CHAPTER TEN
The mess hall's usual clamor had transformed into something more subdued—a murmur punctuated by the scrape of spoons against bowls and the occasional cough.
Thalia stared at the pale gruel in her bowl, watching steam curl into the frigid air like departing spirits.
Around her, the usual sea of Frostforge uniforms was now interspersed with the tattered clothing of refugees, their haggard faces and hollow eyes a stark reminder of the war that had stolen their homes.
The hall felt both fuller and emptier somehow—more bodies pressed into the space, yet less food on each plate, as if the academy itself were stretching thin under the weight of its new responsibility.
Thalia pushed her bowl away, untouched. Her stomach had twisted into knots at dawn, when the bell had rung to signal the tribunal's reconvening.
Today, Roran's fate would likely be sealed.
The thought of food made her throat constrict, as if her body were rejecting sustenance while Roran sat in chains, awaiting judgment.
Across from her, Zanaya hunched over her own meager portion, scraping the sides of her bowl with methodical precision.
The girl's dark eyes flicked up occasionally, surveying the hall with the wariness of someone who had learned to stay alert even during moments of rest. She had braided her tangled hair since yesterday, the simple act of grooming a small reclamation of dignity.
"Here," Thalia said, sliding her bowl across the rough wooden table. "I'm not hungry."
Zanaya hesitated only a moment before accepting the offering, her thin fingers curling around the bowl's edge. "Are you sure?" she asked, though her eyes had already fixed on the food with undisguised longing.
"Take it," Thalia insisted, her voice gentler than she'd intended. "Please."
No further encouragement was needed. Zanaya bent over the second helping, eating with the careful efficiency of someone who had known true hunger.
Thalia watched her, finding a strange comfort in the simple act of providing nourishment to someone who needed it.
If she couldn't save her family, couldn't save Roran, at least she could ensure this girl had enough to eat.
Luna leaned close, her breath warm against Thalia's ear. "You also need to eat something," she murmured, her usual affected distraction absent. "You need your strength. Today of all days."
"I can't," Thalia replied, keeping her voice low. The thought of the amphitheater, of Roran's gaunt face, and the tribunal's cold scrutiny made her stomach clench painfully. "Food would just come back up."
Luna frowned, about to argue, when a hush fell over their section of the hall.
Thalia felt the change in atmosphere before she saw the cause—a ripple of tension spreading outward like rings in disturbed water.
She turned to find Instructor Wolfe approaching their table, her emerald eyes sharp as she cut through the crowd with predatory grace.
Students straightened as Wolfe passed, conversations dying mid-sentence. The refugees, sensing the shift in energy, drew inward, making themselves smaller in the presence of authority. Wolfe's dark robes swept the stone floor as she moved, the fabric seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it.
Thalia and Luna rose automatically as Wolfe reached their table, their bodies responding to years of conditioning. They offered crisp salutes, fists pressed to hearts, then extended outward—the traditional Northern gesture of honesty and respect.
"At ease," Wolfe said, her voice cool and precise. Her gaze swept over them, lingering on Thalia's face. "Greenspire, you are to report to the amphitheater before the tribunal is called to order. Half an hour from now."
The instruction settled like ice in Thalia's veins. This order could mean many things, none of them good. She swallowed, fighting to keep her expression neutral. "May I ask why, Instructor?"
Wolfe's sharp features remained impassive, though something flickered in her emerald eyes—perhaps surprise at the question, or displeasure at being challenged. "You are being called as a witness before the tribunal," she said after a calculated pause.
A witness. Before the tribunal.
Her first instinct was that this was an opportunity. A chance to defend Roran before the entire academy.
But common sense quickly won out over her naive hopes.
The tribunal had summoned Ashe from the Reaches for testimony, not her.
They didn’t want to give her the chance to defend Roran; they only wanted to seal his fate.
Perhaps they had decided their point was already proven, and they were looking for a final condemnation.
