Freyja had always wondered what freedom felt like. Not the kind of freedom they talked about in the stories—the grandiose myths of heroes slaying monsters and escaping tyranny. No. She wondered about the kind of freedom that came with simply breathing without the pressure of expectations, the kind that didn't come with a price.
But there was no room for that kind of thinking in the world she lived in.
The sun was setting behind the stone walls of her village, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the cobbled streets. Freyja stood by the worn-out market stall, sorting through half-rotted vegetables, a stark reminder of how little her life had changed in eighteen years. Everything in this town, this world, felt… frozen. Stuck.
Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for a wilted cabbage. She could feel the heavy gaze of the villagers on her, the unspoken judgment. You were supposed to be like everyone else, keep your head down, work the land, and never ask questions. Questions had consequences.
"Freyja." Her mother's voice cut through the air, sharp and low. "Focus."
Freyja glanced up. Her mother's face was drawn, eyes hollow with years of hard labor. But the look she gave Freyja was one of something deeper—fear. It was always there now, lurking behind every word, every glance.
"I'm sorry," Freyja muttered, trying to hide her frustration. She shoved the cabbage back into the basket and forced a smile, the kind she knew her mother expected.
She wasn't supposed to ask why the crops never grew right, or why the air always felt so heavy, as if something invisible pressed down on her chest. She wasn't supposed to wonder why they all wore the same dark-gray robes, why their lives seemed to circle around a single truth—freedom was an illusion. It had been drilled into her since childhood. Freedom was something for the lucky, the powerful, the ones born with the right blood.
She wasn't one of those people.
"Let's get home," her mother urged, the words tinged with a warning Freyja could almost taste.
Home. The word was too small for the shack they lived in, too fragile. But Freyja followed, stepping in time with her mother's weary pace.
As they walked down the dusty path, the sound of their boots tapping against the earth seemed to echo louder than the rustling of the wind. The quiet weighed on her, thick and oppressive. She couldn't remember the last time someone had spoken freely in this place. It was as if the very air around them had been shackled.
They reached the house, a modest structure with peeling paint and a sagging roof. The door creaked open, and Freyja stepped inside, the smell of old wood and fading warmth surrounding her.
Her father was already sitting at the table, his broad shoulders hunched over a half-eaten meal. He looked up, his eyes distant, as if he were thinking about something far away. He always looked like that lately—lost in thoughts that Freyja didn't dare interrupt.
"How was the market?" he asked, his voice quiet, as if he had to gather the strength to speak.
"Same as always," Freyja answered, dropping her bag of vegetables onto the counter. "Nothing changes."
Her father didn't respond. Instead, he pushed his plate aside and reached for the small, iron key that always hung around his neck. It was a strange thing, that key. No one ever talked about it, but it always seemed to glow faintly in the dim light of their home.
Freyja's gaze lingered on the key. There was something about it that unsettled her. She had never asked about it. No one did. But tonight, the silence felt different. She felt a strange pull in her chest, a burning curiosity that made her question the unspoken rules.
"Where does it go?" she blurted before she could stop herself.
Her father's eyes darkened, and the warmth in the room seemed to disappear, replaced by a chill. He didn't answer, just turned his face toward the window, as though the question had never been asked.
Her mother sighed, a deep, resigned sound. "Don't start, Freyja. You know better."
Freyja stepped back, her heart pounding. She had crossed a line, she knew it. But something inside her stirred, something that had been quiet for years, something that had been begging to wake up.
For the first time, she felt the chains tightening, not just around her wrists, but around her heart. The world she lived in was a cage—and the bars weren't just made of iron. They were made of fear, and doubt, and the quiet acceptance that freedom was too dangerous to even dream of.
As the sun disappeared behind the hills, Freyja stood there, staring at the shadowy figures of her parents. She could hear the whispers of the wind, the way it seemed to call to her, pulling at something deep inside.
There was something beyond this. Something… more.
And for the first time in her life, she didn't feel afraid of wanting it.