The change in direction brought a momentary relief.This, at least, was simpler to answer."Yes," Thalia said firmly, refusing to flinch."He hated them.They took everything from him.Killed his parents."
Virek's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile."Can you recall any specific conversations about the Isle Wardens?Perhaps regarding their methods, their magic?"
Her mind flashed to that night on the cliffs, when Roran had finally trusted her with the truth—that he had been born to Isle Warden parents before being adopted by Southern merchants.That his storm magic wasn't learned but innate, a birthright he had struggled against his entire life.The confession had come with tears and shame, with the fear that she would turn from him in disgust.
She swallowed, unwilling to betray that confidence even now."He only ever spoke of them as one speaks of enemies," she said carefully.
The tribunal members exchanged glances again, dissatisfied with her answer.Ironhelm leaned forward, her iron-gray braids shifting as she moved."Did he ever demonstrate unusual knowledge of maritime matters?Techniques that would be unfamiliar to a merchant's son?"
"Roran grew up on ships," Thalia countered."His adoptive parents were merchants who traded up and down the coast.He learned sailing from childhood."
A subtle but palpable change passed over the tribunal.They leaned forward almost as one, their attention sharpening, like predators scenting blood.Virek's pale eyes fixed on her face with disturbing intensity, while Solberg stroked his white beard, a gleam of triumph in his gaze.
"Adoptive parents?"Virek echoed, his whisper-soft voice somehow cutting through the sudden stillness of the amphitheater."That’s an interesting detail."
Cold dread washed through Thalia as she realized her mistake.She had revealed something Roran had confided only to her—that the Southern merchants who raised him weren't his birth parents.It wasn't an explicit confession of his Isle Warden heritage, but paired with the evidence the tribunal had gathered about his storm magic, it was like a keystone being slotted neatly into an arch.
Virek's frost-scarred hands spread on the table before him, as if he were physically laying out his next question."I wonder," he said delicately, "if your closeness with the accused might have compromised your judgment.Perhaps blinded you to certain truths about his nature."
A snicker rippled through the older students in the stands.Thalia felt heat rising in her cheeks, a flush of humiliation and anger that she couldn't suppress.The question wasn't about judgment at all—it was an insinuation meant to undermine and embarrass.
Before she could formulate a response, Solberg leaned forward, his pale eyes gleaming with malicious amusement."Let's not mince words," he said, his voice carrying to every corner of the amphitheater."Did you share his bed?"
The amphitheater erupted.Laughter rolled from the galleries like thunder, harsh and mocking.Even the guards stationed around the perimeter broke their stoic masks, smirks playing at the corners of their mouths.Thalia's vision narrowed to a tunnel, the edges darkening as blood rushed to her face.
This wasn't about evidence.It wasn't about justice or truth or protecting Frostforge.It was about stripping Roran bare of dignity, using her as the knife to flay him.Heat flared in her chest, not the flush of embarrassment now but the fire of rage.
"Is this a tribunal or a tavern?"she demanded, her voice shaking with fury."You claim to serve justice, but you turn a man's trial into vulgar entertainment.You use his friends as weapons against him.You twist the truth to suit your prejudice."Her hands trembled at her sides, but she forced herself to continue."If this is Northern justice, I want no part of it."
The tribunal members exchanged looks—Solberg appeared amused by her outburst, Virek openly derisive.Wolfe’s face was an impassive mask, while Ironhelm shifted uncomfortably in her seat.Marr looked weary, though he maintained his stoic stillness.
Thalia felt her composure slipping away like sand through fingers.She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her unravel further, of watching her beg or weep or rage.Without waiting for dismissal, without glancing back at Roran—afraid that his expression, whether of anguish, anger, or worst of all, pity, might undo her completely—she turned sharply on her heel and strode from the amphitheater.
The crowd's laughter followed her, a wave of sound that crashed against her back as she walked.She kept her gaze fixed ahead, her spine straight, her steps measured.Only when she had passed beyond the wooden partition, out of sight of the tribunal and the jeering crowd, did she allow herself to falter.Her hand found the rough wood of the barrier, fingers digging into its surface as she fought to steady herself.
She had let Roran down.Not by speaking falsely—she had kept her promise to him on that count—but by losing control of her temper, by walking away when she might have found some way to help him.Her outburst had likely worsened her credibility, turning her earlier defenses of him into the desperate, biased pleas of a woman too emotionally involved to see reason.
The realization settled over her like a physical weight, pressing her down, making each breath a struggle against the tightness in her chest.
Behind her, through the partition, she could hear Wolfe calling for order, silencing the crowd's laughter.The tribunal would continue without her.Roran's fate would be decided, with or without her testimony.And she, who had risked everything for the chance to save him, had failed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thalia's boots struck the frost-rimed stone of the Crystalline Plateau with angry precision, each step a punctuation to the rage coursing through her veins.The cold air burned her lungs as she paced, her breath escaping in harsh clouds that dissipated into the bitter mountain wind.Behind her, the wooden amphitheater loomed like a monument to injustice, its rough-hewn boards and hastily erected beams stark against the crisp blue sky.She could still hear the echo of laughter following her retreat, could still feel the heat of shame burning beneath her skin.
Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, fingers stiff with cold and fury.The words replayed in her mind, each syllable a fresh cut:Did you share his bed?Solberg's pale eyes had gleamed with malice as he'd asked, his white beard failing to conceal the cruel twist of his mouth.The memory of the crowd's reaction — the wave of laughter, the mocking whispers — made her stomach clench as if she'd swallowed broken glass.
The plateau stretched before her, a broad expanse of granite dusted with frost, eternally shadowed by the towering spire of Smith's Anvil.In spring, wildflowers would pierce the thin soil between stone cracks — stubborn life asserting itself against the mountain's indifference.But now, in winter's grip, the plateau was barren and unforgiving, reflecting her own stark emotions back at her with cruel accuracy.
The familiar terrain offered no comfort today.This was where she had trained for four grueling years, where she had forged bonds with her fellow students through shared pain and triumph.Now it felt alien, hostile, as if the very stone beneath her feet had turned traitor.
A murmur of voices drifted from the amphitheater, followed by the creaking of wood as people began to file out.Thalia paused in her pacing, spine stiffening as she turned to watch the slow exodus.Students emerged first, moving in tight clusters, their voices hushed and faces solemn.A handful of instructors followed, their formal robes fluttering in the mountain breeze.The tribunal members were noticeably absent.
"Thalia!"
Luna's voice cut through the cold air.She was pushing through the crowd, Ashe close behind her, both moving with the urgent purpose of those with important news.Thalia steeled herself, squaring her shoulders against whatever fresh blow was coming.
"They've called a recess," Luna said as she reached Thalia, slightly breathless from her rush across the plateau."The tribunal's gone to deliberate."
