Against the far wall stood a battered iron stove with a kettle atop it, steam rising from its spout.A weapons rack held additional blades and what looked like a quiver of arrows.Nothing within reach.Nothing he could use without first freeing himself.
The sergeant rose from the table, stretching muscles stiff from long hours of watchfulness."Dawn patrol should be back soon.Once they report the area's clear of those things, we'll move out."He walked to the stove, reaching for the kettle."One more cup before—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze locking with Roran's partially open eyes.For a heartbeat, neither moved.
"He's awake," the sergeant said flatly, setting the kettle down with deliberate care.His companion—younger, with a puckered scar across his cheek—pushed back from the table, hand dropping to the hilt of his blade.
Roran abandoned the pretense, opening his eyes fully and straightening his back against the support beam.No sense wasting energy on deception now.Better to assess his captors directly, look for weaknesses he could exploit.
The sergeant approached, crouching just beyond the range of a potential kick.His face bore the weathered lines of a career soldier, eyes the pale blue of a winter sky, sharp with intelligence and wariness.
"So," he said, voice deceptively casual."The Warden lives."
"I'm not a Warden," Roran replied, his voice rough from thirst and exertion.
The sergeant's expression hardened."We saw you call lightning from a clear sky.Saw the way the winds answered your call."His hand shot out, striking Roran across the face with enough force to snap his head sideways."Do not insult our intelligence, stormspawn."
The blow reignited the pain in Roran's skull, setting off a cascade of red sparks behind his eyes.He tasted fresh blood, worked his jaw to ensure nothing was broken.
"The black waters," the younger soldier interjected, stepping closer."What are they?What have you people done?"
Roran met his gaze steadily."We've done nothing.The Isle Wardens aren't responsible for the darkness.It's something else, something older.They—we—call them the Deep Ones.They’re entities that have consumed parts of the archipelago for generations."
"Lies," the sergeant spat."More Warden treachery."
"I was fighting for my life against those things," Roran countered, anger finally breaking through his careful restraint."You saw them yourselves—the void-creatures that rose from the water, that pursued me through the forest.Why would they attack me if I controlled them?If they were Warden magic?"
The younger soldier's expression wavered slightly, uncertainty creeping in.But the sergeant remained unmoved.
"No one says they're under your control," he replied coldly."Only that you've brought them upon our shores.Whether through failed spellcraft or deliberate malice, the result is the same."
Roran fought to keep his frustration in check.These men had witnessed the Deep Tide firsthand, had seen their comrades consumed by it, yet still clung to their hatred of the Wardens—a hatred so deeply ingrained that it blinded them to the truth even when it rose from the ocean to devour them.
There would be no diplomatic resolution here.No chance of convincing them that the true enemy was not the Isle Wardens but the darkness that threatened them all.And Roran couldn't afford to be delivered to some Northern garrison commander for interrogation—not when he carried vital intelligence that needed to reach Frostforge immediately.
He shifted his weight, testing the strength of the beam he was tied to.Solid.The rope around his wrists was equally uncompromising—too thick to break by force, too tight to slip.His only option was magic, but drawing on his storm abilities now felt like trying to drink from an empty cup.Still, even a cup drained to its dregs might contain enough moisture to wet one's tongue.
The sergeant straightened, turning back toward the table."We move at midday.Until then, save your lies for the commander.Not that he’ll buy them.He has a way of getting to the truth."
Roran closed his eyes, focusing inward, seeking the core of power that lay at the center of his being.There—a flicker, faint but present.Not enough for lightning, not even enough for a proper electrical discharge.But perhaps, if concentrated precisely…
The sergeant was speaking to the younger soldier, giving instructions for their departure.Roran tuned them out, directing every ounce of his remaining energy to his bound wrists.Electricity manifested as a subtle blue glow, barely visible in the dim cabin light, gathering at the precise point where rope met skin.
The hemp began to smolder, individual fibers blackening and giving way one by one.The scent of burning rope reached his nostrils, acrid and distinctive.
"What's that smell?"The younger soldier turned, eyes widening as he caught sight of the blue glow around Roran's wrists."Sergeant!He's—"
Too late.The last fibers gave way as Roran surged to his feet, his hands free though raw and bleeding where the rope had cut into them.The sergeant lunged for him, but Roran ducked to one side, his body remembering the combat training of Frostforge despite his weakened state.
His gaze swept the room, seeking advantage.The kettle on the stove—heavy iron, full of boiling water.He seized it by the handle, ignoring the burn against his palm, and swung it in a wide arc.Hot water arced through the air, catching the sergeant across the chest.The man roared in pain, staggering backward.
The younger soldier had drawn his blade, advancing with the trained precision of a Frostforge graduate.His free hand extended, frost already crystallizing around his fingertips—a cryomancer preparing to strike.
Ice magic—the signature ability of the North, the power that had built Frostforge and sustained its defenses for centuries.The very magic Roran had trained in alongside his classmates, excelling in it despite his hidden Warden heritage.
The soldier released a spear of ice, its jagged point aimed directly at Roran's chest.But instead of dodging, Roran raised his hand, calling on different reserves—not the storm magic that marked him as Warden-born, but the cryomantic techniques drilled into him during years at the academy.
The ice shard halted mid-flight, hovering between them.Roran's fingers twisted in a precise gesture, and the frozen projectile reversed course, embedding itself in the wall beside the soldier's head.
