CHAPTER THREE
The fjord of Frostforge carved its way through the mountains ahead, a jagged wound in the earth filled with waters so dark they appeared black in the pale dawn light.
Thalia's breath plumed before her face, crystallizing in the frigid air as she gazed upon those familiar cliffs that had been both prison and sanctuary for four grueling years.
Ice glazed the pines surrounding the inlet, their needles transformed into countless tiny blades that caught the sun's first rays and fractured them into prisms of gold and silver.
She had never thought she would feel such relief at the sight of this place, yet her heart quickened at the recognition that they had, against all odds, made it.
Beside her, Brynn exhaled sharply, the sound hanging between them like a shared confession.
"By the old spirits," Brynn murmured, pressing a hand to her side where a Rimwolf's claws had torn through her furs two nights prior. The wound wasn't deep, but the journey had given it little chance to heal. "I never thought I'd be so glad to see those cursed mountains again."
Thalia glanced at her unexpected traveling companion, noting the smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes, the windburn that had transformed her normally flawless complexion into raw, chapped terrain.
None of them had escaped the journey unscathed.
Luna's lips were cracked and bleeding; Ashe walked with a slight limp from a twisted knee; and Thalia's own hands were criss-crossed with tiny cuts from the sea lichen they'd harvested for sustenance.
"Don't celebrate yet," Thalia said, her voice rough from disuse. They'd spoken little these past days, conserving energy for the punishing trek. "Reaching Frostforge just means exchanging one set of trials for another."
Brynn's mouth twisted into something too bitter to be called a smile.
"You think I don't know that? But at least within those walls, we stand a chance of being heard.
Out here—" She gestured at the vast emptiness behind them, the days of trackless wilderness they'd traversed. "Out here, we're nothing but prey."
A week ago, Thalia would have bridled at Brynn's tone, would have read condescension in it. Now, she just nodded. The journey had stripped away much of the artifice between them.
"Look there," Luna said suddenly, lifting one gloved hand to point. "On the fjord's southern edge."
Thalia followed her gesture, eyes narrowing against the glare of sunlight on ice.
A massive sailing vessel swept along the coastline, its three masts stark against the sky, its hull cutting through the dark waters with purpose.
As they watched, it altered course, turning to enter the inlet that led to Frostforge's docks.
"A Selection ship," Ashe said.
Indeed, it was. Even from this distance, Thalia could make out the figures crowded onto its decks—young people bundled against the cold, some leaning over the railings to gaze at the approaching shore, others huddled in tight clusters that spoke of shared origin or newly-formed alliances.
Southern recruits, fresh from their Selection.
A realization settled over Thalia, heavy as a mantle of frost. "The new term is beginning," she said softly.
She did the calculations in her head. It had been three months since their graduation from Frostforge, two since their arrival at that dismal outpost in the Reaches.
The Academy's rhythms continued uninterrupted, the inexorable machine of war production grinding on.
While they had been patrolling empty wastes and shivering in barracks that never truly warmed, a new crop of recruits had been gathered, a new cycle set in motion.
Her nails dug into her palms, frustration flaring hot beneath her skin.
She had graduated seventh in her class — seventh out of over fifty recruits who had survived to see their fourth year.
By all accounts, she should have had a better placement than a forgotten outpost on the edge of nowhere.
Northerners who had ranked below her certainly had.
Einar was now leading squadrons against Isle Warden raids along the Southern coast. Ryvek, who had cheated on half his cryomancy examinations, was strategizing in officers' tents rather than standing mind-numbing guard shifts in the frozen emptiness of the Reaches.
Morrigan, who had ranked in the bottom third of their year, had been assigned as a warship's first officer in the Southern Ocean.
All because they had been born on the right side of the fjords.
"We need to get to the water’s edge," Ashe said, already starting down the slope that would lead them to the glassy fjord. "The ship will reach the docks faster than we’ll be able to on foot."
"Wait," Luna called after her. "Are you suggesting we flag it down? In the open water?"
"It would make our passage through the fjord considerably easier," Ashe replied without breaking stride. "Unless you'd prefer another day of hiking over those." She nodded toward the towering cliffs that lined the fjord, their faces sheer and treacherous.
Thalia hurried to catch up, heart skipping. "But won't they recognize us as deserters? Our disappearance will have been reported by now."
"To the military command, yes," Ashe agreed. "But not to the Selection officials on that ship. Their only concern is delivering recruits safely to the Academy. They won't be carrying military reports or warrants."
Thalia hesitated, weighing the risk. Being discovered as deserters could mean immediate arrest and return to the Reaches, which could rob them of any chance to intervene in Roran's tribunal.
But Ashe was right—the alternative was at least another full day of punishing travel along treacherous terrain, with their supplies dwindling and their strength already stretched thin.
"And if there are soldiers aboard?" Luna asked, voicing Thalia's fears.
"Then we rely on my orders," Ashe replied, tapping the sealed scroll she kept in her tunic, close to her heart. "I was summoned to Frostforge by the tribunal. That alone should grant us passage, at least long enough to reach the Academy."
The unspoken understanding hung between them: once there, they would face whatever consequences came. But for now, they would do whatever it took to reach Roran before it was too late.
"Then let's move," Thalia said, pushing her aching legs to increase their pace. "We have a ship to catch."
***
The Selection ship docked with the practiced efficiency of a vessel that had made this journey countless times before.
Thalia stood at the rail, hands gripping the frost-slick wood as Frostforge's docks materialized through the morning mist—a sprawling wooden platform extending from the rocky shore, reinforced with ice-steel beams that glinted like frozen veins against the dark timber.
Below, the water churned against the pilings, chunks of ice colliding with hollow thuds that echoed across the fjord.
