CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Consciousness returned to Roran like a tide creeping up a shoreline—gradual, then sudden. First came pain, a dull throbbing at the base of his skull. Then sensation—rough wood against his back, coarse rope binding his wrists, the metallic taste of blood on his split lip.
He kept his eyes closed, breathing slow and deep in feigned unconsciousness while his mind assembled fragments of memory: the cliff edge, the black waters below, the void-creatures pursuing him through the forest. And finally, before darkness claimed him, voices with Northern accents and the glint of steel in torchlight.
The air around him smelled of pine smoke and damp wool, with an underlying tang of fear-sweat and old blood.
A cabin, then. Not a cell or a formal holding room.
The floor beneath him was packed earth rather than stone, and the support beam his hands were tied around felt rough-hewn, not the smooth-worked timber of a permanent structure.
He flexed his fingers slightly, testing his bonds without making it obvious he was awake. The rope bit into his skin, abrading already raw wrists. Whoever had tied him knew their knots—tight enough to prevent escape, not tight enough to cut off circulation. Professional. Military.
Voices murmured somewhere to his left, just beyond the range of clear hearing. Roran concentrated, forcing his breathing to remain slow and regular while he strained to catch their words.
"—have only seen its like from archipelago raiders," one voice was saying, male, with the hard consonants typical of Northern speech. "The lightning came right from his hands. Pure Warden sorcery."
"Aye," a second voice agreed. "Captain Halgrim would have gutted him on the spot if he'd been here."
"Lucky for the Warden the black waters took him, then." The first speaker's tone darkened. “Not so lucky for Eastwatch.”
Eastwatch—the fortress Roran had sought, finding only that perfect void of darkness in its place. These men must be survivors of its fall, more Northern soldiers who'd witnessed the Deep Tide's advance firsthand yet still believed it to be Warden magic.
"But that's what doesn't make sense," the second voice continued, lower now, uncertain. "Those... things. The shadows that rose from the water. They were pursuing him. Hunting him. Why would they attack one of their own masters?"
A chair scraped against the floor. "Who says they're masters?" the first voice countered. "Perhaps the Wardens have finally conjured something they can't control. Wouldn't be the first time dark magic turned on its wielder."
"Either way," the second voice firmed with resolve, "the commander at the inland garrison will want to question him personally. A Warden captive is valuable—especially one who can tell us what those shadow-creatures are and how to fight them."
A grunt of agreement.
Roran took mental inventory of his body.
Weakness permeated every fiber of his being, a bone-deep exhaustion unlike anything he'd experienced before.
Drawing on storm magic as he had, channeling lightning strike after lightning strike against the Deep Ones, had depleted his reserves almost entirely.
What remained flickered within him like a candle guttering in a draft, barely enough to warm his skin, let alone strike at an enemy.
And yet the soldiers had made a critical error. There were no suppression runes on his bonds, no magic-dampening shackles like those the Isle Wardens wore at Frostforge. Perhaps they lacked the specialized equipment so far north, or perhaps they believed him too weak to be a threat.
Through slitted eyes, Roran surveyed his surroundings. The cabin was sparse—one room with log walls and a packed earth floor. A single door faced him, flanked by a shuttered window that admitted thin slices of gray morning light.
To his left, the two soldiers sat at a rough-hewn table, both dressed in the leather and fur-trimmed uniforms of the Northern Rangers, one with sergeant's markings on his collar. Their weapons lay within reach—ice-steel swords, daggers, a crossbow mounted and ready.
Against the far wall stood a battered iron stove with a kettle atop it, steam rising from its spout. A weapons rack held additional blades and what looked like a quiver of arrows. Nothing within reach. Nothing he could use without first freeing himself.
The sergeant rose from the table, stretching muscles stiff from long hours of watchfulness. "Dawn patrol should be back soon. Once they report the area's clear of those things, we'll move out." He walked to the stove, reaching for the kettle. "One more cup before—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze locking with Roran's partially open eyes. For a heartbeat, neither moved.
