CHAPTER FOUR #2
"The ship is off-schedule," Senna replied, her tone clipped and professional despite whatever personal feelings might lie beneath.
"And it bears signs of severe damage—torn mainsail, breached hull.
It's taking on water in the harbor. By all accounts, it's a miracle the vessel made it to our docks at all. "
"Something attacked it?" Ashe asked, her hand instinctively moving to the hilt of her sword.
Senna nodded curtly. "Most likely Isle Wardens. They've grown bolder since we imprisoned their kin."
The dismissive certainty in Senna's voice pricked at Thalia's patience. "Did the damage include burn marks?" she asked. "Lightning strikes?"
Senna's silver eyes narrowed. "What?"
"The damage," Thalia repeated, holding Senna's gaze despite the difference in their status. "Were there signs of fire or lightning? Isle Warden attacks typically involve storm magic."
"I wouldn't know," Senna replied coldly. "I haven't seen the vessel myself." Her lips curved into a humorless smile. "If you're so curious, Greenspire, you can make yourself useful and help bridle one of the horses. See the damage for yourself."
Thalia glanced at Kaine and Ashe. The War Council meeting would proceed without her regardless—and this ship, whatever had attacked it, might provide the evidence she needed to finally convince the instructors of the true threat they faced.
"Go," Kaine said quietly. "You might learn more at the harbor than you would waiting outside a closed door."
Thalia nodded, decision made. She moved toward the waiting ponies, taking the rope halter of a shaggy chestnut from a soldier who seemed relieved to be freed for other duties. As she coaxed the bit between the animal's reluctant teeth, a sense of foreboding settled over her like a physical weight.
There were no good outcomes here. Either the ship had been attacked by Isle Wardens—further cementing the academy's hatred toward the very prisoners Thalia needed to see freed—or the vessel had encountered something far worse.
The Deep Ones, extending their reach to the Northern coast for the first time.
Either way, the darkness was closing in, and time was running out.
***
Snow and sleet whipped across Thalia's face, the frozen needles finding every gap in her collar despite the heavy wool scarf wound tight around her neck.
She led the chestnut pony down the narrow switchbacks that connected Frostforge to its harbor, each step requiring careful consideration on the ice-slicked stone.
The path—treacherous even in fair weather—had become a gauntlet of hidden ice patches and sudden gusts that threatened to sweep both her and the reluctant animal over the edge.
Behind her, Senna's squadron followed in grim silence, their breath forming spectral clouds that the wind tore away almost before they formed.
The weather had turned suddenly, viciously, as they crested the first ridge—a reminder of the Rimspires' fickle nature, where clear skies could surrender to blinding squalls within moments.
Thalia's fingers, though protected by leather gloves lined with rabbit fur, had long since gone numb around the coarse leather of the reins.
Each tug on the stubborn pony sent shards of pain through her frozen joints.
The pony snorted, its breath crystallizing instantly in the frigid air, ears flattened against the stinging snow. It balked at a particularly steep descent, hooves scrambling for purchase on treacherous stone.
"Come on," Thalia murmured, the words stolen by the howling wind. She tightened her grip on the reins, leaning her weight backward to provide counterbalance. "Not much farther."
Through the swirling white, the harbor torches flickered below—smudges of amber light dancing against an inky backdrop of violent sea.
The metallic tang of brine grew stronger with each downward step, mingling with the sharper scent of approaching storm.
Something else lingered beneath these familiar smells—something wrong, something out of place.
A subtle corruption that prickled along Thalia's senses, raising the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.
The convoy emerged from the last bend in the path onto the relative shelter of the docks.
Here, massive cliffs provided some respite from the direct assault of the gale, though the wind still howled around them, whipping the black waters of the fjord into churning peaks.
The damaged vessel lay moored at the farthest pier, listing heavily to starboard where water had breached its hull.
Even from this distance, Thalia could see the extent of the damage—the figurehead cracked nearly in two, the mainsail hanging in tatters from its broken spar.
The hull, once painted in bright Northern blues and whites, was now streaked with salt and something darker, something that made her stomach clench with recognition.
