CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The camp sprawled in the shadow of a granite outcropping, its perimeter marked by sharpened stakes driven deep into frozen earth.
Roran approached with deliberate steps, his boots crunching through the thin crust of snow that had fallen overnight.
Even from a distance, he recognized the Northern military precision in the arrangement of tents and supply caches—a discipline that somehow made their presence here, far from any official outpost, all the more troubling.
Storm magic tingled at his fingertips, a restless current he suppressed through force of habit, though the sensation intensified as his unease grew.
Deserters or refugees, these were soldiers who had abandoned their duties, just like the others he'd encountered.
The question was whether they had fled out of cowardice or something far worse.
He paused at the edge of a small clearing, taking stock of the camp's defenses.
Trenches had been dug despite the frozen ground, a testament to desperate determination.
Watchfires blazed at regular intervals, their smoke rising straight in the still air.
Three sentries patrolled the perimeter, their movements mechanical, eyes scanning the treeline with the haunted vigilance of those who had seen things they could not unsee.
One of the sentries spotted him, raising a horn to his lips. The low, bellowing note echoed across the clearing, and within moments, half a dozen armed figures emerged from tents, bows drawn and aimed at Roran's position.
"Identify yourself!" The command carried across the clearing, sharp with suspicion.
Roran raised his empty hands, palms forward. "Roran Bright! Messenger from Frostforge Academy!"
His words triggered a ripple of movement among the soldiers. Two conferred in hushed tones while the others maintained their aim, arrows nocked and ready. After a moment, one man nodded and gestured for Roran to approach.
"Slowly," the soldier called. "Any weapons, declare them now."
"A sword at my hip, a dagger in my boot," Roran replied, keeping his hands visible as he began to walk forward.
He made no mention of the storm magic coursing beneath his skin, a power that outmatched any blade they might possess.
Some secrets were best kept, especially among Northerners who would execute him for his heritage if they knew.
The soldiers parted to create a narrow corridor of bodies, through which Roran walked with measured steps.
Their eyes tracked his every movement, fingers tense on bowstrings, ready to release at the slightest provocation.
As he passed, Roran noted the details that told a deeper story than their military bearing suggested—gaunt faces beneath dirt-streaked helmets, uniforms patched with whatever materials had been available, the tremor in hands that should have been steady.
These men were afraid. Not with the temporary fear of battle, but with something deeper, more fundamental. The kind of fear that rewrote a person's understanding of the world.
They led him to the center of the camp, where a large tent stood apart from the others.
Its canvas walls were reinforced with panels of wood and what appeared to be salvaged ship's planking, creating a makeshift command post. Outside, a fire burned in a stone ring, above which hung a pot of something that might have been stew, though the thin wisps of steam rising from its surface suggested it contained more water than substance.
A man emerged from the tent, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the fire's glow.
Gray streaked his beard like ash through embers, and a jagged scar bisected his left eyebrow, continuing down to disappear beneath a leather eye patch.
His remaining eye, the color of steel in winter light, fixed on Roran with the calculating assessment of a predator.
"Captain Ragnor," one of the soldiers said, his tone suggesting the introduction was for Roran's benefit rather than the captain's.
Roran inclined his head in acknowledgment, careful to maintain the balance between respect and dignity. Northern military hierarchy valued both.
"You claim to come from Frostforge," the captain said, his voice as rough as the granite at his back. "Yet you wear no uniform, carry no official seal."
"I travel light, and the uniform would only draw attention," Roran replied. "I can describe the academy in detail if you require proof. The Crystalline plateau, the Howling Forge, Instructor Wolfe's tendency to—"
"Enough," Captain Ragnor interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "If you were a spy, you'd have a better story prepared. And if you were an enemy..." A grim smile touched his lips. "Well, our enemies don't usually walk up to the front gate and announce themselves."
He gestured toward the fire. "Sit. You look half-frozen, and we've little enough hospitality to offer, but there's warmth at least."
