CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Thalia's legs burned with each step of the winding staircase, her body still weak from days spent comatose while her mind wandered ancient memories.
The torch-lit passage to the Crystalline Plateau stretched before her, seemingly endless in her diminished state, but she refused to slow her pace or reach for the wall to steady herself.
Knowledge was slipping from her grasp with each passing hour—fragments of visions fading like morning frost under a relentless sun—and she couldn't afford to waste a single moment, not with the black waters advancing toward Frostforge's walls once more.
"You know, there's no prize for collapsing from exhaustion," Roran said from behind her, his voice carrying that familiar blend of concern and wry humor that had become as essential to her as air. "The Plateau's not going anywhere."
Thalia didn't turn, but a smile tugged at her lips despite the strain in her calves. "Unfortunately, I think that’s not quite true.”
“Oh, right. I almost forgot the world was ending for a second there.”
A laugh escaped her, small but genuine—the first in what felt like ages.
She paused at a landing to catch her breath, finally turning to face him.
Roran stood two steps below, the blue-flame torches casting dancing shadows across his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and softening the dark circles beneath his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights by her bedside.
"Maybe I missed the stairs," she offered, drinking in the sight of him. "After days of horizontal living, even this torture is a welcome change."
His expression softened, the worry that had etched itself into his face these past days momentarily retreating.
The torchlight played across his brown skin, making him look as though he was underwater, catching in the wild curls of his hair where they had escaped his hasty attempt to tie them back.
Something warm unfurled in Thalia's chest, something separate from the ache of overtaxed muscles and lingering weakness.
"Tell me more about this root-singing," he said as they resumed their climb. "You've always had this ability to sense currents in metal, in plants—is that what it is?"
Thalia nodded, grateful for the question. Speaking of root-singing felt like grasping at the fraying edges of her visions, pulling them back into focus before they could slip away entirely.
"It's more than that," she said, measuring her breaths against their steady ascent.
"What I've been doing—what I've always done—is just the beginning.
Sensing the currents, yes, but not directing them.
Not shaping them." She gestured with her free hand, trying to capture concepts that felt too vast for words.
"In my visions, I saw root-singers creating patterns with those currents, weaving them into new forms. They could encourage growth, heal damage, strengthen what was weak. "
They passed a section of wall where hasty repairs were still underway, a reminder of the recent attack.
Scaffolding clung to the stone like a wooden skeleton, and the smell of fresh mortar hung in the air.
Refugees huddled in alcoves, their worldly possessions reduced to bundles clutched in weary arms. Thalia felt their eyes follow her—some curious, some hopeful, some filled with the flat resignation of those who had already lost too much to believe in salvation.
"When I watched them," she continued, lowering her voice as they passed a group of children sleeping fitfully beneath shared blankets, "it felt like.
.. like finding a piece of myself I didn't know was missing.
These were my people, Roran. My ancestors, perhaps.
" The words caught in her throat, thick with an emotion she hadn't expected.
"All my life, I thought I was just odd. Different.
And now I find there's a whole tradition, a discipline with techniques and history and purpose. "
Roran matched his pace to hers, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed. "And you think this Tamsin can teach you? In time?"
The question hung between them, heavy with implications neither wanted to voice. In time before the massive Deep One reached Frostforge. In time to save what remained of their world.
"I have to believe he can," Thalia said, the words emerging stronger than she felt.
"What I saw in my visions—the original sealing of the Deep Ones—it required all three magical traditions working in concert.
Cryomancy, storm-calling, and root-singing.
" She glanced at him, at the storm-caller's blood that ran through his veins.
"The seal is failing because the knowledge was fractured, the traditions separated. We need to bring them back together."
"Which would require a magical fusion," Roran said thoughtfully. "Like Jorik's people have been doing, like the hybrid blades we created."
"Exactly." Excitement kindled within her, momentarily burning away the fatigue.
