As Roran urged his mount toward them, a group of armed figures detached from the column and rode to intercept him.Northern soldiers, their breath clouding around frost-rimmed beards, their spear tips glinting in the weak winter sunlight.They formed a defensive line across his path, forcing the horse to halt.
"State your allegiance," barked their leader, a broad-shouldered man with an icicled beard and hard eyes.He leveled his spear at Roran's chest, close enough that a sudden movement from either man or horse would drive the point home.
Roran raised his empty hands slowly, painfully aware of how Southern his features must appear to these Northerners.The dark curls escaping his hood, the warm brown of his skin—all marked him as foreign here, suspicious.And if they somehow sensed the storm that hummed beneath his skin…
"I am from Frostforge Academy," he answered, keeping his voice steady despite his racing heart."Sent to evaluate the nature of the threat to the Northern Reaches."
The commander's face hardened, his lips curling with undisguised contempt.He spat into the snow between them, a gesture of dismissal so profound it required no words.
"The North needs no help from the sun-rotters at Frostforge," he said finally, the insult falling from his lips with practiced ease."We handle our own problems."
Roran breathed deeply, forcing down the surge of anger that threatened to call lightning to his fingertips.After all he'd seen—the abandoned town, the blackened river, these desperate refugees—this man still clung to regional prejudice like a shield against uncomfortable truth.
"I've come from the academy to gather intelligence about the spread of the black waters," Roran said, each word carefully measured."Frostforge is accepting refugees and shoring up its defenses against this threat.My mission is to understand what we face and offer assistance where needed."
"Assistance?"The commander barked a laugh utterly devoid of humor."When has the South ever offered assistance that didn't come with a price?When have the precious scholars of Frostforge ever dirtied their hands with Northern problems?"
Murmurs of agreement rose from the other soldiers.Behind them, the refugee column had halted, faces turning toward the confrontation with expressions ranging from curiosity to fear.Roran could see women clutching children close, men with the hollow-eyed stare of those who had abandoned everything they owned.
"Where are you taking these people?"Roran asked, deliberately changing course.
The commander considered him for a long moment, as if debating whether to answer at all.Finally, he lowered his spear a fraction.
"Brumal," he said."Trading outpost, three hundred miles inland.We'll keep our people safe there, far from the coast, until this cursed Warden magic subsides."
"Warden magic?"Roran couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice."You think Isle Wardens are behind this?"
"Who else?"the commander demanded."Those storm-calling devils have poisoned our waters, dissolved our coastal fortresses.Another of their foul tactics in this endless war."
Roran shook his head, frustration building in his chest."It's not the Isle Wardens.What you're facing—what we're all facing—are entities known as the Deep Ones.Ancient creatures from the depths that consume everything they touch.The black waters aren't poisoned; they're...changed.Transformed into something that unmakes matter itself."
The commander's eyes narrowed with suspicion."And how would you know such things, Southerner?You speak with great certainty about these...Deep Ones."
Roran hesitated, acutely aware of the dangerous ground he tread.To reveal too much of his knowledge might raise questions about his sources—questions that would inevitably lead to his Warden heritage, to the storm magic he carried in his blood.
"I've seen reports from multiple coastal regions," he said carefully."Both Northern and Southern.The pattern is always the same—black waters that dissolve stone, wood, flesh.Moving against currents, spreading inland along waterways.No poison works that way.No Warden magic has ever shown such effects."
"Pretty words from a Frostforge scholar," the commander scoffed."Whatever you call it, the threat is temporary.The North will do what it has always done—retreat like the hibernal bears when winter comes, survive on stored resources, emerge stronger when the danger passes."
"This danger will not pass," Roran insisted, leaning forward in the saddle."The black waters don't recede.The Deep Ones won't stop at the coast.They'll follow every river, every stream, until there's nothing left to consume.Distance won't save you."
A ripple of unease passed through the watching refugees.A woman clutched her child closer, her face pale with fear.An older man with a merchant's chain around his neck stepped forward from the crowd.
"If what he says is true," the merchant began, his voice cracking with age and exhaustion, "then Brumal offers no safety.It lies on the Frostmelt River—smaller than the Elk, but water all the same."
"This Southerner spreads fear to serve his own purpose," the commander retorted, though Roran noted the first flicker of uncertainty in his eyes."Frostforge wants to draw our strength to their walls, use Northern blood to defend Southern interests."
"Frostforge was built to defend the entire continent," Roran countered, struggling to keep his voice level."Founded by Northern and Southern leaders alike as a bulwark against common enemies.The academy is accepting all refugees.Offering shelter, food, protection.A better chance than a three-hundred-mile trek through winter wilderness to a settlement that may already be compromised."
The commander wheeled his mount between Roran and the refugees, face flushed with anger."Enough!I will not have you undermining my authority or spreading panic among my people!"
"Your people deserve the truth," Roran shot back."They deserve to know what they're facing, to make informed choices about their survival."
"Their survival is my responsibility," the commander growled."Not yours, Southerner."
"My name is Roran Bright," he said, straightening in the saddle."And I was sent to assess the situation in the North, to offer aid where needed, to share information that might save lives.If you won't listen, perhaps others will."
A tense silence fell over the meadow.In the stillness, Roran could hear the soft weeping of a child somewhere in the refugee column, the nervous stamping of horses, the creak of laden carts.These people had already lost everything once.Now they faced a journey with no certain end, led by a man too proud to consider alternatives.
