CHAPTER EIGHT
The infirmary's shadows lengthened as afternoon light retreated from the narrow windows, but Roran remained unmoved, his eyes burning from lack of sleep, his shoulders rigid with the stubborn determination that had become both armor and prison.He had stayed beside Thalia’s unconscious form since he had first found her lying in the Founders’ Price chamber, and he would not leave now, would not let physical weaknesses take him from her side.
"Roran."Ashe's voice cut through the silence, her Northern accent sharpening his name to a point.He didn't turn.
The floorboards creaked as she approached, each step measured with the careful precision of a warrior used to treading lightly.She came to stand beside him, her tall frame casting a longer shadow over Thalia's still form.
"When did you last sleep?"she asked, though they both knew the answer.
"I'm fine."The lie tasted stale on his tongue, repeated so many times it had lost whatever power it might once have held.
Ashe sighed, a sound pulled from deep within her chest."The bags under your eyes suggest otherwise."
He offered no response.Thalia's skin had gained a hint of color in the past hours—or perhaps that was just his desperate mind conjuring improvement where none existed.Her dark curls splayed across the pillow like ink spilled across parchment, her breathing so shallow that sometimes he had to watch for minutes to be sure her chest still rose and fell.
"Three days, Roran," Ashe continued, her voice softening to something almost gentle.It was a tone he'd rarely heard from her, and it scraped against his frayed nerves like a blade against stone."Three days without proper sleep, barely eating, hardly moving from this spot."
"What would you have me do?"he asked, the words emerging hoarse and rough."Leave her?"
"I would have you survive."She placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingers strong and steadying."The Deep Tide is gathering.When it comes—and it will come—we'll need every fighter.Every storm-caller, especially."
The words struck a chord somewhere in Roran's chest, resonating with a truth he'd been trying to ignore.Since revealing his abilities, since using them openly in battle, he'd become more than just another soldier.Storm magic had proven itself key to driving back the Deep Tide; without the Isle Warden contingent to defend Frostforge, the keep would have already fallen.And the looks he’d been getting since then from the healers, from the other injured within the infirmary… they were different than the open stares he was used to.Looks of respect.Of gratitude.Even some Northerners within the academy’s walls had begun to recognize the value of stormspawn allies.
“There are plenty of other storm-callers,” he muttered, but the fire had gone out of his objection.
Ashe sighed.“To hear Naj tell it, you are particularly powerful, even by their standards.And we need every ounce of power we can get.”She looked past him, her eyes landing on Thalia.“You may have noticed that Thalia can’t fight for herself right now.You should be preparing to defend her.”
"I can't prepare by sleeping.”
"You can't prepare by collapsing from exhaustion, either."Ashe moved into his line of sight, forcing him to meet her gaze.Her eyes were clear and direct, with none of the evasion or pity he'd come to expect from others."Look at yourself, Roran.Your hands shake.Your eyes can barely focus.In this state, could you call the storm?Could you direct lightning with the precision needed to strike a Deep One without harming those around you?"
He looked down at his hands, which quivered with the fine, constant tremor of a body pushed beyond its limits.She was right, and they both knew it.
"Just for a few hours," Ashe said, sensing his resistance crumbling."There are people here who will watch over Thalia — her mother, her sister.And I'll wake you if there's any change."
Roran glanced at Thalia once more, searching her expressionless face for any sign of the fierce, brilliant woman who had challenged him, infuriated him, captivated him from their first days at Frostforge.Nothing had changed.
"A few hours," he conceded, the words scraping his throat like gravel."No more."
Ashe nodded, relief momentarily softening the hard planes of her face."There's an empty cot in the corner.Close enough that you'll hear if anything changes."
The walk to the cot felt like crossing leagues rather than yards.Each step took him further from Thalia, and though he knew it was irrational, he couldn't shake the feeling that his constant vigil was the only thing anchoring her to this world.As though his presence alone might guide her back through whatever labyrinth her consciousness wandered.
The cot creaked beneath his weight as he lowered himself onto it, his body suddenly betraying him with how desperately it craved rest.The thin mattress might have been stuffed with rocks for all he cared—it was horizontal, and that was enough.Ashe handed him a rough woolen blanket, which he accepted without comment.
"Rest," she said, the word somewhere between order and plea."I'll be nearby."
He nodded, already feeling the pull of exhaustion dragging him down like an anchor stone tied to a drowning man.As Ashe's footsteps retreated, Roran allowed his eyes to close, just for a moment.
His thoughts swirled like eddies in a storm-tossed sea.How had it come to this?Months ago, his greatest fear had been discovery—that someone would notice the static that sometimes gathered around his fingers when emotions ran high, the way small objects occasionally shifted in his presence without being touched.He'd spent his life hiding the storm that lived within his blood, denying the heritage that set him apart from the Southern community that had raised him.
Now, that storm was a valuable weapon in a war none of them had anticipated.The Deep Ones cared nothing for the ancient rivalries between Isle Wardens and mainlanders, between North and South.They were a tide of obliteration that threatened to erase all human life, regardless of birthplace or magical affinity.
And Thalia—bright, fierce Thalia, who had seen past his masks from the beginning—lay suspended between life and death, her mind lost in whatever revelations the Founders' Price had granted her.
Sleep pulled him under, his exhausted mind surrendering to the darkness with the same inevitability as night surrendering to dawn.
The dream came swiftly, wasting no time on gentle transitions.One moment he was drifting in featureless black, the next he stood atop Frostforge's battlements, watching as the fjord's waters turned to ink.The transformation spread like a stain, advancing toward the academy with the implacable patience of a predator that knows its prey cannot escape.