"The seal that's failing now was only meant to be temporary—our ancestors were counting on the preservation of hybrid magics to recreate it when the Deep Ones rose again.
" She shook her head. "Except the knowledge was lost. Knowledge of the true history, of the Deep Tide and the seal…
and in the case of root-singing, even the magic itself was forgotten. "
They reached the final landing before the doorway that led to the Crystalline Plateau. Winter light leaked through the cracks around its heavy frame, pale and thin. Thalia paused, her hand on the weathered wood, suddenly reluctant to take the final step toward what waited beyond.
Roran seemed to sense her hesitation. "You're lucky," he said, his voice gentle. "To find a teacher. A good teacher can make all the difference."
Thalia turned to him, struck by the hint of wistfulness in his tone. "Have you spoken with Naj? About your storm-calling?"
A complicated expression crossed Roran's face—part pride, part uncertainty, part lingering discomfort with his own heritage.
"He's given me a few pointers. Taught me some control techniques that make the electricity less.
.. wild." He flexed his fingers, and for a moment, Thalia thought she saw tiny sparks dance across his skin. "He says I have natural talent."
"You do," she agreed, remembering how he had channeled lightning during the Deep Ones' attack, how the storm had answered his call with a ferocity that matched his own.
"I hope to learn more," Roran continued. "In the days ahead. While we still have time." The last words emerged softer, a reminder of the ticking clock that governed all their actions now.
Thalia nodded, the weight of their shared knowledge settling between them like a physical presence.
The massive Deep One advancing toward Frostforge.
The black waters spreading inland, consuming villages, towns, fortresses that had stood for centuries.
The knowledge that even now, preparations for the final defense were underway throughout the academy.
"We should go," she said, pushing against the door. "Tamsin's waiting."
The door swung open, revealing the vast expanse of the Crystalline Plateau.
The training ground stretched before them, its ice-metal surface dulled by the weak winter sun and scarred by the recent battle.
Portions had been damaged beyond repair, leaving irregular patches of stone exposed like wounds in the once-perfect surface.
The high walls that had enclosed the space lay partially collapsed, and through the gaps, Thalia could see the fjord far below, its waters still divided—half clear, half the inky black of the Deep Tide's presence.
Near the eastern edge, where a section of wall had been deliberately dismantled, stood a solitary figure.
Tamsin's white hair caught the wind, a bright flag against the gray stone and muted winter colors.
He faced the remnants of what had once been a hasty prison camp, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture straight despite his advanced age.
Thalia and Roran crossed the plateau, their footsteps crunching on fragments of ice-metal that had yet to be cleared away. As they approached, Tamsin turned, his weathered face creasing into a smile that transformed his serious features.
"Young root-singer," he greeted Thalia, his voice carrying clearly despite its age-roughened timbre. He gestured to the partially dismantled wall beside him. "What was this place? I feel... echoes here. Anger. Fear. Resignation."
Thalia's steps faltered. She glanced at the remains of the enclosure, remembering the Isle Warden prisoners who had been held there after arriving on Thrum'kith.
Her unauthorized efforts to free them, to forge an alliance.
The suspicion and hatred they had faced from those who couldn't see past centuries of conflict.
"It was a prison camp," she admitted, the words tasting bitter. "For Isle Warden refugees who came seeking shelter. We held them here until very recently. Until the instructors realized we needed each other to survive."
Tamsin studied the wall, his fingers trailing over the rough stone.
"I have known many storm-callers in my long life," he said thoughtfully.
"Found them to be good friends. Good people.
" His eyes, sharp despite his years, shifted to Roran with open curiosity.
"The patterns of energy within them sing differently than in most—faster, more vibrant.
Like the heart of a summer storm captured in human form. "
"Some of them are the best people I know," Thalia agreed, nudging Roran gently with her elbow. "This is Roran Bright. He's... he's here for moral support."
"And out of curiosity," Roran added, extending his hand in greeting.