Chapter 5 - The Isle of Whispers
The salt spray of the frozen sea crashed against the hull of the royal barge, sending fine crystals of ice dancing across the deck. The Isle of Whispers loomed ahead like a jagged jaw of black stone rising from the grey, churning waters.
A thick, unnatural fog clung to the cliffs, swirling in strange geometric patterns that seemed to bend the light around the ancient citadel at the island's peak.
Rowan stood at the prow, the salty wind whipping his dark hair across his face. Beside him stood the great lion, its massive paws braced effortlessly against the swaying deck as if it were standing on solid ground. Behind them, a flotilla of ten northern longships cut through the waves, their dragon-carved prows slicing the whitecaps.
"The warding spells around the citadel are centuries old," Marcus said, coming up beside Rowan and wrapping his cloak tighter against the biting chill. "Even during the height of the kingdom’s peace, no mortal foot was permitted inside the inner archive without the king’s signet."
"Good thing I brought a key," Rowan said, holding up his right hand.
The old scars across his palm glowed with a faint, pulsing blue light whenever the barge crested a wave, responding to the ancient magic embedded in the very foundations of the island.
"You think Helena is already here?" Marcus asked, scanning the craggy shoreline through a spyglass. "If she realized our destination, her war galleys could have intercepted us an hour ago."
"She’s here," the lion spoke.
Marcus jumped back half a step, dropping his spyglass. He stared wide-eyed at the beast. "Did... did it just speak?"
Rowan chuckled, patting the lion's massive neck. "Vaelen doesn't talk often, Captain, but when he does, you listen. And he says she’s already waiting in the Hall of Records."
The barge ground against the icy shingle of the private cove. Before the landing ramp could even be lowered, the lion leaped from the prow, clearing twenty feet of freezing water to land silently on the black stones of the beach.
Rowan vaulted over the side after him, splashing into the shallow surf, his boots crunching onto the frozen sand. Marcus and a dozen northern veterans followed close behind, their breath pluming in the freezing air.
Up above, carved directly into the black cliffside, the massive iron doors of the Citadel stood half-open, glowing with a faint, sickly purple light.
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"An ambush," Marcus muttered, drawing his broadsword.
"No," Rowan said, his eyes narrowing as he felt the shift in the magical currents around the mountain. "That’s not an ambush. That’s a desperate attempt to burn the archives before we can reach them."