Familiar sounds, familiar sights, yet everything felt altered, as if she were seeing it all through a sheet of imperfect glass—recognizable but distorted by the knowledge of what awaited them within the Academy's stone walls.
Beside her, the Southern recruits pressed forward, their expressions a uniform mask of apprehension tinged with wonder.
Some couldn't be more than eighteen—the same age she had been when she'd first arrived, though that seemed a lifetime ago now.
One girl clutched a small cloth pouch not unlike the one Thalia had carried, filled with herbs from her mother's shop in Verdant Port.
The sight of it lodged something painful in her chest.
"They have no idea what's waiting for them," Luna murmured, her breath forming a cloud between them.
Thalia didn't respond. What could she say? That a third wouldn’t survive to see their second year? That even those who graduated might find themselves cast aside, their achievements disregarded because of where they were born? Better to let them hold onto their hopes a while longer.
The ship's wooden gangplank descended with a dull thud, connecting them to the dock.
As the first recruits began to disembark, Thalia spotted a formation of soldiers awaiting them, their ice-steel armor catching the strengthening sunlight.
At their center stood a woman with jet-black hair and sharp, angular features—Senna Drake.
Even at this distance, Thalia recognized the predatory stillness in her posture, the way her silver-gray eyes assessed each recruit who stepped onto the dock.
Thalia swore under her breath. "What is she doing here?"
"Tormenting the new recruits, apparently," Ashe replied, watching as Senna's squadron moved to flank the gangplank, creating a gauntlet through which each new arrival had to pass.
The four of them hung back, allowing most of the Southern recruits to disembark before they descended.
Thalia felt her heart rate increase with each step down the gangplank, her palm instinctively finding the hilt of her ice-steel blade.
Not that she intended to draw it—but its weight against her hip was a comfort, as tangible as her rising anxiety.
As they reached the dock, Senna's gaze snapped to them, her eyes narrowing in recognition.
She barked an order to one of her subordinates before striding across the dock in their direction, her movements fluid and economical.
Around her, the other soldiers had begun a systematic inspection of the recruits, pulling them aside one by one to examine their belongings and, in some cases, their persons.
Senna reached for a dark-skinned Southern boy dressed in shabby clothing, her frost-gloved fingers closing around his upper arm with unnecessary force. The boy winced but didn't cry out, his eyes fixed on the wooden planks beneath his feet.
"Why are you here?" Senna asked, not looking at Thalia as she roughly turned the boy's face toward the light, examining him as one might inspect a questionable piece of fruit.
Thalia squared her shoulders, forcing her voice to remain steady. "We're here for Roran's trial. Ashe was summoned to testify."
Her throat tightened around Roran's name, speaking it aloud like invoking a spell that might conjure him before her.
Senna's frost-gloved hands tightened around the recruit's arm, leaving marks that would bloom into bruises by nightfall. The boy didn't flinch, a testament either to his courage or to a life that had already taught him to endure pain without reaction. Thalia’s brow furrowed as her gaze flicked to the other soldiers of Senna’s squadron, who were engaging in similar abuse of the other recruits.
Frostforge had never given a warm welcome, but in Thalia’s four years at the academy, she had never been subjected to this sort of scrutiny and aggression.
This didn’t seem to be mere sport for the soldiers, either.
They were fully armored, and they had responded to Senna’s orders.
Whatever was happening here, it was intentional.
"The tribunal won't spare your Warden boyfriend just because you beg," Senna said, finally releasing the recruit with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "But by all means, try. It'll be entertaining."
She turned away without waiting for a response, calling orders to her squadron as they formed the new recruits into a ragged line for the trek up the mountain.
The path to Frostforge twisted through a dense pine forest, hiding the academy from view until the final approach.
Thalia had walked it countless times, in blizzards and clear skies, in darkness and dawn, but never with such a weight of dread sitting like a stone in her stomach.
The scent of pine sap and sea salt filled her lungs as she breathed deeply, trying to steady herself.
This, at least, was unchanged—the sharp, clean fragrance of the Northern forest mixed with the briny air that rolled in from the fjord.
It brought memories rushing back: her first glimpse of these woods, walking this same path as a terrified recruit; countless training exercises among the trees; and most vividly, Roran, crouched at the edge of the shoreline on a moonless night, the still water reflecting the flash of the electricity he conjured.
He had come down here to practice his storm magic regularly. A secret, of course, and one that Thalia had helped him keep.
The convoy began to move, soldiers flanking the recruits as they trudged up the sloping path.
Thalia found herself walking beside Senna, who had taken position next to one of the small, sturdy horses that pulled carts laden with the recruits' belongings.
The animal's breath steamed in the cold air, its shaggy coat rimmed with frost despite the exertion of the climb.
Thalia reached out, running her gloved hand along its neck in a gesture of comfort that was as much for herself as for the beast.
"I don't remember such a thorough inspection when we arrived," Thalia said, careful to keep her tone neutral. "What was that about back there?"
Senna's gaze remained fixed ahead, but her lips twisted in a semblance of a smile that never reached her eyes. "New protocol. Every first-year recruit is to be searched for evidence of Isle Warden proclivities or contraband. Commander's orders."
"Because of Roran," Thalia surmised, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
"Because we harbored a traitor in our midst for four years without knowing it," Senna corrected sharply. "Because he concealed storm magic—Isle Warden magic—and used it within these walls." She glanced sideways at Thalia, her expression cold. "The academy is on high alert, and with good reason."
Thalia said nothing, but her jaw clenched so tightly she could feel the muscles strain.
If the academy had instituted inspections of recruits, if commanders spoke of Roran as a traitor before his tribunal had even begun, what hope did he have of a fair hearing?
The question sat like ice in her gut, spreading tendrils of cold dread through her limbs.