CHAPTER EIGHT #2
He turned to find Mari Greenspire standing a few feet away, a pitcher of water in her hands and concern etched into her young face.
The resemblance to her sister struck him anew—the same determined set of the jaw, the same intelligent eyes, though Mari lacked the hardness that Frostforge had carved into Thalia.
"Fine," Roran managed, running a shaking hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Just a dream."
Mari nodded, though her expression suggested she didn't entirely believe him. "Would you like some water?"
"Please."
She poured a cup and brought it to him, her movements displaying the same careful efficiency he'd seen in her sister. How old was she now? Seventeen? Eighteen? The same age Thalia had been when she first came to Frostforge, sacrificing herself to save Mari from the Selection.
"Thank you." He drank deeply, the cool water clearing the last cobwebs of sleep from his mind. "How long was I asleep?"
Mari's hesitation was brief but noticeable. "Nine hours," she admitted, a note of apology in her voice. "No one wanted to wake you. Ashe said you hadn't slept in days."
"Nine hours?" The words burst from him like an accusation. He swung his legs over the side of the cot, ignoring the protest from muscles stiff with too much rest after too much tension. "Why didn't anyone—has there been any change? With Thalia?"
Mari froze, her eyes widening, lips parting slightly but no words emerging. Something in her expression sent a chill down Roran's spine that had nothing to do with the infirmary's perpetual coolness.
"Mari?" he pressed, rising to his feet despite the wave of dizziness that accompanied the sudden movement. "What's happened?"
She clutched the pitcher against her chest like a shield. "I think you should see for yourself," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "They sent me to check on you, but I didn't know if I should wake you or—"
Roran didn't wait to hear the rest. He pushed past her, striding across the infirmary toward Thalia's bed, his heart a hammer in his chest. A small group had gathered there—healers in their simple gray robes, Naj with his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, and Celeste Greenspire, Thalia's mother, her face a mask of tightly controlled fear.
"Let me through," Roran demanded, shouldering between two healers who moved aside without protest.
What he saw stopped his breath in his lungs.
Thalia lay as she had for days, her features still and slack.
But the bed around her had transformed. Frost crept up the headboard in delicate crystalline patterns, spreading outward from where her head rested against the pillow.
The wooden frame gleamed with ice that caught the lamplight and refracted it into tiny rainbows across the ceiling.
More extraordinary still were the vines—thin, green tendrils that had somehow sprouted from the floorboards beneath the bed, climbing up the legs and weaving across the frame to converge at the center of Thalia's chest. There, nestled above her heart, bloomed tiny flowers in shades of gold and amber, their petals unfurling before his eyes as though growth that should have taken days was compressed into moments.
Between Thalia's slightly parted fingers, arcs of electricity danced—not the wild, chaotic lightning of a natural storm, but controlled, purposeful currents that moved in patterns too complex to follow.
They reminded him of the weaving gestures Naj had taught him, the ancient forms that had been passed down through generations of storm-callers.
"What's happening to her?" Roran asked, his voice barely recognizable to his own ears.
No one answered immediately. The gathered observers seemed as transfixed as he was, watching the impossible display of magic that emanated from Thalia's unconscious form.
Naj finally broke the silence. "Storm magic currents flow through her," he confirmed, moving to stand beside Roran. "But not only storm magic. Look." He gestured to the frost patterns. "Cryomancy as well."
"And something else," added one of the healers, pointing to the flowering vines. "I've never seen anything like it."
"It started about an hour ago," Celeste said quietly, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles showed white.
The poised herbalist that Roran had met in Verdant Port seemed diminished somehow, worn thin by worry for her daughter.
"The frost came first, then the... plants.
" She stumbled over the word, as though it couldn't possibly encompass the phenomenon they were witnessing.
"Is she in pain?" Roran asked, dreading the answer.
Celeste shook her head. "Her breathing is stronger. Her pulse more regular. Whatever this is, it doesn't seem to be harming her."
Roran reached out, hovering his hand above the dancing electricity between Thalia's fingers. He could feel the power there, familiar yet different—more focused, more controlled than his own storm magic had ever been.
"Three forms of magic," he murmured. "Cryomancy, storm-calling, and….”
"Root-singing."
The voice came from behind them. Luna stood there, a heavy tome clutched against her chest. She crossed the room with quick, purposeful strides, her usual affectation of distraction entirely absent.
"The current-sensing ability Thalia has always had—it's called root-singing," she explained, moving to the side of the bed opposite Roran. "An ancient magical discipline that was once practiced by Southern practitioners, particularly those who lived close to the earth. Herbalists. Healers."
"Like my family," Celeste whispered, realization dawning in her eyes. "But I never..."
"The talent often skips generations," Luna said.
"Or remains dormant until awakened by necessity or exposure to other forms of magic.
" She placed the book on the edge of the bed, careful to avoid the spreading vines.
"I found references in the archives. Root-singers’ techniques have been lost to time, but the bloodline persists. "
Roran stared at the electricity dancing between Thalia's fingers, then at the frost patterns, then at the delicate flowers blooming above her heart. "You're saying all three forms of magic are manifesting through her? How is that possible?"
"Not through her," Luna corrected, her voice taking on the precise cadence she used when sharing particularly important information.
"Within her. The Founders' Price chamber was designed to channel the combined power of all three magical traditions.
When Thalia activated it, she became a conduit for that power.
" Her expression grew solemn. "It appears that the connection wasn't severed when she lost consciousness. It's still flowing through her."