If Freya had any notion in her mind that Jeriah might not drive her as hard because he would be busy with his new recruit, the next few days quashed that entirely. Jeriah had not only continued her normal training, but it further intensified.
It was that damn Fratley's fault, Freya knew. It had to be. Ever since he had returned, Jeriah had seemed preoccupied when not training her, but he was more than happy to treat her with a harsher severity than ever during her now-extended sessions, driving her to standards that even she could not meet despite being accustomed to pushing herself.
It was the days when Freya trained with the knights that she hated the most. There was no doubt that Fratley was a great warrior, and oftentimes he assisted in training the other knights. This got under Jeriah's skin immensely, and as if to compensate, he drove Freya to exhaustion.
"Stand, girl," Jeriah barked after knocking her down yet again. She struggled to her feet, the spear in her hand a burden to her weary muscles.
Jeriah was prepared to come at her again when a voice across the training ground called, "Captain!"
He paused, turning to the voice. It was one of the castle soldiers. The man continued, "The king requests your presence, sir."
Jeriah frowned. He did not like being interrupted from his training sessions, and they all knew it.
"Allow me to take over, sir," came a nearby voice, and Freya turned her head just enough to see that it was the very man who was the cause of all her current distress: Fratley. A scowl fixed on her face.
"Fine," Jeriah said as he turned to leave. "Maybe you can teach this girl a thing or two."
Freya remained hunched over, panting, as Fratley stepped in front of her. Their eyes met, and Freya blanched for the briefest of moments. He was smiling at her.
She held her spear out in front of her.
"Your skill is very impressive for fifteen," Fratley said. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Be wary of who you aim your weapons at, though. I am not going to spar with you. You'll only hurt yourself as tired as you are. However," he approached her, and she shifted away slightly, but he circled around to her back. "Your stance is too top-heavy." His hands found her torso, gently adjusting her position. She wanted to whip around and knock him away from her, but she was in too much pain; her muscles trembled beneath his hands, and even as she tried to hold the position he had set her in, her shaking intensified. Fratley grew quiet, then he said, "That's enough. Freya, please, sit."
She sighed as her rump met the stone, lowering her head and allowing the melodic pattering of rain to blot out the whirlwind of thoughts in her head.
Then Fratley spoke again. "If Jeriah would allow, I would like to train with you tomorrow. What do you think?"
Freya grit her teeth. "As if I've a say in the matter." She tipped her head back, catching the water in her mouth.
"Shouldn't you have?"
Freya swallowed and laughed. "This is not a democracy, Sir Fratley. I've as much choice in my training as you've choice in the color of your hair." It was yellow like cream, she noted.
"Perhaps not," Fratley proposed. "He does love you."
Freya snorted. "Save that silver tongue for my father. It's of no use here."
—.—
Freya thought she had her fill of surprises when Jeriah had actually agreed to Fratley's request to personally train her, but she was wrong.
What surprised her more was that Fratley and her father were absolutely nothing alike.
"Good, Freya," he praised her. She knitted her brows at him, but said nothing. "But don't allow your offense to take away from your defense. You have impeccable defense when you focus."
What? Impeccable defense? Freya? There was no such thing.
There always needed to be more.
Or so she had thought.
She came at him again, and he dodged her, leaping high into the air and landing behind her. She swung around, and he leaped away again.
Freya thought she hated Fratley. She hated the way he had talked to her like he was so much better even though he was only three years older than her, barely her superior as far as age was concerned. He was far too willing to assist the common Burmecian no matter what the task and he seemed to have little understanding of the dignity and importance of his position at all. He was constantly taking it upon himself to help with her father's job and Freya was surprised that Jeriah had not already wrung his neck.
But as for his skills? Even Freya was impressed at his prowess. Yet Fratley was not braggart at all.
She respected him, but even worse, she thought she may be starting to like him.
—.—
Fratley stopped Freya before she could make her way home.
"If I may, Freya," he said, "when is the last time you went to the harvest celebration?"
"It's been years," she admitted, narrowing her eyes at him. "Why do you ask?"
"It is tomorrow, and I should like not to miss seeing you dance," he answered far too casually.
"You wish to see me dance? You've seen me dance a million times now, Sir Fratley, here on the training ground."
"A different dance, then. Where maybe you don't look so tense," Fratley countered.
"Tense?" she repeated with mild disbelief. "Well I should look tense in one of those silly little frocks, bouncing around in the midst of a hundred other people looking just as ridiculous."
Fratley laughed, and for some reason it made Freya smile. "Would you come anyhow? If only for the chance to see me bounce around, looking ridiculous? I promise you won't want to miss it."
"You may be right about that, Sir Fratley," Freya agreed, and she walked away with the smile still plastered on her face.
