Page 4 of Frostforge, Passage Four

Thalia's breath misted in the frigid air of the Crystalline Plateau, a cloud of white that dispersed into nothingness against the vast, pale expanse.

The fourth-years huddled in a loose formation, their ice-steel weapons glinting in the harsh northern light, eyes squinting against the glare that reflected off the glassy surface beneath their boots.

They'd been waiting for nearly half an hour, and the biting cold had wormed its way through the seams of Thalia's thermal gear, settling against her skin like an unwelcome memory.

"Any idea what 'Command' means?" Luna whispered beside her, the words carried away by the wind that perpetually scoured the plateau. "My schedule just said to report here at first bell."

Thalia shook her head, adjusting the leather strap of her blade's sheath across her chest. "No clue. Another of Wolfe's innovations, I suppose."

Nearby, Brynn Firstborn paced in tight circles, her steps precise and impatient.

The Southern noble's daughter never showed discomfort in the cold, as if admitting to such weakness might somehow validate the Northern students' assumptions of Southern inferiority.

Three paces behind her, Ashe stood motionless, her posture rigid as the ice-metal spear she gripped.

The red streaks in her black hair caught the light like rivulets of fresh blood against the stark white backdrop.

Roran hung back at the edge of the group, engaging in low conversation with two other Southern recruits.

The sight of him sent a complicated ripple through Thalia's chest. They hadn't spoken since their return to the academy three days prior.

Their parting at the end of last term had been.

.. ambiguous, to say the least. A moment charged with something more than friendship, followed by a summer apart with too many questions left suspended between them.

A sharp crack echoed across the plateau, commanding immediate attention.

Instructor Calloway approached with clipped footsteps, her dark hair pulled severely from her face, silver streaks catching the light.

Her icy blue eyes swept over the assembled fourth-years with an intensity that made Thalia's spine straighten instinctively.

"Form ranks," Calloway called, her voice carrying without effort across the windswept space.

The students snapped into position — three rows of eight, organized by height rather than origin, though this still generally placed Northerners toward the back, as they were taller on average.

Thalia found herself in the middle row, Luna in front of her, Brynn to her right.

Roran stood directly behind her; she could sense his presence without looking.

Thalia frowned, tension coiling in her stomach. Calloway's presence was unexpected. The woman was Frostforge's foremost expert on Isle Warden tactics and culture — what was she doing teaching a course called "Command"?

"Fourth-years," Calloway began, pacing before them with measured steps, "this term marks a significant change in your curriculum.

As final-year students, you stand at the precipice of graduation and commission into our military forces.

" She stopped, her gaze penetrating. "Some of you may eventually be deemed suitable for positions of command. "

The word hung in the air, heavy with implication. Beside Thalia, Brynn's posture shifted subtly, a nearly imperceptible straightening that betrayed her interest.

"The losses we suffered last spring during the attack on the academy have necessitated accelerated training protocols," Calloway continued. "Instructor Morrow's death has left a void in our defensive capabilities. Meanwhile, the Isle Wardens grow bolder with each season."

Thalia swallowed hard at the mention of Morrow.

"Beginning today, you will participate more actively in the training of first-year recruits," Calloway said. "You will lead by example, instruct by experience, and in doing so, reveal which among you possesses the capacity for true leadership."

As if summoned by her words, movement drew Thalia's attention to the far side of the plateau.

Instructor Marr led a group of students — first-years, by their clean, unmarked uniforms and wide eyes — across the glassy surface.

They marched in ragged formation, faces drawn and pale, breath clouding before them as they struggled to maintain their footing.

Some clutched weapons; they clearly had no idea how to use them properly.

Thalia felt a pang of empathy twist in her chest. She remembered all too well her own first days at Frostforge — the biting cold that had seemed to steal the very marrow from her bones, the unfamiliar weight of weapons in her hands, the gnawing fear that she wouldn’t survive this place, that she would never see her family again.

"Each of you will be assigned four first-year recruits," Calloway explained as Marr brought the new students to a halt.

"These will form your squad. You will train them in basic combat stances, cryomancy techniques, and survival skills, but most importantly, you will organize them as a fighting unit.

Their progress will reflect upon you directly. "

Murmurs rippled through the ranks of fourth-years. Thalia glanced at Luna, who raised a single eyebrow in response.

"This process will culminate in what we call the Command Challenge," Calloway continued, silencing the whispers with a sharp look.

"Throughout the term, your squad will face a series of trials that will test both their skills and your leadership.

Your performance will determine your final rank upon graduation and may recommend you for a higher position upon entry into active service. "

The stakes suddenly seemed much higher than Thalia had anticipated. She shifted her weight, the ice beneath her boots creaking softly.

"When I call your name, step forward to receive your squad assignment." Calloway unrolled a scroll of parchment. "Einar Frostborne."

The tall Northern student stepped forward, his shock of white hair bright beneath the mid-morning sky, his chin lifted with unearned pride.

Calloway directed four first-years to join him — three Northerners, one Southerner.

Thalia felt a flicker of sympathy for the latter, a frightened-looking girl with rows of tight braids.

She remembered how it felt to be the only Southern student among Northerners; this girl would have a difficult time throughout the Command Challenge, especially with Einar as her guide.

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.