Kin.The word caught in Thalia's mind like a barb.It was entirely possible that theywerekin.These practitioners might share her blood, or she theirs.The magic that flowed through her veins had been passed down through generations.These root-singers weren't just practitioners of a similar discipline—they were her family across the centuries.
She moved closer, desperate to memorize every gesture, every word of their ritual.There was so much to learn, so much knowledge that had been lost to time.If she could bring even a fraction of it back with her—
The vision began to blur at the edges, the golden light-currents fading like mist under morning sun."No," Thalia whispered, reaching out as though she could physically hold onto the scene before her."Please, not yet."
But the ritual circle was already dissolving, the root-singers and their careful arrangement of materials becoming transparent as the vision slipped from her grasp.A hollow ache settled in Thalia's chest as the last traces of the golden light winked out, leaving her in momentary darkness.
Before she could fully process the loss, a new vision formed around her—stone walls replaced woven cane, chill air displaced humid warmth.She stood in a corridor she recognized despite its altered appearance: Frostforge, but newly built, its stones unweathered by centuries of harsh Northern elements.
Three figures walked ahead of her, and with a start, Thalia recognized them as the same root-singers from the ritual she had just witnessed.Their Southern garments looked out of place against the stark Northern architecture, their bare arms prickling with gooseflesh in the unfamiliar cold.
The youngest woman—the one who had spoken the name "root-singers" during the ritual—wrapped her arms around herself, shivering visibly."How do they bear this endless chill?"she complained to her companions."It seeps into the bones like death itself."
The elder woman gave her a reproving look."We are guests here, Neela.Show respect for our hosts and their home."
"Respect doesn't make my fingers any warmer," Neela muttered, but she straightened her posture and dropped her arms to her sides, visibly forcing herself not to shiver.
Thalia smiled despite herself.She remembered her own first winter at Frostforge, how the cold had seemed to steal the breath from her lungs, how she'd huddled beneath every blanket she could find and still felt the chill in her marrow.These Southern practitioners, with their lives spent in tropical warmth, must have found the adjustment even more difficult.
She followed as they walked the corridors of a Frostforge she barely recognized.The basic layout was familiar—the same load-bearing walls, the same arched ceilings—but everything else had changed.Instead of weapons and armor lining the walls, shelves held scrolls and artifacts.Rooms that in her time served as barracks or training halls were filled with tables where people bent over manuscripts or discussed theories in animated groups.
Most striking was the absence of tension.Northerners and Southerners mingled freely, without the wary separation she was accustomed to.Even more shocking, she spotted several figures whose tattooed arms and braided hair marked them unmistakably as storm-callers—Isle Wardens in her time—engaged in deep conversation with cryomancers, gesturing to diagrams spread between them.
This Frostforge wasn't a military academy preparing for war.It was a place of learning, of research, of shared knowledge across traditions that would later become bitterly divided.
The root-singers turned down a corridor that Thalia recognized with sudden dread.They were heading toward the Founders' Price chamber—the hidden room beneath the Howling Forge where Maven had once tried to sacrifice her, where Thalia herself had later activated the ancient mechanism that drove back the Deep Ones.
Fear seized her chest, cold and sharp as winter steel.What if these root-singers, these people she had begun to think of as distant family, were walking into danger?What if this was a trap, set by those who wanted to use their power for dark purposes, just as Maven had tried to use hers?
"Stop," she called out, lunging forward to grab the elder woman's shoulder.Her hand passed through the figure like smoke, encountering no resistance."You don't understand what's down there!"
None of them reacted to her voice or her futile attempts to touch them.They continued their steady pace down the spiraling staircase that led to the chamber, their expressions solemn but untroubled.
"Please," Thalia begged, though she now understood the futility of it.She was a witness here, not a participant.She could no more change these events than she could alter the stars in their courses.
She followed them down the familiar steps, her apprehension growing with every turn of the spiral.The air grew warmer as they descended, carrying the distant echo of forge-fires from somewhere deep within the mountain.When they reached the final landing and approached the heavy door that guarded the chamber, Thalia's heart hammered against her ribs.
The door swung open before the root-singers could knock, revealing a chamber both familiar and strange.The basic dimensions were the same as the room where Thalia had nearly died—circular, with a domed ceiling and walls of fitted stone—but the space was clean and well-lit, with none of the dust and neglect she remembered.
In the center of the floor lay the runic circle, the same pattern that, in Thalia’s time, was weathered and stained with old blood.But here, the runes were freshly carved, the channels deep and precise, unmarred by centuries of wear.
Inside the chamber waited six figures: three dressed in the heavy furs and leathers of Northern cryomancers, and three in the black leather garments of storm-callers, their arms bearing the distinctive wave tattoos of what would one day become the Isle Wardens.
"We had begun to wonder if you would come," said one of the cryomancers, a broad-shouldered older woman with silver streaking her dark hair.Despite the formality of her words, her tone carried no accusation.
"Forgive our tardiness," replied the eldest root-singer."The journey from our shores was longer than anticipated.The waters grow treacherous with each passing season."
One of the storm-callers—a lean man with weather-lined features—stepped forward."There is no need for apology.We all face the same encroaching darkness, regardless of the shores we call home."
As he spoke, Thalia noticed the quick glance exchanged between two of the cryomancers, a look of derision.She felt herself bristle, preparing for the snide remark—she’d spent years hearing about “sun-rotters” and their inability to rise before dawn’s light—but no insult came.
"Has there been progress in our absence?"asked the third root-singer, a young, handsome man.
The silver-haired cryomancer nodded."The forging is complete.The foundations are laid.All that remains is the final binding."
Final binding.The words sent a shiver through Thalia as understanding dawned with sickening clarity.These weren't just random practitioners gathered for some arcane purpose.These were the Founders—the original creators of Frostforge, representatives of all three magical traditions working in concert to build what would become the academy.
And the runic circle at their feet—the same one where Thalia had nearly died, the same one she had later activated to drive back the Deep Ones—was their creation.What she had witnessed in her previous visions, the cliff-top ritual with the storm-callers, the forging of the first ice-metal blades, had all been leading to this moment.
