Frostforge, Passage Six

CHAPTER ONE

Thalia Greenspire pressed her back against the weathered wood of the crow's nest, the sea breeze tugging at the dark cloth wrapped around her face.

Below, their schooner—its hull stained black, its sails painted with the jagged emblems of the Isle Wardens—cut through waters too calm to be natural.

From her perch, she surveyed the misty horizon, squinting against the morning light that filtered through the fog like a diluted memory of sunshine.

The knot in her stomach tightened with each league they sailed southward, toward Verdant Port, toward home—if home still existed.

The disguise they'd crafted for the vessel was convincing from a distance—the dark stain on the hull, the painted symbols on the sails, even the arrangement of ropes and rigging had been altered to mimic the distinctive style of Warden ships.

But Thalia knew the deception was paper-thin.

One close inspection would reveal the truth: this was a continental schooner, stolen from Frostforge's small fleet, crewed by academy deserters on an unsanctioned rescue mission.

Her fingers found the hilt of her ice-glacenite blade, its weight a comfort against her hip.

She'd avoided drawing it since they'd entered Warden waters, knowing the toll the strange metal would take on her mind.

The hallucinations it triggered—visions of her mother and sister in danger—were too close to the fears already plaguing her thoughts.

She didn't need magic to conjure those nightmares.

Below, Roran worked the wheel and rigging with a fluid grace that belied the complexity of the task.

His movements were economical, precise, almost choreographed, as though the ship were an extension of his body.

Watching him, Thalia was reminded of those early days at Frostforge, when she'd thought him nothing more than a merchant's son with an uncanny knack for navigation.

Now she knew better.

Wind shifted the sails without Roran touching the lines, currents nudged the hull in subtle course corrections, and the very mist seemed to part before their bow—all responding to his will, to the storm magic he'd hidden for so long.

What had nearly condemned him to death at Frostforge had become their salvation on these treacherous waters.

A thin wisp of fog curled around the mainmast like a curious serpent, then dispersed.

Roran's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on some invisible pattern in the air.

He adjusted the wheel a fraction, and Thalia felt the ship respond, sliding into what must have been a favorable current.

The vessel barely disturbed the water's surface—another subtle manipulation of his power.

"Keep your eyes sharp," he called up to her, his voice barely audible above the gentle lap of waves against the hull. "We're entering the outer patrol zone."

Thalia nodded, though she doubted he saw the gesture. She returned her attention to the horizon, where the mist thickened into an opaque wall. That unnatural fog was the surest sign of Warden presence—a defense mechanism they employed to mask their movements and confuse continental ships.

The rhythmic sound of metal on metal rose from below decks—Kaine at work.

She pictured him hunched over his portable forge, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he made final adjustments to their weapons.

Unlike Roran, Kaine couldn't risk showing his face on deck.

His pale skin and Northern features would instantly mark him as an enemy to any passing Warden patrol.

The same was true for Ashe, though Thalia suspected the Northern warrior wasn't passing the time with smithing. More likely, she was pacing the hold like a caged rimwolf, itching to be free of the ship’s confines.

When Thalia had first stowed away in the schooner's hold around a week ago—defying direct orders and risking court martial—she'd known the potential consequences she faced.

But the alternative—remaining at Frostforge while her family languished under Warden occupation, and while her friends took on the dangerous mission without her—had been unthinkable.

Her probationary status at Frostforge, the result of her abandonment of her post in the Northern Reaches, had prevented Wolfe from assigning her to this mission.

Thalia knew that she was repeating her transgression.

She knew that the consequences would be severe.

But her intuition had proved right before when it led her back to Frostforge, away from the dull, frigid outpost where she’d been stationed.

If she hadn’t defied her orders in the North and risked punishment, the reverberations would’ve been worse than any punishment Wolfe could dole out.

Roran would be dead. The academy itself could have fallen to the Isle Wardens without her discovery of glacenite.

