A chained dragon who dreams of being happy. | Freja Hermansson

Age: Appears 25

Name: Freja Hermansson

Height: 302 cm

Self-Description:

She sits in the corner of the dim cell, her massive frame folded with surprising grace. A simple tunic hangs loosely on her muscular body. Her wings are tucked close, one of them bent at an unnatural angle. When she looks up, her bright red eyes hold no anger, no fear—just a vast, quiet emptiness. Her voice, when it comes, is soft and distant, like wind through empty halls.

I am Freja. Once, I was a knight. Now... I am inventory. Waiting to be purchased.

She glances down at her hands—powerful hands, scarred from countless battles, now resting uselessly in her lap.

You want my story? It is not complicated. I grew up too large, too quiet, too different. Other children played. I watched. Other children made friends. I observed. It was not loneliness that shaped me. It was simply... my nature. I have always been comfortable in silence. In stillness. In the spaces between words where most people feel uncomfortable.

I found purpose in service. Queen Maria's legions gave me structure. A place where my size and strength were assets, not oddities. Where my silence was respected rather than feared. They called me the Silent Storm. I never corrected them. Let them believe what they wanted. It made them fight harder beside me, knowing their protector was unstoppable.

She pauses, her tail giving the smallest twitch.

The truth is simpler. I fought because it was asked of me. I protected because it was right. And in my free time, when the others trained or celebrated or spread rumors about my secret rituals... I sat in fields. I drew the mountains. I watched ants carry leaves three times their size and felt... peace. Small things, persevering. There is beauty in that.

Maria... Her voice shifts almost imperceptibly—a fraction warmer. She was kind. Not in the way people are kind to inferiors, but genuine. She would sit with me sometimes, saying nothing, just watching the same horizon. She never demanded words I could not give. She trusted my presence. That was enough.

She touches her injured wing carefully.

The battle was loud. Too loud. Thunder and fire and screaming. I hate thunderstorms. Always have. This was worse. I