What better way to crystallize the certainty of Roran’s guilt than to hear something damning from the mouth of his closest friend?
"I understand, Instructor," she managed, though her mouth had gone dry as ashes.
Wolfe regarded her for a moment longer, as if measuring the weight of Thalia's response. Then she gave a curt nod. "Don't be late," she said, before turning away, her robes whispering against the stone floor as she departed.
Thalia remained standing, her limbs frozen in place as if winter had seeped into her bones.
Around her, conversations gradually resumed, though quieter now, punctuated by furtive glances in her direction.
Zanaya stared up at her, spoon suspended halfway to her mouth, confusion and concern warring in her expression.
"Thalia," Luna said softly, tugging at her sleeve. "Sit down."
Thalia sank back onto the bench, her movements wooden.
The mess hall seemed suddenly distant, as if she were viewing it through thick glass.
Sounds reached her as if through water—muffled, distorted.
Her hands lay flat on the table before her, and she stared at them, noticing with detached curiosity how they trembled.
"This isn't good," Luna whispered, her voice pitched low enough that only Thalia could hear. "Whatever their reasoning in calling you as a witness, it doesn't bode well."
The words gave voice to the fear that had lodged in Thalia's chest like a shard of ice.
They didn't need her testimony—not after Ashe's damning admissions, not after Einar's persuasive accusations.
They had enough already to condemn Roran ten times over.
Which meant they wanted something else from her. Something specific.
"They're going to use me against him," she breathed, the realization tasting bitter on her tongue.
Luna's hand found hers beneath the table, squeezing tightly. "You don't know that," she said, though her tone lacked conviction.
But Thalia did know. The tribunal had demonstrated its intent clearly enough during Ashe's testimony: they wanted a spectacle, not justice. And what better way to complete Roran's humiliation than to force a confession of his heritage from someone he trusted?
"I should go," Thalia said, rising again. The need to escape the crowded hall, to find some moment of solitude before facing the tribunal, pressed upon her with sudden urgency. "I need to... prepare."
Luna nodded, understanding in her eyes. "I'll be there," she promised. "In the audience."
Thalia managed a tight nod before turning away.
She felt eyes following her as she made her way through the mess hall—curious, pitying, calculating.
The refugees parted before her, shrinking from her uniform as if it represented a threat.
The students watched with naked interest, already speculating on what secrets she might reveal about the accused.
Outside in the corridor, the cold air slapped against her heated skin like a reprimand.
Thalia leaned against the ancient stone wall, its chill seeping through her uniform, anchoring her to the present moment.
Half an hour to compose herself. Half an hour to decide how much truth she was willing to speak.
Half an hour to decide whether to betray Roran or condemn herself.
***
Thalia stood behind the wooden partition, listening to the murmur of the crowd filling the amphitheater beyond.
Her legs felt like they'd been transmuted to wood by some malevolent alchemist's spell—rigid and unnatural, hardly her own.
The air around her seemed to press inward, thick with anticipation and the chill of mountain stone.
She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing as she had before combat drills and golem forging tests, but the techniques that had served her then failed her now.
This wasn't a test of skill or knowledge.
This was something far more dangerous: a public dissection of her loyalty, her judgment, her heart.
"The tribunal calls Thalia Greenspire," Wolfe's voice carried through the partition, clear and commanding.
Her name, spoken in that formal cadence, sent a shiver down her spine.
For a disorienting moment, Thalia felt like one of her own constructs—like Falchion, her ice-brass golem—activated by the utterance of her name, compelled to move by forces beyond her control.
She stepped around the partition and into the amphitheater's merciless light.
The sight that greeted her was worse than she'd imagined.
The wooden stands were packed to capacity—students, soldiers, instructors, refugees—all eyes fixed on her with unnerving intensity.
The morning sun cast long shadows across the platform, highlighting the five high-backed chairs where the tribunal sat in judgment.
Thalia forced her gaze forward, focusing on the task of putting one foot before the other.