CHAPTER EIGHT
Thalia's breath came rapidly, clouding before her in the bitter morning air as the procession of soldiers moved with grim purpose across the Crystalline Plateau.
Many pairs of boots crunched over frost-rimed grass toward the wooden amphitheater that loomed beneath the Smith's Anvil.
Thalia kept her eyes fixed on the temporary structure, its weathered planks and hastily erected beams stark against the mountain's ancient stone.
This wasn't the first time she'd seen such a construction on the plateau—similar ones appeared each year for the Forge Gauntlet—but never had one filled her with such dread.
Senna marched at the head of their formation, her back rigid as a blade, silver-gray eyes scanning the line of students ahead of them.
Her uniform was immaculate, the ice-steel pins of her rank glinting in the morning light.
Thalia followed with the rest of the soldiers, trying to ignore the weight of Senna's occasional backward glance—sharp and assessing, as if measuring Thalia's reaction to what was about to unfold.
"Eyes forward, Greenspire," Senna called without turning her head, her voice carrying over the whisper of wind across the plateau. "This is a military proceeding, not a social gathering."
Thalia bit back a retort and fixed her gaze ahead, though her mind raced like a trapped animal seeking escape. Six days since she'd seen Roran in his cell. Six days of patrol duty and inventory counts, of training novices and repairing equipment. Six days of hoping for news that never came.
The amphitheater grew larger as they approached, its wooden skeleton thrown into sharp relief by the morning sun.
Unlike the more hastily constructed viewing stands for the Forge Gauntlet, this structure bore marks of careful planning—solid foundations dug into the frozen ground, tiered seating arranged with military precision, a raised dais at its center ringed by tall poles bearing Frostforge's crest: a hammer striking a stylized mountain peak, sparks of ice rather than fire flying from the impact.
Everything about it spoke of permanence, as if the tribunal had been an inevitability from the moment Roran had first set foot in Frostforge. Perhaps it had been.
Students filed into the amphitheater ahead of them, arranged by year—first-years on the highest tiers, looking wide-eyed and uncertain; second-years just below them, their faces apprehensive; third and fourth-years closer to the front, their expressions more guarded, more aware of what the day's proceedings truly meant.
Many of the older students had known Roran personally.
Some had fought alongside him during the Isle Warden attack last term.
Thalia searched their faces as she passed, looking for any sign of sympathy, any hint that they might see the injustice unfolding before them.
But most avoided her gaze, their eyes cast downward or fixed firmly ahead.
Those who did meet her eyes looked away quickly, as if her anguish might be contagious.
"Soldiers to the front rows," Senna announced as they reached the entrance, her voice crisp in the cold air. "Lowest tier, directly facing the tribunal."
Thalia followed these orders despite the irritation that flared in her chest, filing into the lowest tier.
Beside her, Luna’s face was carefully blank, though her fingers twisted anxiously at her sides.
Ashe was nowhere to be seen—waiting elsewhere to be called as a witness, most likely.
Brynn took a seat several places away, her posture stiff and her expression unreadable.
From this vantage point, Thalia had a clear view of the dais.
Five high-backed chairs had been placed in a semicircle, each bearing the seal of Frostforge on its headrest. Before them was a smaller wooden platform with iron rings driven into its grain—restraints for the accused.
The sight of it made Thalia's stomach twist into knots.
The tribunal members entered in solemn procession.
Instructor Wolfe led them, her sharp features set in lines of stern purpose, emerald eyes gleaming like chips of frozen forest beneath the winter sun.
Her dark hair was pulled back severely from her face, accentuating her high cheekbones.
She wore formal robes of deep blue trimmed with silver, the traditional garb of Frostforge's head instructor.
Behind her came Instructor Virek, slight and pale as a winter shadow, his spiderwebbed hands clasped before him.
His frostbite scars caught the light oddly, giving his skin a translucent quality that always made Thalia think of ice over deep water.
Next was Instructor Marr, his broad shoulders and military bearing a stark contrast to Virek's ethereal presence.
