Page 11

M idnight oil burned low in its iron holder, casting wavering shadows across the maps and parchments scattered over my desk. Outside, winter winds howled against Calibarra's ancient walls, carrying the unnatural bite of Vinolia's battle magic. This storm was her doing—not just winter's natural fury, but a calculated weapon meant to freeze supply lines and starve us into submission.

I traced my finger along the eastern passes, now buried beneath twenty feet of snow. No supplies would reach us from those routes until spring—if spring ever came to a realm locked in magical winter. To the west, Michail's zealots controlled the coastal routes. My gaze lingered on Homeshore, where Elindir had gone to confront his brother. Five days had passed since his departure. Five days of waiting, of strategizing, of pretending for the sake of my warriors that I remained focused solely on our survival.

The phantom pain beneath my ribs flared suddenly, a reminder of my death price for Elindir. I pressed my palm against the spot where Daraith's ritual knife had carved out that perfect circle, feeling the raised scar through the thin fabric of my nightshirt. The pain always worsened when Elindir and I were apart, as if death itself was reminding me that our separation might become permanent.

"Stop it," I muttered to myself, straightening. "He's survived worse."

I rolled up the maps, resigned to another night of fitful sleep. The chambers felt hollow without Elindir's presence, the bed too large, the silence too complete. I had grown accustomed to his breathing beside me, to the quiet murmurs he made while dreaming, to the simple warmth of another body grounding me when nightmares came.

A cry pierced the silence, so faint I nearly missed it beneath the howling wind. I froze, listening. When it came again—a small, strangled sound of distress—I recognized its source immediately.

Leif.

I moved swiftly through the connecting chamber that Hawk had converted into sleeping quarters for the boys. The makeshift room wasn't much, just a space with two small beds, a chest for their few belongings, and a window that offered a view of the inner courtyard. In the faint moonlight that filtered through frost-covered glass, I saw Torsten sleeping soundly, sprawled across his bed with childish abandon, untroubled by whatever haunted his foster brother.

Leif thrashed beneath his blankets, his small face contorted in fear. "No," he whimpered, "come back!"

I knelt beside his bed, hesitating. I had commanded armies, negotiated treaties, faced my father's wrath. Yet this small boy's nightmare left me uncertain. What would Elindir do in this moment? He seemed to know instinctively how to comfort them, how to ease their fears with just the right words.

"Leif," I said softly, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Leif, wake up. You're safe."

His eyes flew open, wide with terror before recognition dawned. "King Ruith?" His voice was small, uncertain.

"Just Ruith," I corrected gently. "Remember?"

He nodded, pushing himself upright. The moonlight caught the faint scars around his neck where a slave collar had once rested. The sight of those marks on a child no older than ten rekindled the rage that had fueled my rebellion. No child would wear such marks again, not while I drew breath.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, his solemn eyes studying my face with that unnerving perception that made him seem far older than his years.

"No," I assured him. "I was already awake. Working too late, as Elindir would certainly scold me for."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips at the mention of Elindir, only to fade just as quickly. His small fingers twisted in the blanket.

"Would you like to talk about it?" I asked. "The nightmare?"

He looked away, staring at the ice-covered window. "It wasn't really a nightmare. Not like the other ones."

"What was it, then?"

"A memory," he said simply. "From before."

Before. That single word contained multitudes—before Calibarra, before freedom. I settled on the edge of his bed, giving him space while remaining close enough to offer comfort if needed.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

Leif's fingers continued working the edge of his blanket. "I was dreaming about Master Varro. He was the merchant who owned us before..." His voice trailed off. "He used to promise things. He'd say, 'Be good and I'll bring you something from the market.' Or, 'Work hard and maybe I'll let you sleep inside tonight.'" Bitterness crept into his young voice. "He never kept his promises. Not once."

Understanding dawned, sharp and painful. "And in your dream?"

"He promised he'd come back," Leif whispered. "Just like Elindir promised."

The raw fear in those words struck me like a physical blow. Of course. For a child who had known nothing but broken promises from adults who controlled his fate, Elindir's departure would reawaken old wounds, old fears of abandonment.

"Elindir is not Master Varro," I said, the certainty in my voice born of absolute faith. "When he promises to return, he means it."

"But what if he can't?" Leif asked, his voice cracking. "What if something happens, and he wants to come back, but he can't?"

The question pierced straight to my own deepest fear, the one I'd been battling since watching Captain Yisra's ship disappear over the horizon. What if Elindir never returned? What if Michail imprisoned him again, or worse?

"Then I would go find him," I said, the words emerging with such fierce conviction that Leif's eyes widened. "Just as I did before."

Curiosity temporarily overshadowed fear in the boy's expression. "Before?"

I shifted on the bed, considering how to share our history in a way that was appropriate for a child. "Has Elindir ever told you how we met?"

Leif shook his head. "He said it was complicated."

A laugh escaped me. "That's certainly one word for it." I studied Leif's face, those serious eyes that missed nothing. "Would you like to hear the story? It might help you understand why I'm so certain he'll return to us."

He nodded, pulling his blanket up to his chin as he settled against his pillow.

"It began with my father, the Primarch," I started, choosing my words carefully. "He sent me to bring back a special prisoner—a human prince who had been enslaved by his own brother."

"Elindir," Leif whispered.

"Yes. He had been captured, collared, and sold. But even then, wearing chains that should have broken his spirit, Elindir remained defiant." I smiled at the memory of his fierce glare when I first saw him, the way he'd stood tall despite everything that had been done to him. "He challenged me from the moment we met. Refused to be what others wanted him to be."

