Page 5 of Frostforge, Passage Four

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.