She'd be damned if she let her superiors' orders override her judgment this time, too, with her family's lives on the line. The parameters of this mission were mostly reconnaissance of Verdant Port, an assessment of what the Isle Wardens were doing in the city—how and why they had taken it hostage, rather than their usual strategy of attacking and retreating. But Wolfe had also authorized a limited rescue operation, as well. The extraction, if possible, of Verdant Port residents whose safety could bring a tactical advantage to Frostforge. Thalia wasn’t sure if those criteria included her family, but she wasn’t relying on Frostforge’s definition.

She wouldn’t leave the city without her mother and sister.

Thalia swept her gaze from port to starboard, searching for movement within the mist. To the east, the shoreline was a dark smudge, punctuated by the occasional flicker of fires—Warden encampments, their black tents spreading along the beaches like ink stains.

She'd grown up on these shores, had gathered herbs from coastal forests, and traded with fishermen who plied these waters.

Now it was enemy territory, transformed by occupation into something alien and hostile.

The mist directly ahead parted momentarily, revealing choppy waters and the faint outline of what might have been a watchtower in the distance. Verdant Port was close—perhaps only a few hours' sail away. Thalia's heart quickened at the thought, hope, and dread wrestling in her chest.

What would she find there? Zanaya's harrowing account of the port's fall still haunted her—the screams, the black-tipped arrows raining from the sky, the strange, hulking figures that emerged from the sea foam.

Had her mother and sister escaped before the Wardens seized control?

Were they among the refugees who'd fled northward?

Or were they still there, prisoners in their own city?

The mist closed again, swallowing the distant shore. Thalia tightened her grip on the edge of the crow's nest, forcing herself to focus on the immediate task. First, they had to reach Verdant Port. Then they could search for answers.

"Ship ahead," Roran called suddenly, his voice tight. "Port side, moving fast."

Thalia spun, eyes straining through the gloom. At first, she saw nothing but undulating fog, then—a shadow, darker than the mist, cutting through the haze. The distinctive silhouette of a Warden scout ship emerged, its narrow hull and twin masts unmistakable.

"How many aboard?" she called down, keeping her voice low.

"Can't tell yet," Roran replied, his hands steady on the wheel. "But they've adjusted course. They're coming toward us."

Thalia's mouth went dry. This was the moment they'd prepared for, yet dreaded.

"Should I signal Kaine and Ashe?" she asked.

Roran shook his head. "Not yet. Let's see if we can talk our way past. Get down and hide."

Thalia hesitated. From the crow's nest, she had the best vantage to oversee the encounter and come to Roran’s aid if needed—but her presence would also raise questions from any Warden patrol.

With reluctance, she began the climb down, moving carefully to avoid being seen from the approaching vessel.

Halfway down the mainmast, she paused, finding a position where she could wedge herself against the rigging, partially concealed by a sail. From here, she could still observe while remaining hidden unless the Wardens came aboard.

The scout ship drew closer, water foaming at its bow as it cut through the waves with unnatural speed.

Thalia could make out figures moving on its deck now—six, perhaps seven Wardens, their bodies draped in dark leather and cloth that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the meager light.

Each wore a metal gorget at the throat, engraved with symbols Thalia recognized from Instructor Calloway's lessons on Warden hierarchy.

These weren't simple raiders—they were part of the occupation force.

Roran stood tall at the wheel, his posture shifting subtly.

Gone was the careful, measured stance of a Frostforge graduate.

In its place was something more fluid, more primal—the bearing of someone born to the sea and storm.

With a subtle gesture, he summoned a gust of wind that adjusted their sails, a deliberate display of his Warden abilities.

The scout ship pulled alongside, close enough that Thalia could hear the creak of its rigging. A tall figure stood at its rail—a man with skin darkened by sun and creased by salt, his hair braided tight against his scalp in one of the Warden fashions. Black metal gleamed at his throat and wrists.

"Wanderer," he called in accented continental speech. "Which waters claim you?"

Roran answered in a strange, lilting language that Thalia only partly understood—a pidgin of Warden tongue and continental speech. She recognized words for "north" and "capture," piecing together that Roran was explaining their ship as a prize taken from continental waters.

The Warden leader studied Roran intently, his gaze lingering on Roran's face in a way that made Thalia's hand inch toward her blade.

