Names continued to be called. Roran received a mixed group — two Southerners and two reluctant-looking Northerners. Luna was assigned three wide-eyed Southern recruits who looked so relieved to be paired with one of their own that Thalia almost smiled.

  "Thalia Greenspire."

  She stepped forward, the plateau's surface slick beneath her feet. Calloway beckoned four students from the dwindling group of first-years. Thalia scanned their faces: two showed the sun-darkened skin of the Southern Kingdoms, while the other two had the paler complexion of the Northern Reaches.

  "Stand aside with your squad," Calloway instructed, already moving on to the next name.

  Thalia led her group to an open space at the edge of the plateau. As they walked, Einar's voice carried across the ice, unnecessarily loud.

  "Poor bastards," he said to his companions, glancing meaningfully toward Thalia's retreating back. "Imagine being a Northern recruit stuck with a Southern slumdweller as your commander. Might as well throw yourself off the Smith’s Anvil now and save yourself the torment.”

  Laughter followed, sharp and cruel. Thalia's jaw tightened, the muscles there bunching with the effort of restraint. She didn't turn around, didn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, but she felt the weight of eight eyes upon her — her new squad, watching to see how she would respond to the insult.

  She faced them instead, taking in their appearances with careful assessment. The two Southerners looked nervous — a small, twitchy girl with her hair in tight knots close to her scalp, and a lanky boy whose thermal gear hung too loose on his narrow frame. The Northerners, in contrast, stood with the rigid posture of those who'd been training for this moment since they could walk — a broad-shouldered young man with a precise undercut, his shock of mouse-brown hair pulled back into a wolftail, and a copper-haired girl whose pale skin was splashed with freckles.

  "I'm Thalia Greenspire," she said, keeping her voice level. "I'll be leading this squad through the term. I'd like to know your names."

  For a moment, no one spoke. Then the small Southern girl stepped forward, her movements jerky with anxiety.

  "Felah," she said, voice barely audible above the wind. "From Verdant Port."

  Thalia nodded, offering a small smile of encouragement. The lanky boy cleared his throat.

  "Daniel," he said. "Southhaven."

  "Rasmus," the Northern boy grunted, his eyes flicking between Thalia and his fellow Northerner with bland disinterest.

  The copper-haired girl remained silent, her chin lifted in a sneer that reminded Thalia uncomfortably of Einar.

  Thalia met her gaze steadily, though her heart hammered against her ribs. She knew she was expected to assert authority, to command respect, but the mechanics of that escaped her. At home in Verdant Port, she'd been the daughter of an herbalist, scraping by in the poorest district. Here, she was supposed to lead.

  "Our fates at Frostforge are now intertwined," Thalia said, keeping her voice calm. "It's best we know each other's names."

  The girl's jaw worked as if she were chewing on something unpleasant. Finally, she spoke.

  "Sigrid," she said, the word like a shard of ice. "Clan Frostborne."

  Thalia's stomach dropped. Clan Frostborne — she was related to Einar, then. Perfect.

  Before she could respond, Calloway's voice rang out across the plateau.

  "Your first mock battle will occur in one week," she announced. "You will face fully animated ice-metal golems. Use this time and any free periods to prepare your squads. Drills begin immediately."

  The plateau erupted into movement as fourth-years began organizing their groups. Thalia turned back to her squad, assessing.

  "Draw your weapons," she instructed. "Let's see what we're working with."

  Metal hissed against leather as blades were unsheathed. Daniel fumbled with his sword, nearly dropping it. Beside him, Felah gripped her short dagger with white knuckles. In contrast, Rasmus and Sigrid drew their weapons with practiced ease — a curved, thin-bladed ice-steel falchion for him, and a long, broadsword with a heavy-looking crossguard for her.

  "Basic stances first," Thalia said, drawing her own blade. "Watch my form, then mirror it."

