CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX #2
As they carried her from the chamber, the runes on the walls dimmed, the energy within them subsiding.
Roran hesitated at the threshold, just long enough to glance back.
The intricate carvings that had thrummed with power moments ago now looked brittle, carved into stone that suddenly felt centuries older.
Whatever Thalia had done, its effects had been temporary. The chamber now slouched into stillness, as if an exhausted giant had finally let go of its breath.
***
Shadows lengthened across the infirmary floor as another day slipped toward dusk.
Roran sat hunched beside Thalia's bed, his spine curved into a question mark of exhaustion, his eyes burning from too many hours without sleep.
Three days. Three days since they'd carried her from that ancient chamber, since the healers had exchanged worried glances over her still form, since she'd lapsed into a slumber too deep to be natural yet too peaceful to be called a coma.
Three days of waiting, of watching, of willing her chest to continue its shallow rise and fall while the world around them struggled to rebuild from devastation.
The infirmary had once been a place of order—of pristine beds arranged in neat rows, of healing herbs hanging from rafters in precise bundles.
Now it resembled a battlefield in its own right, every available space filled with the wounded.
Moans drifted through the air, punctuated by the occasional sharp cry as a healer set a bone or cleaned a wound.
The scent of blood and sweat mingled with medicinal herbs.
The curtains draped around Thalia’s bed fluttered as a few healers trotted past. Any one of them, Roran knew, could be Thalia’s mother; Celeste had been offering some of her time to the infirmary even before the battle, and now, in its aftermath, she spent every waking moment here, scurrying between the beds with Mari by her side aiding her.
They both came to see Thalia every few hours, but Roran suspected that the Greenspires were relying on the chaos of the infirmary, the importance of their healing work, to distract themselves from Thalia’s condition.
Roran reached out, his fingers trailing along Thalia's arm.
Her skin still retained that unnatural warmth, as if whatever energy had passed through her continued to smolder beneath the surface.
The healers had no explanation for it, no remedy, no timeline for when—if—she might awaken.
They could only offer platitudes about rest and patience, words that hollowed with each passing hour.
In his mind, he replayed those final moments of battle—the mysterious pulses emanating from within Frostforge, the retreat of the Deep Ones, the desperate race to find Thalia.
He remembered how light she'd felt in his arms as he carried her from that rune-covered chamber, as if something essential had been burned away by the power she'd channeled.
The creak of the infirmary door pulled him from his thoughts.
Luna approached, her small frame picking a careful path between crowded beds.
Dark circles beneath her eyes suggested she'd slept little more than he had, though her movements remained purposeful, her gaze sharp despite the exhaustion evident in the slump of her shoulders.
"Any change?" she asked softly, coming to stand at the foot of Thalia's bed.
Roran shook his head, unable to muster the energy for words. Luna's expression softened with understanding. She moved around to stand beside him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"You should rest, Roran," she said. "You won't help her by destroying yourself."
"I can't leave her." The words emerged more desperate than he'd intended, raw with the fear that had lodged in his chest since finding Thalia unconscious. "What if she wakes and I'm not here? What if she—" He couldn't bring himself to voice the alternative.
"I'll stay with her," Luna promised, her grip on his shoulder tightening fractionally. "If she wakes—when she wakes—you'll be the first to know." Her dark eyes held his, steady and certain. "I swear it."
Roran recognized the logic in her words, felt the leaden weight of exhaustion dragging at his limbs.
He hadn't truly slept since before the battle, had managed only brief moments of unconsciousness while sitting upright in this same uncomfortable chair.
His body screamed for rest, for horizontal surrender, for more than the fitful dozing that left him more drained than refreshed.
"How are the others?" he asked instead, delaying the inevitable. "The academy?"
Luna's mouth tightened, a brief flicker of grimness crossing her features before she composed herself. "The stabilization efforts are progressing," she said carefully. "Kaine’s been coordinating them well. That's about the only positive news I can offer."
She sank onto the edge of an empty bed opposite Thalia's, her hands folding in her lap.
"The academy sustained damage to its very foundations.
Parts of the western wing have been completely abandoned—the supports are too compromised.
The eastern tower..." She trailed off, shaking her head.
"Repair is a distant dream. Right now, crews are focusing on simply keeping the walls standing. "
Roran nodded, having expected nothing less. He'd seen firsthand the devastation wrought by the Deep Ones, the sections of Frostforge that had been not just damaged but erased from existence. "And the Deep Ones?" he asked, leaning forward slightly. "The fjord? Thrum'kith?"
"There's reason for cautious optimism on that front, at least." Luna's voice brightened marginally.
"The black waters have retreated completely out of the fjord, all the way back to the sea.
Scouts report clear water as far as they can see from the coast." She gestured toward the window, where a slice of sky was visible through frost-rimed glass.
"The Founders' Price defenses may still be in effect. Whatever Thalia activated—"
"No," Roran interrupted, shaking his head slowly. "Those pulses of energy came from the ancient defenses, yes, but they're not active anymore. Not since Thalia lost consciousness."
Luna's brow furrowed. "But the retreat—"
"Wasn't a retreat," Roran said, the certainty in his voice surprising even him.
"Not in the way you're thinking. The Deep Ones didn't withdraw because they were unable to advance. I saw the Founders’ Price chamber go dark as we left; it’s not still in effect.
" He looked back at Thalia's still form, at the peaceful expression that seemed at odds with the power she'd channeled.
"They withdrew because this attack wasn't a full-on assault. It was a test."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Luna's eyes widened slightly as she processed his meaning.
"A test of our defenses," she whispered. "Of our abilities."
Roran nodded grimly. "Of our weaknesses. Of what we're capable of when pushed to the brink." His hand found Thalia's again, fingers curling protectively around her smaller ones. "The real battle has yet to be fought."
Silence settled over them, broken only by the ambient sounds of the infirmary—pained breathing, quiet instructions from healers, the occasional soft weeping of someone mourning a loss that couldn't be undone.
Luna's expression had lost its fleeting optimism, replaced by the stark understanding that their reprieve might be temporary.
"You need to rest," she said finally, her voice gentle but firm. "You won't be any use to her—or to Frostforge—if you collapse."
This time, Roran didn't argue. The truth of her words was undeniable, as was the tremor in his hands, the blurring of his vision, the way his thoughts meandered like rivers finding new courses through damaged terrain.
He rose slowly from the chair, his joints protesting the movement after so many hours of stillness.
"A few hours," he conceded. "Just a few hours of sleep, then I'll return." It was a compromise with himself as much as with Luna.
She nodded, taking his place in the chair with fluid grace. "I'll be here," she promised.
As Roran made his way toward the door, weaving between beds with leaden steps, he cast one last look at Thalia.
In the fading light, she seemed to glow from within, her skin illuminated by that strange inner warmth that defied explanation.
Whatever battle she now fought, she fought it alone, beyond the reach of hybrid blades or storm magic or desperate vigils kept by those who loved her.