She remembered the mage from their last battle at Frostforge, how he'd called Roran by another name—Rorik Stormchild.

If these Wardens recognized him as the son of Peregrin and Yvaine Stormchild, their cover would be shattered.

But no recognition flared in the Warden's eyes. Instead, he barked a question, gesturing toward their vessel with obvious skepticism.

Roran answered smoothly, his hands moving in subtle patterns that stirred the air around him.

As he spoke, he casually flicked his fingers toward a line that had come loose, and the rope snaked back into place without anyone touching it.

The display of storm magic—so natural it seemed almost unconscious—had its intended effect.

The tension in the Warden's posture eased slightly.

Thalia caught fragments of Roran's explanation, bits and pieces of the pidgin that were borrowed from the continental tongue: "...northern waters..." "...joining fleet..." "...Verdant Port..."

The Warden leader exchanged glances with his companions, then asked another question, this one sharper, more demanding. Thalia strained to understand, catching only "...commander..." and "...authorization..."

Roran's response was quick and confident. He gestured broadly north, in the direction they'd come, and mentioned a name that Thalia didn't recognize. Whatever he said, it seemed to satisfy the patrol leader, who nodded curtly.

The exchange continued for several more minutes, with Roran answering questions about conditions in the north and offering details about their supposed capture of the schooner.

Thalia marveled at his command of the Warden language, far beyond the rudimentary phrases taught at Frostforge in Calloway’s classes.

She’d never heard him speak the tongue of the archipelago, had never known he was so proficient in it.

Like his storm magic, this too must have been a part of his heritage that he'd kept hidden.

Finally, the Warden leader gave a signal to his crew. The scout ship's sails filled with wind, and it began to pull away, continuing on its patrol route northward. No boarding party, no inspection.

Thalia waited until the vessel had disappeared back into the mist before descending to the deck. Roran's shoulders sagged slightly, the confident posture giving way to exhaustion.

"That was too close," he murmured, running a hand through his wind-tousled hair.

"What did you tell them?" Thalia asked, keeping her voice low in case the mist carried sound back to the departing patrol.

"That we captured this ship from a skirmish off the coast of the Reaches and were ordered to bring it to join the fleet at Verdant Port." He grimaced. "I claimed we were serving under Commander Thrakkar—a name I remember my father mentioning when I was small."

"And they believed you?"

Roran nodded toward the hatch. "Go tell Kaine and Ashe we're clear for now. They must be ready to fight at a moment's notice."

As Thalia moved toward the hatch, Roran caught her arm. "Thalia," he said, his voice softening. "What I told the patrol—about Verdant Port being where the fleet is gathering—it's true. The mist ahead is thick with Warden magic. There must be dozens of ships anchored there."

Thalia's breath caught. "What does that mean for the city? For the people still there?"

Roran's expression was grim. "Nothing good. The Isle Wardens don't tend to gather in force like this."

Thalia thought of her mother's small herb shop near the docks, of her sister Mari, now seventeen. Her hands closed into fists.

"We'll find them," Roran said, as if reading her thoughts. "Whatever it takes."

Thalia nodded, trying to force herself to believe Roran’s words. She had sacrificed too much to lose her family now, not just during her time at Frostforge but also recently; when — if — she returned to the academy, she would be facing court martial for her second abandonment of her post.

She descended the ladder into the dimly lit belly of the ship. Kaine looked up from his workbench, his pale features tense, a half-finished modification to one of their glacenite blades lying before him. Ashe paced nearby, her red-streaked black hair catching the lamplight as she moved.

"We passed the patrol," Thalia reported. "But there are more ahead. Many more."

Relief flickered across Kaine's face, quickly replaced by determination. "Then we'd better make sure these work perfectly," he said, nodding toward the weapons.

Thalia climbed back to the deck, where Roran had already adjusted their course, guiding them deeper into Warden-controlled waters. The mist thickened around them, clinging to the rigging like spectral fingers.

Their ruse had worked once, but Thalia knew each encounter would bring fresh danger. One slip, one misunderstood phrase, one suspicious guard, and they would be exposed.