  She moved through the foundational positions taught to all Frostforge recruits — the Sentinel, the Advance, the Warding Cross. As her squad attempted to follow, the disparity in skill became painfully apparent. Felah and Daniel stumbled through the motions, their movements unsure, weapons clumsy in their grips. Rasmus and Sigrid executed each stance with the precision of those who'd been practicing since childhood.

  Thalia's heart sank. It was common for Southern recruits to arrive at the academy with minimal combat training. The North prepared its children for Frostforge from the moment they could hold a blade; the South typically had to bribe recruiters to leave their children alone. Those who couldn't afford the bribes — like Thalia's family — sent their children north with little more than prayers and whatever scraps of knowledge they could gather.

  She moved to Daniel's side, gently adjusting his grip on the hilt of his sword.

  "Looser in the wrist," she advised, demonstrating. "You need flexibility for quick transitions between guards." She guided his arm through the motion. "Like this."

  As she helped him adjust his stance — feet wider, weight distributed evenly — she heard Rasmus mutter to Sigrid.

  "Of course she'd spend her energy coddling her fellow sun-rotters."

  The words sliced through the air, clear despite the wind. Thalia froze, fury kindling in her chest. Sun-rotters — Southerners, over-ripened in their tropical warmth, made soft beneath their skins. The insult wasn't new — she'd heard variations of it throughout her time at Frostforge — but the blatant disrespect from someone she was meant to lead ignited something dangerous inside her.

  She turned slowly, resisting the urge to draw her blade and disarm the boy with a technique that would leave his wrist sprained and his pride in tatters. Instead, she approached him with measured steps.

  "Your guard is too high," she said, voice crisp as the air around them. "And your back foot is at the wrong angle. It leaves you vulnerable to a sweep." She demonstrated the correct position. "Adjust."

  Rasmus scowled, but made minor changes to his stance, the improvements half-hearted at best. Thalia caught the look he exchanged with Sigrid as she turned away — a silent communication that spoke volumes about their respect for her authority.

  She said nothing more, unwilling to escalate the conflict this early in the term. She had a full season ahead with these recruits; breaking them on the first day would accomplish nothing.

  As the squad continued their drills, a familiar figure strolled toward them, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his thermal gear. Roran's crooked smile formed before he even reached them, and despite herself, Thalia felt tension drain from her shoulders at the sight of him.

  "Commander Greenspire," he greeted, the title playful on his tongue. "How goes the shaping of young minds?"

  "About as well as you'd expect," she replied, corners of her mouth lifting despite her frustration.

  His gaze traveled over her shoulder, taking in the makeup of her squad. He grimaced. “Ah. So we’re in the same boat.”

  “Can’t help thinking we’ve been set up to fail,” Thalia muttered, almost under her breath.

  “What did you do over your break?” he asked, seeming to sense her need for a brief distraction.

  “Wallowed in existential dread. You?”

  "Oh, you know. Light espionage. Practiced illicit magic. The usual."

  Thalia elbowed him hard in the ribs, genuinely shocked by his cavalier attitude. If anyone overheard him speaking of storm magic — if they knew what she knew about his Isle Warden heritage — he'd be executed before sunset, in accordance with the laws of the North.

  Roran just shrugged, apparently unfazed by the danger of his own words. Thalia glanced around quickly, but the other squads were focused on their own drills, the wind carrying away private conversations.

  "You're an idiot," she hissed, though there was no real heat in it.

  "An idiot who missed you," he countered, bumping his shoulder against hers. "My life isn't the same without your scowling presence."

  "I don't scowl."

  He grinned. "You're scowling right now."

  She was, but she smoothed her expression deliberately, fighting the smile that threatened to break through. This was what she'd missed during the break — the easy banter with Roran, the way he could lighten even the most tense moments. There was something comfortable about being with him, a sense that he saw her — truly saw her — in a way no one else at Frostforge did.

  The tangle of feelings in her chest tightened. There had been moments between them, especially at the end of last term — a touch that lingered too long, words that seemed to carry deeper meaning, a look that made her breath catch. But she'd spent the summer wondering if she'd imagined it all, if her own loneliness and longing had colored their friendship with something that wasn't really there.

