbled through her brain to look for an apology to give. He plopped down on the ground beside her and handed her the message, “He seemed sure enough to me,” he smiled at her, a smile that she knew meant he had already forgiven her. It had always been like this; she would say something before thinking and he would always forgive her. John was too kind for his own good. That kindness could easily be used someday.

She looked at the letter handed to her, flipping the parchment over and letting her fingers trail over the edges. There was no arguing that the parchment was of good quality, which meant it must have come from someone who was important.

In fact there was no name on the parchment, no seal, it was just a piece of folded parchment. She bit her lip, a bit nervous and unsure of what to expect.

My dearest granddaughter,

I have never had the chance to meet you or write to you. I won't blame you if you don't believe that I am truly your grandfather. I just hope this message reaches you in time. I pray to the 12th headed gods that I am not too late. They have caught scent of your wearabouts. You must pack your bags and flee as fast as the wind may carry. Waste no time my dear lovely Freya for I hope to see you someday in my lifetime.

Blood drained from her face. Her grandfather? The word danced around her mind, bouncing around, not quite landing. Of course, she must have had a grandfather and even a grandmother, but- she shook her head, that wasn't important now. There was danger coming.

It had been so long since anything like this was mentioned. So long, in fact, she had forgotten. She had forgotten that her life had always been hanging on a thread, waiting to be caught or killed. It was why every day she had to get up and practice. It was why her muscles were always sore and her hands stained with ink and hardened by callous. It was why she could never live as Freya. She took a deep breath. You must learn to control your fear. Her mother had always stressed the importance of keeping a cool head. In a dangerous situation, you must keep a clear head. Your ability to keep calm is a matter of life and death.

“What does it say?” John asked as he glanced at the paper. She had no time to waste. Quickly getting up from her spot, she dusted off her trousers.

"Are you okay? You've grown pale, young master," John said.

“John, I need to go find my mother,” her voice came out the slightest bit shaky. Even if she had never known who “they” were or that she even had grandparents, she knew she had to be afraid of them because her whole life, she was taught that there were those she had to fear. It did not matter who had written the message. She needed to get to her mother now.

She could see the worry in Johns eyes, but he kept quite replying with just a nod. They made their way to the Manor. Her legs moving faster than they had ever before. Run your life depends on this.