CHAPTER SIX #2
Ashe's eyes searched her face, looking for something Thalia couldn't name. "If you're caught, we'll both answer for it," she said finally. "You know that."
"I know."
A sigh escaped Ashe's lips, her breath fogging in the cold air. "You never could follow orders, could you, Greenspire?"
Despite everything, Thalia felt her mouth quirk into a small smile. "Not the ones that don't make sense."
Ashe shook her head, but there was a reluctant acceptance in her eyes. "Fine. Go. But be quick about it, and for the Founders’ sake, don't get caught."
"I won't," Thalia promised. "Thank you."
At the next junction, Ashe turned down one hallway as though continuing their circuit. Thalia slipped the other way, keeping to the shadowed edges of the corridor. Her heart pounded against her ribs, half from urgency, half from the fear of being seen.
The route to the north tower was long and, to Thalia's relief, sparsely lit.
The upper windows showed only swirls of snow outside, the night sky obscured by clouds.
The air grew colder the farther she descended toward the tower's base, where the cells were kept.
This portion of the keep, built directly into the sheer cliff face below the Crystalline Plateau, was slightly lower than the rest of the interior, aside from the Howling Forge.
Thalia moved quietly, years of training making her steps nearly silent despite her armor. She encountered no one—a stroke of luck she didn't dare question—until she reached the barred entrance to the prison floor.
Rasmus stood leaning against the wall beside the heavy iron door, his fur cloak draped over his shoulders.
His expression was one of profound boredom, his eyes half-lidded as he stared at nothing.
A flicker of relief ran through Thalia at the sight of him.
Of all the Northern students who might have been assigned guard duty, Rasmus was perhaps the only one who held any respect for her—not given freely due to shared heritage, as it would have been for a fellow Northerner, but earned through the tumultuous year he’d spent under Thalia’s command.
He straightened as she approached, surprise and wariness crossing his angular features. "You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice flat, but there was a hint of welcome in his eyes that told Thalia he was secretly glad to see her.
"I need to see him, Rasmus," Thalia said, keeping her voice low.
Rasmus's eyes narrowed, conflict plain in his expression.
He was torn between his duty to Frostforge and his loyalty to Thalia—loyalty built from experience rather than browbeaten into him by cultural expectation.
The blue glow of the cryomantic lamps flickered across his sharp Northern features as he exhaled sharply through his nose.
"I have direct orders," he said, though he still seemed conflicted. "No visitors. Especially not—" He cut himself off, but Thalia knew what he had been about to say. Especially not someone who might sympathize with the prisoner. Especially not Southerners. Especially not you .
She reached for her belt and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. Unwrapping it revealed a golden honeycomb, its cells perfect hexagons filled with amber liquid. Rasmus's eyes widened slightly at the sight.
"I found a beehive near the inlet of the fjord on our journey here," Thalia explained.
"Honeybees are almost never seen this far north.
The bees in these regions are scarce and hibernate for most of the year.
" She rewrapped the precious commodity. "I was planning to gather herbs from the pine forest to make tea, and infuse the honey into it for a treat.
I can gather those herbs for you instead, if you help me here. "
Rasmus's eyes darted from the honeycomb to Thalia's face, then down the corridor. His jaw worked as he considered the offer. Finally, he snatched the bundle from her hand.
"Five minutes," he muttered. "And if anyone finds out—"
"You never saw me," Thalia finished.
With a grunt, Rasmus unlocked the ice-iron door and pushed it aside with some effort, letting Thalia step into the darkened prison wing.
The corridor beyond was lined on one side with forbidding stone, and on the other with the ice-iron bars of three cells, which almost never saw actual use.
The air was freezing here, with far less effort made to warm the space—no braziers, no torches.
It was fully dark and windowless save for two-inch slits along the walls, barely wide enough to admit a blade of moonlight.
Rasmus passed Thalia a torch from outside, it’s cool blue glow illuminating the cells. With the light, she could make out the cells and their single occupant clearly.