"Was he afraid?" Leif asked.

"He must have been," I acknowledged. "But he never showed it. Instead, he showed courage, intelligence, and determination. Even when it seemed there was no hope, he kept fighting."

I described how Elindir had organized other slaves, how he'd earned their trust and loyalty through respect rather than fear. I told Leif about Elindir's tactical brilliance, his ability to see solutions where others saw only problems. The stories flowed easily, carefully edited to omit the more violent aspects of our early relationship, focusing instead on Elindir's resilience and our growing mutual respect.

"And then, when things were at their worst, when it seemed he might never be free again, something changed between us," I continued. "I realized I couldn't bear to see him in chains anymore. Not just him—any of them. And so together, we began working toward freedom. For everyone."

"And you fell in love," Leif said.

"Yes," I admitted. "Though it took us both time to recognize it."

"And now you're going to get married, like in the stories Master Gracin tells."

"We're already married, after a fashion," I explained. "Elindir is my consort, which is like a spouse for royalty. It means we're bound together—by law, by choice, and by heart."

Leif nodded, accepting this with the same solemnity he approached everything. "And that's why he'll come back. Because he loves you."

"Because he loves all of us," I corrected gently. "You and Torsten are very important to him. To both of us."

Something shifted in Leif's expression, a vulnerability he rarely showed. "Do you really think of us as your sons?" he asked, the question barely audible.

The honest longing in his voice struck something deep within me, something I hadn't known existed until these two boys entered our lives. I'd never imagined myself as a father. My own experience with fatherhood—with Tarathiel's cold manipulation and calculated cruelty—had left me believing I would never want children of my own. Yet here I was, sitting on the edge of a bed in the middle of the night, comforting a child who was rapidly claiming a place in my heart that I hadn't known was empty.

"Yes," I said, the simplicity of the truth surprising me. "I do think of you as my sons. Both of you. And I will protect you with everything I have, just as Elindir will."

Leif studied my face, searching for any sign of deception. Finding none, he relaxed slightly against his pillow. "Will you tell me more about Elindir? About how brave he is?"

I smiled, recognizing his strategy. "Trying to avoid sleep, are you?"

A hint of mischief flashed in his eyes, so rare that it made my heart swell to witness it. "Maybe a little."

"Very well. One more story, then sleep." I settled more comfortably on the edge of his bed. "Did I ever tell you about the time Elindir defeated Heskir Runecleaver in single combat?"

As I recounted the tale of Elindir's unexpected victory against one of the most feared warriors in the Runecleaver clan, Leif's eyelids grew heavy. By the time I described the final decisive move that had brought Heskir to his knees in front of his entire clan, winning Elindir not just the duel but the respect of warriors who had previously dismissed him, the boy was fighting to stay awake.

"He never gives up," I concluded, gently tucking the blanket around Leif's shoulders. "That's why I know he'll return to us, no matter what stands in his way."

"Promise?" Leif murmured, sleep already claiming him.

"I promise," I whispered, brushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead. "And I keep my promises, just like Elindir does."

His breathing deepened as sleep reclaimed him, this time peacefully. I remained beside him a moment longer, watching over him as I'd never been watched over as a child. Across the room, Torsten stirred briefly, mumbling something about dragons before settling back into his dreams—so different from his foster brother, yet equally precious.

These boys, who had entered our lives by chance, had somehow become essential to who we were becoming. Their presence had transformed Elindir and me from lovers fighting for a cause into a family with deep roots and branches stretching toward a bright future.

I returned to my chambers, the emptiness less oppressive than before. At my desk, I pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward me, dipped my quill, and began to write.

Elindir,

The boys miss you desperately, though they show it in different ways. Torsten speaks of you constantly, imagining grand adventures for your return, while Leif watches the horizon with those solemn eyes that see too much. Tonight, I found him caught in nightmares, fearing you might never return—a fear I understand too well.

I told him about us, about how we began. The story sounds almost like a fable when stripped of its darker elements, yet it loses none of its power. "And they fell in love," Leif said, as if it were the most natural conclusion in the world. Perhaps it was, though neither of us recognized it at first.

Hawk reports that preparations continue as planned. The armory works day and night. New refugees arrive with each passing day, bearing stories of villages burning. They speak your brother's name with fear, as if he has become something more than human, something that taints everything it touches.

Yet tonight, sitting with Leif, I found myself thinking not of war but of the future. These boys have changed us, haven't they? They've given us something I never thought to want. They’ve given us a family built not from obligation or bloodlines but from choice and love.

If you were here, you would tease me for these midnight musings. You would remind me that kings cannot afford sentimentality, that the rebellion demands a clear head, and a focused heart. You would be right, of course. But you would also understand that fighting for a better world means nothing if we don't also build something worth protecting within it.

Return to us safely, my love. The boys need their father. And I need the heart you've awakened in me, the one I never knew existed until you claimed it as your own.

Yours in this life and whatever follows,

Ruith

I read over the words, knowing this letter would never reach Elindir. The risk of interception was too great, the potential cost too high. Still, the act of writing to him had eased something within me, had given form to emotions I struggled to name, even in the privacy of my own thoughts.

I folded the parchment carefully, then held it to the oil lamp's flame. The paper caught, edges curling as fire consumed my words. I watched until nothing remained but ash, then opened the window just enough to let the winter wind carry those remnants away.

"Come back to us," I whispered to the night, to the stars, to whatever gods might be listening. "Come back to me."

The phantom pain beneath my ribs flared once more, then subsided to a dull ache. I closed the window against Vinolia's magical winter and returned to bed, where dreams of copper hair and defiant eyes awaited.