Roran raised his hands, searching for the familiar spark of power that lived in his veins.The sky above remained clear and empty, refusing his call.No clouds gathered, no electricity tingled along his fingertips.The storm had abandoned him when he needed it most.
"They're coming," said a voice beside him, and he turned to find Thalia standing at his shoulder, her dark curls whipping in a wind he couldn't feel.Her eyes held a knowledge that chilled him to the bone, ancient and terrible."They've always been coming.Since before the first stone of Frostforge was laid, since before the first human learned to shape ice or call lightning or sense the currents beneath the earth."
"We can stop them," he insisted, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.
Thalia smiled, a sad curve of lips that didn't reach her eyes."We can try."
The black waters surged, rising in a wave that defied natural laws.It towered over the fjord's cliffs, a wall of darkness that blotted out the sun.As it crested, shapes formed within it—vast, writhing forms with too many limbs and too few features, entities of nightmare given physical form.
Roran reached for Thalia's hand, desperate to pull her away from the oncoming destruction, but his fingers passed through hers as though she were made of mist.She was already fading, her outline blurring at the edges.
"Thalia!"he screamed, his voice lost in the roar of the advancing tide.
The wave struck with the force of a mountain falling.Stone crumbled, ice shattered, metal bent and warped beneath its unstoppable might.Frostforge, the ancient sentinel that had stood against countless winters and wars, came apart like a child's sand castle beneath the ocean's casual cruelty.
Roran tried again to call the storm, reaching deep within himself for the power that had once come so naturally.Nothing responded.The darkness engulfed him, cold and absolute, pressing against his skin like thousands of seeking hands.
Through the chaos, he caught one last glimpse of Thalia, surrounded by a nimbus of light that held the blackness at bay.Three colors pulsed within that light—blue-white like lightning, silver-blue like the purest ice, and a golden glow he had never seen before.They spiraled around her, weaving together into a barrier that neither darkness nor depth could penetrate.
Then the shield failed.The colors separated, the barrier collapsed, and the tide rushed in.Thalia's scream cut off abruptly as she vanished beneath the relentless black.
Roran bolted upright, a hoarse cry tearing from his throat.Sweat plastered his shirt to his back, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.For a moment, disorientation held him in its grip—the infirmary's quiet darkness a stark contrast to the apocalyptic vision that had filled his mind moments before.
"Are you alright?"A soft voice broke through his panic.
He turned to find Mari Greenspire standing a few feet away, a pitcher of water in her hands and concern etched into her young face.The resemblance to her sister struck him anew—the same determined set of the jaw, the same intelligent eyes, though Mari lacked the hardness that Frostforge had carved into Thalia.
"Fine," Roran managed, running a shaking hand through his sweat-damp hair."Just a dream."
Mari nodded, though her expression suggested she didn't entirely believe him."Would you like some water?"
"Please."
She poured a cup and brought it to him, her movements displaying the same careful efficiency he'd seen in her sister.How old was she now?Seventeen?Eighteen?The same age Thalia had been when she first came to Frostforge, sacrificing herself to save Mari from the Selection.
"Thank you."He drank deeply, the cool water clearing the last cobwebs of sleep from his mind."How long was I asleep?"
Mari's hesitation was brief but noticeable."Nine hours," she admitted, a note of apology in her voice."No one wanted to wake you.Ashe said you hadn't slept in days."
"Nine hours?"The words burst from him like an accusation.He swung his legs over the side of the cot, ignoring the protest from muscles stiff with too much rest after too much tension."Why didn't anyone—has there been any change?With Thalia?"
Mari froze, her eyes widening, lips parting slightly but no words emerging.Something in her expression sent a chill down Roran's spine that had nothing to do with the infirmary's perpetual coolness.
"Mari?"he pressed, rising to his feet despite the wave of dizziness that accompanied the sudden movement."What's happened?"
She clutched the pitcher against her chest like a shield."I think you should see for yourself," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper."They sent me to check on you, but I didn't know if I should wake you or—"
Roran didn't wait to hear the rest.He pushed past her, striding across the infirmary toward Thalia's bed, his heart a hammer in his chest.A small group had gathered there—healers in their simple gray robes, Naj with his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, and Celeste Greenspire, Thalia's mother, her face a mask of tightly controlled fear.
"Let me through," Roran demanded, shouldering between two healers who moved aside without protest.
What he saw stopped his breath in his lungs.
Thalia lay as she had for days, her features still and slack.But the bed around her had transformed.Frost crept up the headboard in delicate crystalline patterns, spreading outward from where her head rested against the pillow.The wooden frame gleamed with ice that caught the lamplight and refracted it into tiny rainbows across the ceiling.
More extraordinary still were the vines—thin, green tendrils that had somehow sprouted from the floorboards beneath the bed, climbing up the legs and weaving across the frame to converge at the center of Thalia's chest.There, nestled above her heart, bloomed tiny flowers in shades of gold and amber, their petals unfurling before his eyes as though growth that should have taken days was compressed into moments.
Between Thalia's slightly parted fingers, arcs of electricity danced—not the wild, chaotic lightning of a natural storm, but controlled, purposeful currents that moved in patterns too complex to follow.They reminded him of the weaving gestures Naj had taught him, the ancient forms that had been passed down through generations of storm-callers.