Roran was seated in the farthest cell, his back against the stone wall, legs stretched out before him. At the sound of the door, his head snapped up, eyes narrowing against the sudden light as if he'd grown accustomed to darkness. Thalia approached, her knees feeling weak at the sight of him.
He looked thin, gaunt, his cheekbones sharper than she remembered.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes like bruises.
His skin, usually a vibrant brown, had become muted due to lack of sun, and his hair—formerly a spectacular mane of spiraling black curls—had been cut close to his scalp, likely against his will.
He seemed diminished by all of this, a shadow of the man she'd known, but when he looked up and recognized her, his lips twitched into the faintest smile.
"Greenspire?"
Thalia knelt beside the bars, pressing as close as she could. "I had to see you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Thank you," he said, but there was a hollowness to it, as if he didn't believe her visit changed anything. Still, he shifted closer to her, ice-steel chains clinking as he moved.
For the first time, Thalia noticed the cuffs encircling his wrists, etched with cryomantic runes that glowed faintly in the torchlight.
Roran lifted his hands ruefully, displaying them like a performer showing off a trick.
"You like my new accessories?" he asked, a hint of his old humor surfacing briefly. "Virek's work. Meant to stifle magic."
"Do they work?" Thalia asked, eyeing the runes with professional curiosity despite the circumstances.
Roran huffed a half-laugh. "I haven't been foolish enough to test them." His gaze settled on her face, intense and searching. "What are you doing here, Thalia? I never expected to see you again. Thought they'd shipped you off to war."
"I couldn't stay away," Thalia said simply. "I knew the trial was coming. I needed to be here."
Something flickered across Roran's face at her words—an emotion too complex to name. Wordlessly, Thalia reached through the bars to rest her hand on his. His fingers curled around hers, his skin cold against her warmth.
"Don't waste your energy on me," he said quietly. "The tribunal's verdict is a foregone conclusion."
"You don't know that," Thalia insisted, though the conviction in her voice felt hollow even to her own ears.
"I do." His thumb traced small circles on the back of her hand. "But I'm more concerned about you getting caught here tonight. If they find you—"
"I won't get caught," Thalia promised. "Rasmus is keeping watch. He's..." She hesitated, then decided on the truth. "He's a friend."
Roran's expression suggested he found this claim dubious, but he didn't argue. Instead, he looked down at their joined hands, his expression unreadable.
"We need to fight this, Roran," Thalia said, leaning closer to the bars. "Frostforge owes you a debt. The academy might have withstood the Warden attack without you, but so many more would have died. We can appeal to the tribunal's sense of honor—"
"Honor?" Roran's laugh was bitter this time.
"Those from the Reaches like to play at honor, but the only languages they truly speak are hierarchy and control.
" His voice dropped lower, edged with resignation.
"They will always see me as a Warden. As stormspawn filth.
As the enemy. It doesn't matter what I do, or where my true loyalties lie. "
The defeat in his voice sparked something in Thalia—a flare of anger that burned through her fear and grief. "So you're just giving up?" she demanded, tears welling in her eyes. "They're going to execute you, Roran."
"I know," he said simply.
Before Thalia could respond, a sharp clang echoed through the prison—the end of Rasmus's halberd striking the stone floor. A warning.
Roran's grip tightened around her fingers for one desperate second before letting go. "Must be a guard change approaching," he whispered, his voice rough. "You should go. And don't come back."
Thalia stumbled to her feet, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
The torchlight wavered as she turned, casting long shadows across the cell bars.
She wanted to say something—anything—but the words stuck in her throat.
When she looked back at Roran, she could tell he was struggling with the same.
The words were there in his eyes, taking shape—the thing she wanted to say, an acknowledgment of the unspoken connection between them.
But he couldn't form them either, and the misery of his failure was written across his face.
Rasmus leaned into the doorway, his expression tense. "You need to leave," he hissed. "Now. Or all three cells will be filled tonight."
With one last glance at Roran, Thalia backed out of the prison floor, her heart as cold and heavy as an inert golem core.