"Secure the animals," Senna ordered, her voice cutting through the wind as she strode toward the waiting ship. "You—help them disembark. You—check the hold for supplies." Her commands sent soldiers scattering to their tasks, leaving Thalia with the ponies at the edge of the pier.
Thalia looped the chestnut's reins around a weathered post. With the animal secure, she edged closer to the damaged vessel, eyes narrowed against the sleet as she studied its wounds.
The damage pattern wasn't consistent with any Isle Warden attack she'd witnessed or studied.
No charring from lightning strikes, no melted metal from concentrated storm magic.
Instead, the wood appeared... dissolved, as though something had eaten through the solid oak planking, leaving ragged edges that reminded her of acid burns or caustic lye—but on a scale that no mundane chemical could achieve.
Her breath caught as her suspicions crystallized into certainty.
The first survivors were being helped onto the dock now—sailors and merchants with hollow eyes and trembling hands.
Most moved in shocked silence, allowing themselves to be guided toward the waiting ponies.
But one man, his salt-and-pepper beard crusted with ice, broke away from his escorts, his voice rising in a frantic pitch that cut through the howl of the wind.
"—couldn't stop them!" he was shouting, gesturing wildly back toward the open sea. "The water turned black as pitch, like it was drinking the light itself! And then the shadows—the shadows reached up and—"
"Sir, please," a soldier tried to calm him, gripping his elbow. "You're safe now. Frostforge will—"
"No!" The merchant wrenched free, his eyes wild with terror. "You don't understand! We watched it happen at Greymist Point! The fortress wall—solid stone, three feet thick—it just dissolved! Like it was being eaten away, consumed by the darkness!"
Thalia stepped forward, abandoning the ponies. "I know what you saw," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
The merchant's frantic gaze locked onto her. "You do? You've seen them too?"
"Seen what?" Senna demanded, striding toward them, her silver eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"The Deep Ones," Thalia answered before the merchant could speak. "The entities from the black waters. I saw them attack Thrum'kith—the fortress-whale. They move through shadow and consume whatever they touch. They're not Wardens. They're something much older, much worse."
Senna's face hardened. "You're overstepping, Greenspire. Remember your place."
"My place?" Thalia felt a flare of anger despite the biting cold. "My place is trying to save lives while the Council buries its head in ancient prejudice!"
"It's true!" the merchant interjected, stepping between them. "Whatever she calls them, I saw these things with my own eyes. They aren't like any Warden attack I've witnessed in thirty years at sea." His voice dropped, thick with dread. "They're something else. Something unnatural."
"Then you need to tell the War Council," Thalia said, turning to him. "They need to hear directly from Northern witnesses what's happening on our coasts."
The merchant nodded vigorously. "Take me to them. Now. They must be warned."
Senna's jaw tightened, but even she couldn't dismiss the man's obvious terror or his status as a Northern merchant—someone whose word would carry weight with the Council.
"Very well," she said stiffly. "We'll return to the academy immediately." Her gaze cut to Thalia. "But remember, Greenspire, your task is to manage the ponies, not to interfere with my command."
Thalia bit back a retort, instead focusing on helping the shaken survivors mount the waiting animals. The merchant, still trembling but resolute, insisted on riding beside her as they began the arduous climb back up the mountainside.
The sleet had thickened to driving snow, yet Thalia barely noticed the cold that had numbed her face and fingers.
Her mind raced ahead to what awaited at the summit.
After weeks of frustration and dismissal, she finally had what she needed—a Northern witness, someone the Council couldn't easily dismiss, someone who had seen firsthand what she had been trying to warn them about.
She wasn't glad for the attack, of course.
Each lost ship, each fallen outpost, meant lives destroyed and families shattered.
Yet a part of her—a part she wasn't entirely proud of—recognized the opportunity this tragedy presented.
This man's testimony might finally shatter the Council's complacency, force them to acknowledge the true threat beyond their shores.
And perhaps, just perhaps, it would open the door to what she had been fighting for—the release of the Isle Wardens, the formation of an alliance that crossed ancient boundaries of hatred and fear. An alliance that was their only hope of survival.
***