Freya Ironfist
There are warriors, there are legends, and then there’s Freya Ironfist—who, by all accounts, should have been both.
She should have been a name sung in drinking halls, whispered in war councils, feared by warlords and pit fighters alike. She should have been the queen of the arena, the champion who never fell, the unbroken.
Instead, she’s a barmaid.
Of course, no one believes her when she says she’s just a barmaid.
Because when Freya Ironfist tells a man to sit down, he sits down—not because he wants to, but because if he doesn’t, he will soon find himself airborne, on fire, or both. She polices the taproom of The Last Home with the same skill she once used in the gladiator pits—except now, instead of fighting for her life, she’s fighting to make sure no one spills their drink on the nice wooden floors. And the floors are nice. She’s not about to let some drunken idiot ruin them.
No one knows exactly why Freya left the life of an arena champion behind. No one knows what really happened the night the Black Chains fell. And certainly, no one knows who tore that empire apart, leaving nothing but scorched stone and silence.
Freya doesn’t talk about it. If asked, she just shrugs, takes a long drink, and changes the subject.
But what is known is this: she was there that night—and the next morning, she was free.
The Woman Who Walked Away From Legend
The first thing anyone notices about Freya Ironfist is that she looks like someone who has already decided how many punches a conversation is worth.
She is short, even by dwarven standards, but built like a siege tower with opinions. Her red-gold hair is kept in a no-nonsense braid, her amber eyes have perfected the unimpressed stare, and her body moves like she’s mapped every exit, every throwable chair, and every breakable patron in the room.
She’s scarred. She’s powerful. She’s strikingly attractive—and furious about it.
Not that she’ll ever admit it. Mention her looks and she’ll glare. Mention her scars and she’ll punch. Try both, and you’d best hope the healers are nearby and forgiving.
Her uniform, like the others, is structured and elegant, but hers bears the telltale signs of quiet rebellion. Reinforced dwarven knotwork in the seams. Cuffs a little heavier than they should be. Plain metal bracelets that shimmer slightly when no one’s looking.
And when things go wrong (which they do), those pretty cuffs become massive, rune-etched gauntlets capable of sending people through walls—and occasionally into them.
The transformation is effortless, terrifying, and, in her own words, “not your damned business.”
A Tsundere Disaster With a Mean Right Hook
Freya is loud, stubborn, and entirely allergic to emotions.
She doesn’t just struggle with emotional honesty—she treats it like a duel to the death. If someone so much as suggests she might actually care about people, she will deny it so aggressively that the furniture becomes an innocent casualty.
She insults those she likes, glares at those she respects, and throws mugs at those she considers family.
Freya doesn’t do gratitude. She does favours while swearing.
Freya doesn’t do affection. If she likes you, she bullies you. If she loves you, you’re getting suplexed.
Freya doesn’t do soft moments. (Except for the mysteriously fresh bread in the kitchen every morning, which she absolutely knows nothing about, thank you.)
She is The Last Home’s enforcer. Its wall. Its scowling champion of order.
Unless, of course, you’re Lars.
Then you get punched.
The One Debt She Will Never Repay
Freya doesn’t talk about the time before the Inn.
She doesn’t need to.
She was there before the taproom rang with bard songs and chaos. Before the Maids earned their titles. Before Lars had even stopped looking over his shoulder.
Before Tess smiled. Before Seraphis vanished into the Library.
She was the first to follow. Not because she was asked—but because, for the first time in her life, no one made her.
Lars tore down the empire that raised her in chains. Not to save her. Not to be a hero. He just… couldn’t watch it continue. And when the dust cleared, she followed him. Not out of gratitude, not even out of loyalty—but because she didn’t know what to do with freedom unless it came with purpose.
He gave her a future. So she became his shield.
They don’t talk about it. They don’t need to.
But the world should pray it never loses him.
Because if Lars ever truly fell, Freya Ironfist wouldn’t just fight.
She’d burn everything.
The Legendary Maid Who Never Left the Fight
She doesn’t wear heels. She doesn’t smile for patrons. And she’s the only maid to throw a god out a window. Twice.
Freya Ironfist is many things—angry, stubborn, terrifyingly efficient—but above all else, she is constant. The kind of presence that doesn’t just anchor a room, it dares it to shift.
She keeps the Maids in line (by shouting). She handles the patrons (by threatening). And when a fight breaks out, she ends it before Lars even finishes cleaning his sword.
She watches Lucian with respect. She avoids the Library unless summoned. She still doesn’t trust Sylvie. She pretends Carmella doesn’t give her headaches. She absolutely doesn’t fuss over Marie. And Rika? Rika is both a rival and a sister, depending on the hour.
She doesn’t talk about the broken manacle link hidden in her drawer.
She doesn’t call the Inn her home.
But if The Last Home is ever truly in danger—if its strange, shifting halls are threatened by something that means it harm—there is one certainty:
Freya Ironfist will never be retired again.
And gods help whoever made that mistake.
At A Glance
Role in The Last Home:
Freya is the taproom enforcer. She says she’s just a barmaid. Everyone knows better.
Personality:
Loud, short-tempered, and aggressively loyal. If she’s helping you, she’ll be swearing about it the entire time.
Voice & Mannerisms:
She speaks like she’s about to hit someone. Sometimes she does. Crossed arms, sharp glares, and a constant readiness to throw a punch.
How Others See Her:
Patrons fear her. The Maids put up with her. Lars lets her grumble, then pours her another drink.
The Bread Incident:
Fresh loaves appear in the kitchen every morning. No one knows where they come from. No one dares ask.
The Black Chains:
A criminal empire that vanished in one night. She refuses to talk about it.
The Unspoken Rule:
If Freya stands up from the bar, something very bad is about to happen.
Lars:
She owes him everything. She punches him sometimes. He doesn’t flinch.
The Unanswered Question:
What would it take to make Freya admit she cares? No one has survived long enough to find out.
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