The glass threads in his cloak captured sunlight and scattered it in prism patterns across the wooden platform.
The final two tribunal members were less familiar to Thalia.
Instructor Irongrave, a Northern woman with iron-gray hair coiled in intricate braids atop her head, her face a maze of age lines and battle scars.
And Instructor Solberg, a tall man with a beard like fresh snow and eyes the pale blue of a winter sky at dawn.
They moved with the deliberate grace of those who had seen more winters than most could hope to survive, their robes flowing around them like water over stone.
The five took their seats on the dais, arranging themselves with ceremonial precision. Thalia searched their faces for any hint of mercy, any crack in their unified front, but found only the impassive masks of those who had already reached their verdict.
The amphitheater fell silent as Wolfe rose to her feet, the fabric of her robes whispering against the wooden platform.
"We gather today," she began, her voice carrying easily to the farthest reaches of the amphitheater without the need to shout, "to pass judgment on one who has violated the most sacred tenets of Frostforge Academy.
One who has hidden among us, concealing his true nature and heritage while learning our secrets, our defenses, our weaknesses. "
Murmurs rippled through the gathered students like wind through winter wheat. Thalia's hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms.
"Bring forth the accused," Wolfe commanded, her gaze shifting to a point beyond the dais.
Two ice-bronze golems emerged from behind a wooden barrier at the edge of the platform. Their metallic bodies gleamed dully in the morning light, runes etched into their surfaces pulsing with a faint blue glow as they moved with the ponderous grace of animated metal.
Thalia's breath caught in her throat as recognition slammed into her.
One of the golems was Falchion— her golem, her creation from her second year at Frostforge.
Its distinctive form was unmistakable: the slightly broader shoulders she had crafted to balance its weight, the intricate runes she had painstakingly etched along its spine, the small imperfection in its left hand where she had struggled with the delicate fingerwork.
Luna's hand found hers, squeezing tightly. "They're using Falchion deliberately," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Thalia nodded, unable to speak past the constriction in her throat. The message was clear: this is your creation, but it serves us now just as you do.
The golems disappeared behind the barrier once more, then reemerged with a figure between them. Roran stumbled as they dragged him forward, chains binding his wrists and ankles clanking with each step.
In the week since she'd seen him in his cell, he had diminished further.
His frame, once strong from years of training, now seemed frail beneath the simple gray tunic they had given him.
His skin had lost more of its luster, taking on an ashen quality; the short-cropped curls did nothing to soften the angles of his face, now sharp with deprivation.
Only his eyes remained as she remembered them—dark and intense, though now they held a resignation that frightened her more than any defiance would have.
Falchion's metal hand closed around Roran's upper arm as the golems guided him to the center of the amphitheater. The juxtaposition was almost too much to bear—her creation, which she had breathed life into through her magic and skill, now used to restrain the man she wanted desperately to free.
Thalia gripped the edge of her bench so tightly her knuckles ached, fighting to maintain her composure as the golems attached the chains to the ice-iron rings set into the ground, pulling Roran down into a kneeling position.
Wolfe stepped forward once Roran was secured, her robes rustling softly in the stillness that had fallen over the amphitheater. All eyes were fixed on the dais, on the prisoner who sat with his head bowed, as if already accepting the weight of judgment about to fall upon him.
"Roran Bright," Wolfe intoned, her voice carrying to every corner of the amphitheater. "You stand accused of the following crimes against Frostforge Academy and the United Continent it serves."
She unrolled a scroll with deliberate slowness, the parchment crackling in the cold air.
"First: The practice of storm magic techniques, arts forbidden to all but those who serve directly under the authority of the United Kingdoms."
Thalia's mind raced. This charge was true, but incomplete. Roran had indeed used storm magic—but he had used it to save the academy, to save the very students now gathered to witness his condemnation. There was a defense here, if only someone would speak it.
"Second: Concealment of Isle Warden heritage, a deliberate deception perpetrated upon the Selection process and the academy itself."