The numbness that had settled over Thalia after the battle's end persisted, a strange, merciful fog that dulled the edges of horror and grief.She had experienced this before, after other battles—the mind's protection against that which it could not immediately bear to process.Later would come the shaking, the tears, the crushing weight of survival.For now, there was only this curious detachment, as if she were moving through someone else's nightmare.
Near the eastern edge of the plateau, where the amphitheater had once stood, Senna Drake directed two soldiers with sharp, economical gestures.They knelt beside a body, and with gentle reverence that seemed at odds with their battle-hardened demeanors, they draped a white shroud over the fallen figure.Even from this distance, Thalia recognized the distinctive Northern features visible before the cloth covered them—Einar.
Her feet carried her toward them before she had consciously decided to move.Senna looked up at her approach, silver-gray eyes sharp despite the exhaustion etched into every line of her face.A deep gash crossed her cheek, the blood dried to a rusty crust against her pale skin.
"Greenspire," she acknowledged, her voice hoarse from shouting commands during the battle.
Thalia nodded, her gaze dropping to the shrouded form between them.Strange, how the animosity she had felt toward Einar seemed to have dissipated with his life, leaving behind only a hollow recognition of waste.He had been arrogant, prejudiced, cruel in his hatred of Southerners and vicious in his vendetta against Roran—but he had also been skilled, dedicated, undeniably brave.The part of her that had imagined satisfaction at his downfall now felt only a dull ache, a sense of something valuable lost despite its flaws.
"He died fighting," Senna said, following Thalia's gaze.There was a note of fierce pride in her voice, as if this fact alone could transform the tragedy into something bearable.
It was the sort of death he would have wanted, Thalia supposed.The sort of tale that would be told in Northern halls for generations to come, each retelling burnishing the legend until the man disappeared entirely beneath it.
"The instructors are gathering the dead for proper rites," Senna continued, her voice betraying no emotion beyond a soldier's practicality."Northern and Southern traditions both."
It was a small concession, but significant—an acknowledgment that the fallen of both regions deserved equal honor.
Thalia nodded again, finding her voice at last."And the wounded?"
"In the infirmary, or being treated where they fell if they can't be moved."Senna gestured toward a cluster of medics working near the keep's entrance."The Southern ones keep asking for you.Your herbs, I think."
Of course.Many of the Southern students knew of Thalia's background with medicinal herbs, the knowledge passed down from her mother that had proved unexpectedly valuable at Frostforge.The thought of her mother sent a sharp pang through the numbness—was she still alive?Had she escaped Verdant Port's fall?The uncertainty was a wound that never quite closed.
"I should help them," Thalia said, more to herself than to Senna.
But as she turned to go, a ripple of movement passed through the scattered groups on the plateau.Heads turned, conversations stilled, a path clearing as a figure emerged from the keep's entrance.Even from this distance, Thalia recognized the distinctive silhouette—Instructor Wolfe, her dark robes sweeping the stone, her movements deliberate despite the injury Thalia knew she had sustained.
The black shaft of the arrow still protruded from Wolfe's shoulder, a stark contrast against the midnight blue of her formal tribunal robes.The rich fabric was torn and bloodied, yet she carried herself with the same uncompromising dignity as always; as Thalia watched, she shrugged off the advances of a medic, her jaw set.Behind her followed the other tribunal members: Virek, pale and spectral as a winter shadow; Marr, his glass-thread cloak catching the sunlight; Solberg with his snow-white beard; and Irongrave, gray braids now partially undone after the battle's chaos.
They had survived, then.Thalia felt a twist of something bitter in her chest—resentment that these architects of Roran's near-execution lived while so many students had died?Or relief that Frostforge had not lost its leadership in the midst of a crisis?She couldn't untangle the emotion, so she let it sit, another knot in the complex weave of her feelings.
The crowd parted further as Wolfe approached the center of the plateau, where Roran stood surrounded by a wide circle of space, maintained by respect or fear, perhaps both.He looked diminished from his battle glory, the storm magic no longer crackling along his skin, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.But there was something in his stance that had not been there before the battle—a quiet dignity, a certainty of purpose.
Wolfe stopped several paces from him, her emerald eyes sharp despite the pallor of her skin.Blood had seeped through her robes around the arrow shaft, dark and viscous, yet she showed no sign of pain beyond a slight tightness around her mouth.Thalia moved closer, drawn by the same curiosity that had pulled others from their tasks.
"Roran Bright," Wolfe said, her voice strained but commanding, carrying across the plateau's stillness."The tribunal has witnessed your actions in battle today."
A murmur rippled through the gathered students and soldiers.Thalia edged closer still, close enough now to see the entry point of the arrow in Wolfe's shoulder.The black-tipped projectile had pierced the instructor's ice-steel armor with devastating precision, carving through the enchanted metal as easily as a knife through parchment.The same mysterious black metal that had shattered so many weapons during the battle, that had turned the tide against Frostforge until Roran's intervention.
"It is my judgment," Wolfe continued, "that your service in defense of Frostforge Academy outweighs the charges brought against you.I believe that the tribunal should commute your sentence."
The plateau erupted in sound—gasps, whispers, a few scattered cheers quickly hushed.Thalia felt a rush of something warm and bright breaking through the numbness, like the first rays of sun after a storm.Relief, she realized.Pure, unalloyed relief flooding through her veins.
Wolfe raised a hand, silencing the crowd."Your actions today prove where your loyalties lie.When given the opportunity for vengeance against those who would have executed you, you instead chose to defend them—to defend all of us—at great personal risk."
Roran's expression remained unreadable, his eyes fixed on Wolfe's face.Thalia searched his features for some hint of emotion—gratitude, satisfaction, anger at the belated recognition of his innocence—but found only a wary stillness, like a wild creature uncertain whether an extended hand offered food or harm.
Virek stepped forward, frost-scarred hands twisting before him."Instructor Wolfe," he began, his whisper-soft voice somehow carrying in the tense silence, "while the accused's actions were certainly...beneficial to our defense, we cannot simply ignore the laws regarding storm magic.The military insists upon execution in cases such as these.The precedent—"
"I am well aware of the precedent, Virek," Wolfe cut him off, her tone brooking no argument.The emerald of her eyes seemed to sharpen, boring into Virek until he dropped his gaze."As I am aware of the unprecedented nature of today's events.Our very survival was in question.Would you have preferred Bright to withhold his abilities and allow us all to perish in accordance with the regulation?Certainly, the Isle Wardens would have preferred it."
Virek's pale skin flushed, but he stepped back without further objection.
“I am inclined to think,” Wolfe continued, echoing Thalia’s earlier suspicions, “that they may have chosen their moment with great intention.We have now seen firsthand the power of their own magic turned against them.”
Thalia held her breath, watching the calculation in the instructor's eyes.This was no mere act of mercy.It was a strategic pivot, a delicate maneuver.The suspicion and hatred some elements still harbored toward Roran needed to be managed.The academy’s protocols needed to be upheld.But to kill him now, after his magic had saved them, would be cruel beyond utility.
From the edge of the gathering, Solberg cleared his throat.Unlike Virek, he seemed undeterred by Wolfe's stern gaze."With all due respect, Head Instructor," he said, his white beard quivering with barely suppressed indignation, "what we witnessed today was further proof of Bright's Warden heritage.That power he displayed—it could only manifest in a full-blooded Isle Warden.How can we trust that he won't turn these abilities against us in the future?"