"He's awake," the sergeant said flatly, setting the kettle down with deliberate care. His companion—younger, with a puckered scar across his cheek—pushed back from the table, hand dropping to the hilt of his blade.
Roran abandoned the pretense, opening his eyes fully and straightening his back against the support beam. No sense wasting energy on deception now. Better to assess his captors directly, look for weaknesses he could exploit.
The sergeant approached, crouching just beyond the range of a potential kick. His face bore the weathered lines of a career soldier, eyes the pale blue of a winter sky, sharp with intelligence and wariness.
"So," he said, voice deceptively casual. "The Warden lives."
"I'm not a Warden," Roran replied, his voice rough from thirst and exertion.
The sergeant's expression hardened. "We saw you call lightning from a clear sky. Saw the way the winds answered your call." His hand shot out, striking Roran across the face with enough force to snap his head sideways. "Do not insult our intelligence, stormspawn."
The blow reignited the pain in Roran's skull, setting off a cascade of red sparks behind his eyes. He tasted fresh blood, worked his jaw to ensure nothing was broken.
"The black waters," the younger soldier interjected, stepping closer. "What are they? What have you people done?"
Roran met his gaze steadily. "We've done nothing. The Isle Wardens aren't responsible for the darkness. It's something else, something older. They—we—call them the Deep Ones. They’re entities that have consumed parts of the archipelago for generations."
"Lies," the sergeant spat. "More Warden treachery."
"I was fighting for my life against those things," Roran countered, anger finally breaking through his careful restraint.
"You saw them yourselves—the void-creatures that rose from the water, that pursued me through the forest. Why would they attack me if I controlled them? If they were Warden magic?"
The younger soldier's expression wavered slightly, uncertainty creeping in. But the sergeant remained unmoved.
"No one says they're under your control," he replied coldly. "Only that you've brought them upon our shores. Whether through failed spellcraft or deliberate malice, the result is the same."
Roran fought to keep his frustration in check. These men had witnessed the Deep Tide firsthand, had seen their comrades consumed by it, yet still clung to their hatred of the Wardens—a hatred so deeply ingrained that it blinded them to the truth even when it rose from the ocean to devour them.
There would be no diplomatic resolution here.
No chance of convincing them that the true enemy was not the Isle Wardens but the darkness that threatened them all.
And Roran couldn't afford to be delivered to some Northern garrison commander for interrogation—not when he carried vital intelligence that needed to reach Frostforge immediately.
He shifted his weight, testing the strength of the beam he was tied to.
Solid. The rope around his wrists was equally uncompromising—too thick to break by force, too tight to slip.
His only option was magic, but drawing on his storm abilities now felt like trying to drink from an empty cup.
Still, even a cup drained to its dregs might contain enough moisture to wet one's tongue.
The sergeant straightened, turning back toward the table. "We move at midday. Until then, save your lies for the commander. Not that he’ll buy them. He has a way of getting to the truth."
Roran closed his eyes, focusing inward, seeking the core of power that lay at the center of his being. There—a flicker, faint but present. Not enough for lightning, not even enough for a proper electrical discharge. But perhaps, if concentrated precisely…
The sergeant was speaking to the younger soldier, giving instructions for their departure.
Roran tuned them out, directing every ounce of his remaining energy to his bound wrists.
Electricity manifested as a subtle blue glow, barely visible in the dim cabin light, gathering at the precise point where rope met skin.
The hemp began to smolder, individual fibers blackening and giving way one by one. The scent of burning rope reached his nostrils, acrid and distinctive.
"What's that smell?" The younger soldier turned, eyes widening as he caught sight of the blue glow around Roran's wrists. "Sergeant! He's—"
Too late. The last fibers gave way as Roran surged to his feet, his hands free though raw and bleeding where the rope had cut into them. The sergeant lunged for him, but Roran ducked to one side, his body remembering the combat training of Frostforge despite his weakened state.