  She cleared her throat. "What did you mean by espionage?"

  His smile faltered, just for a moment — too long. "Just tracking Isle Warden ship movements off the Southern coast."

  Thalia stiffened. During the attack on Frostforge last spring, the Isle Wardens had specifically targeted Roran, believing him to be a traitor. The fact that he'd spent the summer near them, deliberately seeking them out.…

  "You shouldn't have—"

  "Don't worry," he interrupted, reading her expression. "I was never in direct danger."

  She wasn't convinced. There was something in his eyes, a shadow that hadn't been there before, that suggested he wasn't telling her everything.

  "Did you notice anything in particular?" she asked, lowering her voice.

  Roran glanced toward the first-years, then back to her. "Their formations have been changing," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "They’re certainly amassing more ships along the southwestern coast than usual.”

  The vagueness of his response unsettled her. Before she could press further, Calloway's voice rang out across the plateau. “That’s enough for today. Everyone, report to mess for lunch.”

  Thalia wanted to press Roran for more information, but he was already turning away, back toward his own squad. Her teeth clenched, Thalia turned on her heel to face her own recruits, who lingered awkwardly nearby. Their blades were still drawn, the tips dragging against the frost-hardened ground.

  “You heard Calloway,” Thalia said, trying not to let impatience enter her tone. “Go on.”

  In a flurry of motion, her recruits scrambled to sheathe their blades and fall into line. Felah nearly dropped her sword in the rush, and Daniel bumped shoulders with Rasmus, earning a withering glare from the Northern boy. Sigrid didn’t move at first — she stared at Thalia a beat too long, her chin tilted with quiet defiance — then finally turned without a word, stalking off ahead of the others.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Moonlight sliced through the narrow window of Thalia's chamber, casting frigid blue shadows across the stone floor. She lay rigid beneath her furs, eyes fixed on the ice-veined ceiling, sleep a distant memory. Her thoughts prowled like hungry wolves — Einar's sneering face, Rasmus and Sigrid's deliberate insubordination, Roran's cryptic warning about Isle Warden movements. The Command Challenge loomed over it all, a test she couldn't afford to fail, not when her family's future hung by such a slender thread. If Thalia graduated from Frostforge and was placed in the military’s ranks, the stipend she could send back to her mother would keep them fed. If she failed, or was killed, her mother would have to choose between feeding herself and Mari — or bracing for the Selection.

  A sudden movement at the edge of her vision sent her pulse racing. A silhouette detached from the darkness, sliding closer to her bedside like a phantom. Thalia's fingers crept toward the dagger she kept beneath her pillow.

  "Are you awake?" Luna whispered, her face materializing in a shaft of moonlight. Her dreadlocks cast spidery shadows across her cheeks, the tiny metal rings catching the pale glow.

  Thalia's grip on the dagger relaxed. "Luna? What are you —"

  "Shh." Luna pressed a finger to her lips, eyes darting toward Ashe's bed. "You need to hear something. Come with me."

  Thalia nodded, pushing back her furs and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The air bit at her exposed skin, raising bumps along her arms. She reached for her cloak, draping it over her nightclothes, and slipped her feet into thick wool socks.

  Across the room, Ashe's steady breathing continued uninterrupted. The Northern girl slept soundly, one arm flung above her head, the red streaks in her black hair gleaming faintly in the dim light. Thalia envied her peaceful slumber, even as she followed Luna to the door.

  The corridor outside stretched dark and silent, save for the distant crackle of torches and the mournful howl of wind through Frostforge's stone arteries. Luna moved with practiced stealth, her footfalls whispering against the floor. Thalia matched her pace, grateful for the skills honed through three years of midnight wanderings and dawn training sessions.

  "Where are we going?" Thalia breathed, her words barely disturbing the air between them.

  Luna didn't answer, only gestured down the hall where light spilled from beneath the common area door. As they drew closer, voices emerged from the hushed quiet — tense, conspiratorial tones that raised the hairs on Thalia's neck.

