CHAPTER NINE
Fury propelled Thalia through the narrow streets of Verdant Port, her boots striking the cobblestones with percussive force. Each step carried her farther from Kaine and his orders, from the betrayal that still burned in her chest like swallowed embers.
The Frostforge pennant fluttered above the harbor ahead, a taunt sewn in blue and silver—the symbol of an authority that had decided her fate without consulting her, that had relegated her to messenger while sending her companions to likely death.
She fixed her gaze on the weathered schooner that bobbed in the harbor's center, its wooden hull scarred from yesterday's battle.
If Kaine thought she would meekly accept being sidelined, he understood nothing about her at all.
The docks teemed with activity, a stark contrast to yesterday's desolation.
Fishermen mended nets with practiced fingers, while others readied small boats for the day's catch.
Children darted between crates and coils of rope, their laughter a strange, discordant note in a city still bearing fresh wounds of occupation.
Had it truly been only a day since they'd driven the Wardens away? The thought seemed impossible, yet the evidence surrounded her—bloodstains not yet washed from the planks, splintered wood where harpoons had struck, scorch marks from Roran's lightning.
She scanned the moored vessels until she found what she needed—a small rowboat tied to a weathered post, its oars crossed in the bottom like abandoned weapons. Thalia untied the rope with swift, angry movements, her fingers working the knots as her mind worked through possibilities.
No one challenged her as she pushed off from the dock; in the chaos of reconstruction, one woman taking a small boat attracted little notice.
The oars felt smooth and familiar in her hands, a comfort when everything else had been upended. She set a quick rhythm, each pull a physical manifestation of her frustration. Water splashed against the hull, droplets catching the morning light like scattered glass.
Behind her, Verdant Port spread across its natural bowl, the city of her childhood now transformed by violence into something she barely recognized. Before her, the schooner grew larger with each stroke, its shadow stretching across the water like an invitation or a challenge.
Thalia's arms burned pleasantly by the time she reached the vessel's hull.
The physical exertion had cleared her head somewhat, replacing the blind rage with something more focused, more dangerous—determination.
She wouldn't be left behind. She wouldn't be protected.
And she certainly wouldn't return to Frostforge like an obedient messenger while her friends sailed into peril.
Movement caught her eye—a figure leaning over the railing above, watching her approach.
Roran. His wild curls were pulled back in their customary fashion, highlighting the sharp planes of his face.
For a moment, he seemed merely curious. Then recognition dawned, and his expression shifted through surprise to something more complex.
"Throw me a line," she called, refusing to shout despite the distance between them.
He disappeared briefly, then returned with a coiled rope which he tossed down with practiced ease. Thalia secured it to the rowboat's bow, then gripped the rope and began to climb, her body remembering the movements from countless childhood ascents up the sides of fishing vessels.
Roran extended a hand as she neared the top, and she grudgingly accepted it, allowing him to pull her over the railing onto the schooner's deck.
"This is a surprise," he said, releasing her hand once she'd found her footing. "Thought you'd be spending every moment with your family."
His eyes studied her face, and whatever he saw there made his easy smile fade.
"Oh. You found out."
"Yes," Thalia said, the single syllable sharp enough to cut. "I found out. A fortress-whale? Really?"
Roran raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, his palms weathered and calloused from years of work on ships and, more recently, from channeling storm magic.
"Look, I wanted to tell you. From the beginning.
But Kaine's technically in command of this mission, and he gave direct orders not to mention it. "
Thalia paced across the deck, her steps quick and agitated. The wood creaked beneath her boots, salt-stained and worn smooth by years of use. She could feel Roran's eyes on her, patient, waiting for the storm of her anger to break.
"And you just went along with it?" she demanded, turning to face him. "Keeping me in the dark while the three of you planned a suicide mission? After everything we've been through together?"
"What choice did I have?" Roran countered, though his tone remained level. "I'm on probation as it is, Greenspire. The instructors barely trust me to breathe without supervision. It was only a few months ago that they sentenced me to death, remember?"
The reminder of his near-execution deflated some of Thalia's righteous anger. Roran had faced a tribunal at Frostforge for using storm magic—his inherent, Isle Warden-inherited ability—to defend the academy. Only his valor in the academy’s defense had spared him from the executioner's blade.
He lived now under a suspended sentence, his talents too valuable to waste but his heritage too suspect to trust.
"Are you even angry about it?" she asked, studying his face. "About being ordered to what might be your death?"
A bark of laughter escaped him, genuine despite its edge.
"Of course I'm angry. What sane person wouldn't be?" He leaned against the mainmast, crossing his arms over his chest. "But what am I supposed to do about it? Say 'no, thank you, I’d rather not’?" He shook his head. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, so brace yourself for a shock, but my reputation doesn’t carry much weight at Frostforge.”
Despite herself, Thalia felt the corner of her mouth twitch upward. Roran had always had that effect on her—the ability to ease tension with his irreverent humor, to make light of situations that would crush most spirits. It was maddening and endearing in equal measure.