His gaze swept the room, seeking advantage.
The kettle on the stove—heavy iron, full of boiling water.
He seized it by the handle, ignoring the burn against his palm, and swung it in a wide arc.
Hot water arced through the air, catching the sergeant across the chest. The man roared in pain, staggering backward.
The younger soldier had drawn his blade, advancing with the trained precision of a Frostforge graduate. His free hand extended, frost already crystallizing around his fingertips—a cryomancer preparing to strike.
Ice magic—the signature ability of the North, the power that had built Frostforge and sustained its defenses for centuries. The very magic Roran had trained in alongside his classmates, excelling in it despite his hidden Warden heritage.
The soldier released a spear of ice, its jagged point aimed directly at Roran's chest. But instead of dodging, Roran raised his hand, calling on different reserves—not the storm magic that marked him as Warden-born, but the cryomantic techniques drilled into him during years at the academy.
The ice shard halted mid-flight, hovering between them. Roran's fingers twisted in a precise gesture, and the frozen projectile reversed course, embedding itself in the wall beside the soldier's head.
"Impossible," the young man whispered, shock rendering him momentarily immobile. "You're using cryomancy. No stormspawn could—"
"I was trained at Frostforge," Roran said, advancing. "Just like you."
The revelation staggered both soldiers, their worldview visibly crumbling as they confronted something that couldn't exist within their understanding: an Isle Warden—a stormcaller—wielding ice.
Roran seized the moment of confusion, driving his shoulder into the younger soldier's midsection and sending him crashing into the table. The sergeant had recovered enough to reach for his sword, but Roran was already moving, kicking the man's legs from beneath him and making for the door.
He burst into the open air, cold morning light momentarily blinding him after the cabin's dimness.
The forest stretched before him, pine trees standing sentinel in all directions, their trunks creating a natural maze of shadow and cover.
Behind him, shouts erupted as the soldiers regained their composure and gave chase.
Roran plunged into the trees, his boots crunching through a thin layer of frost as he wove between trunks and leapt over fallen logs.
His body protested every movement, muscles burning with fatigue, the brief exertion of magic leaving him dizzy and gasping.
But fear and necessity drove him onward—fear of capture, necessity of reaching Frostforge with what he now knew.
He had been deployed by the War Council, but this entire time, he had only thought only of returning to Thalia, reporting to her burgeoning, underground alliance within Frostforge’s walls.
The instructors clearly thought of Thalia as nothing more than a nuisance; she was, in their eyes, fortunate to be permitted her role as a custodian of the fortress.
But Roran knew the truth. If Frostforge survived what was to come, it would only be because of Thalia’s efforts.
Thalia’s strategy. The War Council were out of their depth, blinded by their own biases; it was Thalia and the others who could truly find a way to fight back.
But only if he could reach them, could warn them about what they were going to face.
Voices called through the trees behind him, growing more distant as he put space between himself and his pursuers. The soldiers knew these woods better than he did, but they would be cautious now—wary of his demonstrated abilities, uncertain what other secrets he might hold.
Roran slowed as a stitch in his side threatened to double him over, pressing himself against a massive pine trunk and listening for pursuit. Nothing close. He allowed himself thirty seconds of rest, gulping air into burning lungs, before continuing at a more sustainable pace.
The sun had risen high enough to pierce the canopy in places, casting dappled light across the forest floor.
Roran oriented himself by its position, turning south and slightly west—toward Frostforge, toward home.
The journey would be dangerous. The Northern Reaches were hostile territory for a suspected Warden at the best of times, and these were the worst of times, with fear and paranoia spreading as quickly as the Deep Tide itself.
But he had no choice. The information he carried was too important to be lost, the alliance Thalia sought too crucial to humanity's survival.
He would find his way back. He would do whatever it took to return to her side, even if he had to fight his way through every Northern patrol between here and the academy.