  "Redwood is no good to us." Einar's voice sliced through the stone walls, sharp as an ice-blade. "She's too fond of her snow-blind Southern roommates."

  Thalia froze, a knot forming in her stomach. Luna pressed a finger to her lips again, guiding them both to the wall beside the door. They flattened themselves against the stone, ears straining to catch every word.

  "The instructors have gone too far," Morrigan muttered, her normally melodious voice sour with contempt. "Putting Southerners in command of Northern first-years? It's an insult to tradition."

  "Hiring Marr was the beginning," Einar replied. "A Southern instructor at Frostforge… it signals the academy no longer values strength — only appeasement."

  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. Thalia pressed her palm against the wall, as if she could push through the stone and confront them.

  "The Southerners need to be taught a lesson," Ragna sneered, her voice a venomous whisper. "A reminder of their place."

  More agreement, like the rumble of distant thunder. Thalia's breath caught in her throat as Einar spoke again, his words precise and cutting.

  "Especially the Isle Warden."

  The blood in Thalia's veins turned to ice. Roran. They were talking about Roran. Last year's rumors hadn't died as she'd hoped; they'd merely gone underground, festering like infected wounds.

  "Greenspire is so quick to defend him," Einar continued, disgust dripping from every syllable. "The Southerners treat him like one of their own. It only shows how they weaken our ranks. We can't let this go on."

  A tremor worked its way through Thalia's body — not fear, but fury, burning hot against the academy's perpetual chill. She'd heard enough. Her fingers found Luna's sleeve, tugging gently. Luna nodded, and they retreated down the hall, each step careful and measured until they reached the relative safety of the stairwell.

  The stone steps were cold beneath them as they sat side by side, their breath clouding in the frigid air. Thalia's mind raced, replaying Einar's words, calculating the threat they posed.

  "I can't believe they're targeting Roran again," she finally said, the words bitter on her tongue. "And it sounds they're planning something — something to put the Southerners in their place.'" Her fingers curled into fists. "We need to warn him."

  Luna's expression remained carefully neutral, her dark eyes reflecting the dim light from the corridor. "The rumors about Bright have gotten worse since the break."

  "Worse? How?"

  "People are saying he returned to the Isles during the off-season," Luna replied, her voice low and measured. "That he's feeding information about Frostforge to the Wardens."

  "That's absurd," Thalia hissed. "He was tracking their movements, not joining them."

  "I know." Luna's gaze was steady, unflinching. "But not everyone wants facts, Thalia. They just want someone to blame for their fear."

  Thalia leaned back against the stone, exhaustion suddenly weighing on her like a physical burden. "He's not as safe as he thinks he is, is he?"

  "No." Luna shook her head, the metal rings in her locks clicking softly. "He's on thinner ice than he believes."

  "The Northerners still think he's a spy. Even after everything last year — even after he nearly died fighting the Wardens."

  "Being stabbed by the enemy doesn't prove as much as you'd think," Luna murmured. "Not when people are determined to see betrayal." She paused, studying Thalia's face. "Einar's comment about Southerners treating him like one of their own—that's not entirely accurate, is it?"

  Thalia's jaw tightened. Luna, as always, saw too much. "No. Most of the other Southerners keep their distance. They're… still uncertain about him."

  "Which means if Einar and his friends decide to move against Roran —"

  "I might be the only one who stands with him," Thalia finished, the realization settling heavily in her chest.

  Luna reached over, her fingers finding Thalia's in the darkness. "Not the only one," she corrected softly. "But you should talk to him. Warn him. Soon."

  Thalia nodded, squeezing Luna's hand in silent gratitude. Tomorrow, she decided. She would find Roran tomorrow and make him understand. The Northern students weren't just harboring suspicions — they were planning something. And this time, they might not stop at mere whispers and glares.

  As they rose to return to their rooms, Thalia cast one last glance down the corridor toward the common area. The voices had fallen silent, but the threat they carried lingered in the air, as tangible as the frost creeping across Frostforge's ancient stones.

 

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