"Do you think it's even possible?" she asked, her voice softer now. "This mission. Infiltrating a fortress-whale."
Roran's expression turned thoughtful, a vertical line appearing between his brows as he considered.
"Honestly? Yes. Difficult, beyond dangerous, but possible.
" He pushed off from the mast, moving to join her at the railing.
"No one on the mainland actually knows how they work.
The fortress-whales are the Wardens' greatest advantage—living ships that can navigate deeper waters than any continental vessel.
If we could gather intelligence on their inner workings, their weaknesses.
.." He trailed off, gesturing expansively with one hand. "It could change everything."
Thalia absorbed his words, weighing them against her anger, against the rational part of her that understood the strategic value of such a mission. "Have you ever been on one?" she asked. "A fortress-whale, I mean."
Roran's eyebrow arched, a sardonic smile playing at his lips. "Wolfe asked the same question. I gave her the same answer. I was four years old when I was separated from my Warden parents. If I've been on a fortress-whale, I don't remember it."
Thalia moved away from the railing, pacing the length of the deck. Her mind raced, evaluating options, discarding impossible scenarios, constructing new ones. The schooner rocked gently beneath her feet, the motion familiar and oddly comforting despite the circumstances.
She was dimly aware of Roran watching her, his expression a mixture of concern and something warmer, more personal. Affection, maybe.
"Okay," he said finally, breaking the silence. "I know that look. What's on your mind, Greenspire?"
She stopped pacing, turning to face him squarely. "I'm not being sidelined," she stated, the words carrying the weight of decision. "I'm not taking those documents back to Frostforge while the three of you sail off to certain death."
"I expected nothing less," Roran replied, and the smile that spread across his face contained genuine warmth. Then his expression shifted, becoming uncharacteristically serious. "Believe me..." he said, his voice dropping lower, "I don’t want to take this on without you by my side."
The admission hung between them, charged with meaning beyond the simple words. Thalia found herself moving closer to him, drawn by something that had been building between them since that first day at Frostforge, when he'd appeared in her training class with his cocky grin and secrets in his eyes.
She thought about his reckless nature, about the wild storm he had conjured to fight the Wardens in the harbor, the way he had stirred these usually calm waters to free her city.
It had always been inevitable, she realized, that Roran would find himself in trouble at Frostforge—a natural consequence of who he was as a person.
The storm in human form, restless and powerful, unable to be contained by rules and orders despite his best efforts.
Maybe the same was true of her. Maybe she could no more be the perfect, obedient soldier than Roran could deny the storm magic in his blood.
"You're a terrible influence," she said, the words barely above a whisper. “And you’re going to get me in trouble.”
His smile deepened, creasing the corners of his eyes. "Oh, please. You’re going to get yourself in trouble. I’m just going to be in that trouble with you.”
Thalia closed the remaining distance between them. Their bodies stood inches apart, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. For a breath, neither moved, suspended in possibility.
Then his hand came up to brush her cheek, callouses rough against her skin, and she leaned into the touch.
Their lips met in a kiss that felt both inevitable and surprising—gentle at first, then deepening with a hunger that startled her with its intensity.
His arms encircled her waist, drawing her closer as she wound her fingers through his hair, loosening the tie that held his curls at bay.
Once freed, they bloomed around him like a billowing storm cloud, soft to the touch.
Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to the points where their bodies connected. The kiss spoke of things neither had voiced aloud—trust built in battle, respect forged through shared dangers, desire that had simmered beneath the surface of their interactions for longer than either would admit.
A deliberately loud footstep on the deck behind them broke the moment.
They sprang apart, Thalia's cheeks burning as she turned to find Ashe standing at the top of the ladder leading below decks.
The Northern woman's expression was difficult to read—her eyebrow arched high, her mouth quirked in what might have been amusement or disapproval.
"Don't mind me," Ashe said dryly, gesturing between them with one hand. "I'll just pretend I didn't see... whatever this is."
Roran cleared his throat, running a hand through his now-loosened hair. "Did you need something, or did you just come up to practice the delicate art of ruining moments?"
Ashe rolled her eyes, then noticed the tension in Thalia's stance, the set of her jaw. The Northern woman's expression sharpened, becoming more alert. "What's happened?"
"I know about the fortress-whale," Thalia said without preamble. "The mission you three have been hiding from me."
Ashe's gaze flicked to Roran, who shrugged. "Don't look at me. Kaine told her first."
Thalia stepped forward, her decision made, her course set. "There's been a change of plans," she announced, the authority in her voice surprising even herself. "An unsanctioned change of plans."
Ashe crossed her arms, her red-streaked hair lifting slightly in the breeze off the water. "I'm listening," she said cautiously.
Thalia glanced at Roran, finding unexpected support in his steady gaze. Whatever came next—whatever her plan entailed—she knew he would back her. It was a heady feeling, that certainty, almost as intoxicating as the kiss they'd shared moments before.
She turned back to Ashe, squaring her shoulders. "If you’re going after a fortress-whale," she said, "you’re not doing it without me."