"Don't fight it," Naj instructed, watching her closely."Feel the current.You've sensed such energies before, yes?In metals, in natural materials.This is no different.Find its pattern."
Thalia drew a shaky breath, calling on the current-sensing ability that had always come naturally to her.Gradually, she became aware of the electricity's flow through the blade—not chaotic as she had first thought, but rhythmic, almost tidal in its surges and recessions.It prickled along her skin, alerting rather than harming, like the warning pressure before a lightning strike.
Her stance shifted instinctively, knees loosening, shoulders relaxing—the opposite of every Frostforge combat stance she had ever learned.The blade hummed in her hand, its energy threading through the metal like quicksilver.
Naj's eyes narrowed in recognition."Good," he murmured."You can feel it.Most mainlanders would just get burned."
Thalia moved through the basic position Naj had demonstrated, allowing the blade to guide her as much as she guided it.The electricity responded to her movements, intensifying with each correct adjustment, receding when she forced or rushed.It was unlike any weapon she had ever wielded—alive, searching, shifting.
Around them, the others had paused in their work to watch.Kaine stood tense, ready to intervene if the blade's power overwhelmed her.Ashe observed with skeptical attention, clearly reserving judgment.Luna's eyes were soft with fascination, her clever mind no doubt cataloging every detail.Brynn's expression betrayed irritation that Thalia had been chosen to try first, while Rasmus leaned forward, more interested in the blade's mechanics than the magic.
Thalia completed a simple sequence of movements, the blade trailing blue fire through the air with each arc.When she finished, perspiration beaded on her forehead despite the cavern's chill, her breathing slightly elevated from the intense concentration required.
"Remarkable," Naj said, genuine surprise in his voice."You move with the storm rather than against it.I did not think a mainlander capable of such...harmony."
"Is it enough?"Thalia asked, lowering the blade."Can you teach us to use these weapons effectively against the Deep Ones?"
Naj considered her question, his weathered face solemn in the forge's light."Perhaps," he conceded."Your sensitivity to currents gives you an advantage others will not have.But yes, I believe we can teach your people enough to make these weapons valuable in the coming fight."His expression darkened."Though whether any weapon will truly be enough against the Tide remains to be seen."
Thalia nodded, accepting both his assessment and his lingering doubt.They had no guarantees, only possibilities—fragile strands of hope woven together against overwhelming darkness.But it was more than they had before, more than the Council's paralysis and prejudice had yielded.
"We'll forge as many blades as we can," she said, looking around at the unlikely alliance gathered in their hidden forge."Train as many willing hands as possible."Her fingers tightened around the hybrid weapon, feeling its power pulse in response."And when the Deep Tide reaches Frostforge's walls, we'll be ready to meet it—together."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Consciousness returned to Roran like a tide creeping up a shoreline—gradual, then sudden.First came pain, a dull throbbing at the base of his skull.Then sensation—rough wood against his back, coarse rope binding his wrists, the metallic taste of blood on his split lip.
He kept his eyes closed, breathing slow and deep in feigned unconsciousness while his mind assembled fragments of memory: the cliff edge, the black waters below, the void-creatures pursuing him through the forest.And finally, before darkness claimed him, voices with Northern accents and the glint of steel in torchlight.
The air around him smelled of pine smoke and damp wool, with an underlying tang of fear-sweat and old blood.A cabin, then.Not a cell or a formal holding room.The floor beneath him was packed earth rather than stone, and the support beam his hands were tied around felt rough-hewn, not the smooth-worked timber of a permanent structure.
He flexed his fingers slightly, testing his bonds without making it obvious he was awake.The rope bit into his skin, abrading already raw wrists.Whoever had tied him knew their knots—tight enough to prevent escape, not tight enough to cut off circulation.Professional.Military.
Voices murmured somewhere to his left, just beyond the range of clear hearing.Roran concentrated, forcing his breathing to remain slow and regular while he strained to catch their words.
"—have only seen its like from archipelago raiders," one voice was saying, male, with the hard consonants typical of Northern speech."The lightning came right from his hands.Pure Warden sorcery."
"Aye," a second voice agreed."Captain Halgrim would have gutted him on the spot if he'd been here."
"Lucky for the Warden the black waters took him, then."The first speaker's tone darkened.“Not so lucky for Eastwatch.”
Eastwatch—the fortress Roran had sought, finding only that perfect void of darkness in its place.These men must be survivors of its fall, more Northern soldiers who'd witnessed the Deep Tide's advance firsthand yet still believed it to be Warden magic.
"But that's what doesn't make sense," the second voice continued, lower now, uncertain."Those...things.The shadows that rose from the water.They were pursuing him.Hunting him.Why would they attack one of their own masters?"
A chair scraped against the floor."Who says they're masters?"the first voice countered."Perhaps the Wardens have finally conjured something they can't control.Wouldn't be the first time dark magic turned on its wielder."
"Either way," the second voice firmed with resolve, "the commander at the inland garrison will want to question him personally.A Warden captive is valuable—especially one who can tell us what those shadow-creatures are and how to fight them."
A grunt of agreement.
Roran took mental inventory of his body.Weakness permeated every fiber of his being, a bone-deep exhaustion unlike anything he'd experienced before.Drawing on storm magic as he had, channeling lightning strike after lightning strike against the Deep Ones, had depleted his reserves almost entirely.What remained flickered within him like a candle guttering in a draft, barely enough to warm his skin, let alone strike at an enemy.
And yet the soldiers had made a critical error.There were no suppression runes on his bonds, no magic-dampening shackles like those the Isle Wardens wore at Frostforge.Perhaps they lacked the specialized equipment so far north, or perhaps they believed him too weak to be a threat.
Through slitted eyes, Roran surveyed his surroundings.The cabin was sparse—one room with log walls and a packed earth floor.A single door faced him, flanked by a shuttered window that admitted thin slices of gray morning light.
To his left, the two soldiers sat at a rough-hewn table, both dressed in the leather and fur-trimmed uniforms of the Northern Rangers, one with sergeant's markings on his collar.Their weapons lay within reach—ice-steel swords, daggers, a crossbow mounted and ready.
