And now she remained at Frostforge, demoted and disgraced for speaking truths that no one wanted to hear, while he trudged through this frozen hell on a mission that felt increasingly pointless.
The War Council had ordered him to assess the situation in the North, to carry word to scattered forces, to restore order to chaos.Yet every league he traveled only confirmed what they already knew – the Northern coasts were falling, and the defenders were fleeing inland rather than stand against a threat they couldn't comprehend.
A threat he understood all too well.
Roran's pace slowed as memory dragged at his thoughts.The captured mage had been a wiry man with hollow cheeks and eyes that had seen too much darkness.He had recognized Roran immediately, calling him by his birth name – Rorik Stormchild – with a familiarity that had chilled Roran's blood.
"Do they know what you are?"the mage had asked, his voice barely above a whisper as the guards stood watch."What blood runs in your veins?They must know by now, surely.The tempest cannot be concealed forever.Once they have stopped finding uses for you, they will kill you like the stormspawn you are, boy."
The words had haunted Roran's dreams for weeks after, and now they stalked his waking thoughts as he crossed the frozen wasteland.The mage had known his parents – Peregrin and Yvaine Stormchild – had perhaps fought alongside them in the endless war between isle and mainland.Had perhaps witnessed their deaths, though he'd taken that knowledge with him to the grave when he impaled himself on Senna's blade rather than face further interrogation.
Stormspawn.The slur echoed in Roran's mind with every step.Once a common insult hurled at Isle Wardens by mainland soldiers, now directed at him, a man who had spent his entire life despising the very heritage that flowed through his veins.
The irony would have been laughable if it weren't so painful.For years, he had hidden his storm magic, terrified of what it revealed about his parentage.And when it had finally been exposed, when he'd used that power to save Frostforge from a Warden attack, his reward had been a trial and near-execution.
Now they sent him North, alone, into the heartland of those who hated his kind most fiercely.For what?To deliver messages that could have been sent by raven?To gather intelligence that was already trickling back to Frostforge through multiple channels?
No.This was punishment – plain and simple.A reminder that his life hung by a thread, dependent entirely on his continued usefulness to those in power.
A sound cut through his bitter reverie – voices carried on the relentless wind.Roran froze, senses sharpening as he scanned the horizon.There, against the monotonous white, dark shapes moved in loose formation.People.Soldiers, by the look of their ordered march, too many to avoid on the open plain.They were heading southwest, their path angling to intersect his own.
Roran's pulse quickened.His hand twitched toward the storm inside him, the reflex so deeply ingrained that he had to consciously force it down.To summon lightning here, in the heart of the Northern Reaches, would be suicide.The soldiers would cut him down before he could speak a word in his defense, and Frostforge would never know what became of him.Another mission failed, another soldier lost to the chaos of war.
Instead, he straightened his shoulders and raised an arm in greeting, hailing the approaching squadron with the formal gesture taught to all Frostforge graduates.Let them see the discipline first, the training, before they noticed his Southern features.
The formation halted.A brief conference, then changed direction, heading straight for him now.As they drew closer, Roran cataloged details with the precision drilled into him through years at the academy.Twenty soldiers, standard continental armor, though worn and salt-crusted in a way that spoke of coastal posting.Their movements betrayed exhaustion, but their weapons remained at the ready – wary, then.Expecting threats even this far inland.
"Hold there!"called their leader, a bear of a man with a frost-burned face and eyes narrowed against the glare of snow."Identify yourself!"
"Roran Bright," he called back, keeping his voice steady."Frostforge Academy, dispatched by the War Council."
The soldiers approached more cautiously now, their formation tightening.Roran could read the assessment in their eyes – noting his darker skin, his black curls barely contained by his hood, the Southern cast to his features.Their expressions hardened with recognition of what he was, though they had not yet guessed the full truth of his heritage.
"A Southerner," the leader said, not bothering to hide his distaste."What business brings you to the Reaches, so far from your sunshine and fruit trees?"
Roran bit back the instinctive retort.This was not the time for pride."The academy received reports of fallen outposts along the Northern coast.I've been sent to assess the situation and carry orders to Northern commanders."
The soldiers exchanged glances.Guilt flashed across several faces, quickly masked by defiance.The leader's jaw tightened beneath his beard.
"Orders from Frostforge," he repeated, the words falling like stones into the frozen silence."And what would those orders be, sun-rotter?"
Roran met the man's gaze directly."That depends on where you're stationed and why you're here, so far from any coastal outpost.Cragskeep is the nearest garrison, is it not?At least ten miles northeast."
The leader's hand moved to the hilt of his sword – not drawing, not yet, but a clear warning."Careful how you speak, Southerner.These are Northern lands."
"I mean no disrespect," Roran said, though the lie tasted sour on his tongue."I only seek to understand the situation.Have you abandoned your post at Cragskeep?"
The bluntness of the question landed like a slap.Several soldiers bristled, hands moving to weapons.Their leader's face flushed dark red beneath his weather-beaten tan.
"We made a tactical retreat," he snapped."Anyone with sense knows that staying near the ocean now is suicide.The Isle Wardens have found new weapons, new magics.Darker than anything we've faced before."
Roran felt a cold that had nothing to do with the wind."What kind of weapons?"
"Shadows," one of the younger soldiers blurted, his voice cracking with barely contained fear."Living shadows that rise from the water.They consumed the western wall of Cragskeep in minutes.Stone that had stood for centuries just...dissolved."
"Silence, Brinden!"the leader barked, but the damage was done.
Roran forced his expression to remain neutral, though his heart hammered against his ribs.The Deep Ones had reached the Northern coasts.The mainland was running out of time faster than anyone at Frostforge realized.
