"Identify yourself!"The command carried across the clearing, sharp with suspicion.
Roran raised his empty hands, palms forward."Roran Bright!Messenger from Frostforge Academy!"
His words triggered a ripple of movement among the soldiers.Two conferred in hushed tones while the others maintained their aim, arrows nocked and ready.After a moment, one man nodded and gestured for Roran to approach.
"Slowly," the soldier called."Any weapons, declare them now."
"A sword at my hip, a dagger in my boot," Roran replied, keeping his hands visible as he began to walk forward.He made no mention of the storm magic coursing beneath his skin, a power that outmatched any blade they might possess.Some secrets were best kept, especially among Northerners who would execute him for his heritage if they knew.
The soldiers parted to create a narrow corridor of bodies, through which Roran walked with measured steps.Their eyes tracked his every movement, fingers tense on bowstrings, ready to release at the slightest provocation.As he passed, Roran noted the details that told a deeper story than their military bearing suggested—gaunt faces beneath dirt-streaked helmets, uniforms patched with whatever materials had been available, the tremor in hands that should have been steady.
These men were afraid.Not with the temporary fear of battle, but with something deeper, more fundamental.The kind of fear that rewrote a person's understanding of the world.
They led him to the center of the camp, where a large tent stood apart from the others.Its canvas walls were reinforced with panels of wood and what appeared to be salvaged ship's planking, creating a makeshift command post.Outside, a fire burned in a stone ring, above which hung a pot of something that might have been stew, though the thin wisps of steam rising from its surface suggested it contained more water than substance.
A man emerged from the tent, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the fire's glow.Gray streaked his beard like ash through embers, and a jagged scar bisected his left eyebrow, continuing down to disappear beneath a leather eye patch.His remaining eye, the color of steel in winter light, fixed on Roran with the calculating assessment of a predator.
"Captain Ragnor," one of the soldiers said, his tone suggesting the introduction was for Roran's benefit rather than the captain's.
Roran inclined his head in acknowledgment, careful to maintain the balance between respect and dignity.Northern military hierarchy valued both.
"You claim to come from Frostforge," the captain said, his voice as rough as the granite at his back."Yet you wear no uniform, carry no official seal."
"I travel light, and the uniform would only draw attention," Roran replied."I can describe the academy in detail if you require proof.The Crystalline plateau, the Howling Forge, Instructor Wolfe's tendency to—"
"Enough," Captain Ragnor interrupted, waving a dismissive hand."If you were a spy, you'd have a better story prepared.And if you were an enemy..."A grim smile touched his lips."Well, our enemies don't usually walk up to the front gate and announce themselves."
He gestured toward the fire."Sit.You look half-frozen, and we've little enough hospitality to offer, but there's warmth at least."
Roran accepted the invitation, settling on a log that had been positioned near the fire.The captain called for bowls, and a young soldier hurried to ladle out portions of the watery stew.Roran accepted his with murmured thanks, noting how the serving barely covered the bottom of the wooden bowl.These men were rationing carefully—another sign that they intended to remain here, far from supply lines.
"What brings a Frostforge messenger to our humble camp?"the captain asked after several moments of silence, during which Roran had pretended to focus on his meager meal.
Roran set the bowl aside, meeting the captain's steady gaze."I'm gathering intelligence on Northern coastal defenses.Reports reached the academy that outposts were being abandoned.I was sent to confirm and assess."
A ripple of tension passed through the gathered soldiers.Several exchanged glances loaded with unspoken communication.Captain Ragnor's expression hardened, his single eye narrowing.
"Abandoned," he repeated, the word sharp as broken glass."Is that what they're calling it at your precious academy?Abandonment implies choice, boy.It implies cowardice."His hand clenched around his bowl, knuckles whitening."Is that what you think of us?That we've abandoned our posts like frightened children fleeing shadows?"
The accusation hung in the air between them, charged with wounded pride and barely contained fury.Roran realized his error too late—the careless implication of his words cutting deeper than he'd intended.
"I meant no offense," he began, but the captain was already rising to his feet, his stew forgotten as he loomed over Roran.
"No offense?"Ragnor's voice rose, drawing the attention of every soldier in the vicinity."You sit there in judgment, Frostforge's Southern errand boy, questioning our honor when you haven't seen what we've seen.Haven't fought what we fought."
Roran remained seated, keeping his posture open, non-threatening.Aggression would only escalate the situation."You're right," he conceded, raising his hands slightly."I spoke without knowing your circumstances.I apologize for the implication."
The captain studied him for a long moment, apparently weighing the sincerity of his apology.Finally, he lowered himself back to his seat, though the tension in his frame suggested his anger had merely been banked, not extinguished.
"There is no post left to abandon," Ragnor said, his voice quieter now but no less intense."Stonehaven Fortress is gone.Not taken, not overrun.Gone."
Roran leaned forward, his interest sharpening."What happened?"
Ragnor's gaze shifted to the fire, as if he could see the events replayed in its dancing flames."We were stationed at the northwest tip of Ironbay Peninsula.Solid fortress, built on bedrock, walls thirty feet high and eight feet thick at the base.Been standing for three centuries, weathered everything from Warden raids to the great blizzard two decades ago."
He fell silent, lost in memory, and one of his soldiers—a wiry man with a nervous twitch in his left hand—picked up the narrative.
"Started with the fog," he said, his eyes darting between Roran and the surrounding darkness, as if expecting something to emerge from the shadows at any moment."Rolled in from the sea about a week ago.Unnatural thick, it was.Couldn't see your hand in front of your face."
