CHAPTER TEN #2
Her path took her directly past Roran, who knelt in the center of the amphitheater, chains binding his wrists to rings set in the wooden platform.
She faltered as she drew alongside him, her steps hesitating despite her best intentions.
Roran looked up, his once-vibrant eyes now shadowed with exhaustion, yet still burning with something that might have been pride or desperation.
"Don't lie to them, Thalia. Please." His whisper reached her alone, raw and stripped of all pretense. The words weren't a plea for his own sake—she knew him well enough to recognize that. He was afraid for her, for what the tribunal might do if they caught her in a falsehood.
Thalia couldn't respond, not with the weight of hundreds of eyes upon her, but she gave the slightest nod before continuing to the witness position. She stood before the tribunal, hands clasped behind her back in military stance.
Wolfe leaned forward slightly, her emerald eyes piercing as they had been in the mess hall.
"Soldier Greenspire," she began, her voice carrying effortlessly to the farthest reaches of the amphitheater, "is Soldier Redwood's testimony from yesterday accurate?
Did you witness the accused practicing storm magic in secret? "
The question was direct, impossible to evade. Thalia swallowed against the dryness in her throat. "Yes, Instructor," she confirmed, her voice steadier than she felt. "Ashe's testimony was accurate."
Wolfe nodded, seemingly satisfied with this initial answer. "You and the accused had a close relationship during your time at Frostforge," she continued. "Would you say that is an accurate characterization?"
Heat crept into Thalia's cheeks despite the mountain chill.
The phrasing made it sound like something clandestine, inappropriate.
She thought of quiet conversations on the Crystalline Plateau, of shared meals in the mess hall, of the moment their lips had met in the aftermath of battle.
She thought of Roran's laugh, now silenced by chains and accusation.
"Yes," she said simply, unwilling to elaborate unless forced.
The tribunal members exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them.
Virek's frost-scarred hands twitched on the table before him.
Marr's expression remained carefully neutral, though his eyes held a weariness that suggested he took no pleasure in these proceedings.
Ironhelm shifted uncomfortably, while Solberg—the eldest among them, his beard white as fresh snow—leaned forward with undisguised interest.
"How close?" Solberg asked, his pale blue eyes bright with curiosity that bordered on prurience.
The directness of the question caught Thalia off guard. "We were friends," she answered, then immediately regretted the defensive note in her voice.
"Just friends?" Solberg pressed, one white eyebrow arching upward.
Thalia opened her mouth, then closed it again, unsure how to respond. The truth was more complicated than simple categories could contain. They had been friends, yes, but also something more—something unnamed and unfinished, interrupted by war and duty and now this farce of justice.
As she struggled to find words, Wolfe intervened.
"We understand this is difficult, soldier," she said, her tone softening in a way that felt calculated rather than compassionate.
"But the truth serves justice." She paused, allowing the weight of the statement to settle.
"Did Roran ever speak to you of the Isle Wardens? "
The change in direction brought a momentary relief. This, at least, was simpler to answer. "Yes," Thalia said firmly, refusing to flinch. "He hated them. They took everything from him. Killed his parents."
Virek's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Can you recall any specific conversations about the Isle Wardens? Perhaps regarding their methods, their magic?"
Her mind flashed to that night on the cliffs, when Roran had finally trusted her with the truth—that he had been born to Isle Warden parents before being adopted by Southern merchants.
That his storm magic wasn't learned but innate, a birthright he had struggled against his entire life.
The confession had come with tears and shame, with the fear that she would turn from him in disgust.
She swallowed, unwilling to betray that confidence even now. "He only ever spoke of them as one speaks of enemies," she said carefully.
The tribunal members exchanged glances again, dissatisfied with her answer. Ironhelm leaned forward, her iron-gray braids shifting as she moved. "Did he ever demonstrate unusual knowledge of maritime matters? Techniques that would be unfamiliar to a merchant's son?"
"Roran grew up on ships," Thalia countered. "His adoptive parents were merchants who traded up and down the coast. He learned sailing from childhood."
A subtle but palpable change passed over the tribunal. They leaned forward almost as one, their attention sharpening, like predators scenting blood. Virek's pale eyes fixed on her face with disturbing intensity, while Solberg stroked his white beard, a gleam of triumph in his gaze.
"Adoptive parents?" Virek echoed, his whisper-soft voice somehow cutting through the sudden stillness of the amphitheater. "That’s an interesting detail."
Cold dread washed through Thalia as she realized her mistake.
She had revealed something Roran had confided only to her—that the Southern merchants who raised him weren't his birth parents.
It wasn't an explicit confession of his Isle Warden heritage, but paired with the evidence the tribunal had gathered about his storm magic, it was like a keystone being slotted neatly into an arch.
Virek's frost-scarred hands spread on the table before him, as if he were physically laying out his next question. "I wonder," he said delicately, "if your closeness with the accused might have compromised your judgment. Perhaps blinded you to certain truths about his nature."
A snicker rippled through the older students in the stands. Thalia felt heat rising in her cheeks, a flush of humiliation and anger that she couldn't suppress. The question wasn't about judgment at all—it was an insinuation meant to undermine and embarrass.
Before she could formulate a response, Solberg leaned forward, his pale eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "Let's not mince words," he said, his voice carrying to every corner of the amphitheater. "Did you share his bed?"
The amphitheater erupted. Laughter rolled from the galleries like thunder, harsh and mocking. Even the guards stationed around the perimeter broke their stoic masks, smirks playing at the corners of their mouths. Thalia's vision narrowed to a tunnel, the edges darkening as blood rushed to her face.
This wasn't about evidence. It wasn't about justice or truth or protecting Frostforge. It was about stripping Roran bare of dignity, using her as the knife to flay him. Heat flared in her chest, not the flush of embarrassment now but the fire of rage.
"Is this a tribunal or a tavern?" she demanded, her voice shaking with fury.
"You claim to serve justice, but you turn a man's trial into vulgar entertainment.
You use his friends as weapons against him.
You twist the truth to suit your prejudice.
" Her hands trembled at her sides, but she forced herself to continue.
"If this is Northern justice, I want no part of it. "
The tribunal members exchanged looks—Solberg appeared amused by her outburst, Virek openly derisive. Wolfe’s face was an impassive mask, while Ironhelm shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Marr looked weary, though he maintained his stoic stillness.
Thalia felt her composure slipping away like sand through fingers.
She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her unravel further, of watching her beg or weep or rage.
Without waiting for dismissal, without glancing back at Roran—afraid that his expression, whether of anguish, anger, or worst of all, pity, might undo her completely—she turned sharply on her heel and strode from the amphitheater.
The crowd's laughter followed her, a wave of sound that crashed against her back as she walked.
She kept her gaze fixed ahead, her spine straight, her steps measured.
Only when she had passed beyond the wooden partition, out of sight of the tribunal and the jeering crowd, did she allow herself to falter.
Her hand found the rough wood of the barrier, fingers digging into its surface as she fought to steady herself.
She had let Roran down. Not by speaking falsely—she had kept her promise to him on that count—but by losing control of her temper, by walking away when she might have found some way to help him.
Her outburst had likely worsened her credibility, turning her earlier defenses of him into the desperate, biased pleas of a woman too emotionally involved to see reason.
The realization settled over her like a physical weight, pressing her down, making each breath a struggle against the tightness in her chest.
Behind her, through the partition, she could hear Wolfe calling for order, silencing the crowd's laughter. The tribunal would continue without her. Roran's fate would be decided, with or without her testimony. And she, who had risked everything for the chance to save him, had failed.