Roran accepted the invitation, settling on a log that had been positioned near the fire.
The captain called for bowls, and a young soldier hurried to ladle out portions of the watery stew.
Roran accepted his with murmured thanks, noting how the serving barely covered the bottom of the wooden bowl.
These men were rationing carefully—another sign that they intended to remain here, far from supply lines.
"What brings a Frostforge messenger to our humble camp?" the captain asked after several moments of silence, during which Roran had pretended to focus on his meager meal.
Roran set the bowl aside, meeting the captain's steady gaze. "I'm gathering intelligence on Northern coastal defenses. Reports reached the academy that outposts were being abandoned. I was sent to confirm and assess."
A ripple of tension passed through the gathered soldiers. Several exchanged glances loaded with unspoken communication. Captain Ragnor's expression hardened, his single eye narrowing.
"Abandoned," he repeated, the word sharp as broken glass.
"Is that what they're calling it at your precious academy?
Abandonment implies choice, boy. It implies cowardice.
" His hand clenched around his bowl, knuckles whitening.
"Is that what you think of us? That we've abandoned our posts like frightened children fleeing shadows? "
The accusation hung in the air between them, charged with wounded pride and barely contained fury. Roran realized his error too late—the careless implication of his words cutting deeper than he'd intended.
"I meant no offense," he began, but the captain was already rising to his feet, his stew forgotten as he loomed over Roran.
"No offense?" Ragnor's voice rose, drawing the attention of every soldier in the vicinity. "You sit there in judgment, Frostforge's Southern errand boy, questioning our honor when you haven't seen what we've seen. Haven't fought what we fought."
Roran remained seated, keeping his posture open, non-threatening. Aggression would only escalate the situation. "You're right," he conceded, raising his hands slightly. "I spoke without knowing your circumstances. I apologize for the implication."
The captain studied him for a long moment, apparently weighing the sincerity of his apology. Finally, he lowered himself back to his seat, though the tension in his frame suggested his anger had merely been banked, not extinguished.
"There is no post left to abandon," Ragnor said, his voice quieter now but no less intense. "Stonehaven Fortress is gone. Not taken, not overrun. Gone."
Roran leaned forward, his interest sharpening. "What happened?"
Ragnor's gaze shifted to the fire, as if he could see the events replayed in its dancing flames.
"We were stationed at the northwest tip of Ironbay Peninsula.
Solid fortress, built on bedrock, walls thirty feet high and eight feet thick at the base.
Been standing for three centuries, weathered everything from Warden raids to the great blizzard two decades ago. "
He fell silent, lost in memory, and one of his soldiers—a wiry man with a nervous twitch in his left hand—picked up the narrative.
"Started with the fog," he said, his eyes darting between Roran and the surrounding darkness, as if expecting something to emerge from the shadows at any moment. "Rolled in from the sea about a week ago. Unnatural thick, it was. Couldn't see your hand in front of your face."
Another soldier nodded vigorously. "And cold. Not like normal fog. This felt...wrong. Like it was pulling the warmth from inside you."
"We'd heard the rumors," Ragnor continued, reclaiming the story.
"Coastal villages disappearing, strange shadows in the water.
But rumors are plentiful in wartime, and we had our orders to hold the peninsula against Warden incursion.
" His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "We were watching for the wrong enemy. "
He reached for a stick and prodded the fire, sending a shower of sparks spiraling into the night. "It began at the foundations. Our sentries reported a disturbance in the water around the seaward side of the fortress—the ocean had turned black as pitch, and it was… writhing."
Roran's pulse quickened. The description matched what he’d witnessed aboard the fortress-whale, his first and only encounter with the Deep Tide.
"The stone began to...dissolve," Ragnor continued, his voice dropping to near a whisper, forcing Roran to lean closer.
"Not crumble, not break. Dissolve. Like salt in water.
One moment solid rock, the next...nothing.
The blackness seemed to eat the very foundation of the fortress, working its way upward as if it were alive, hungry. "