Page 17

Ruith

V aldrenn rose from the valley floor, its broken towers black against the winter sky. What had once been the Duskfell clan's greatest fortress now stood as Vinolia's temporary command center. She'd claimed it like everything else she touched, stripping it of history and remaking it in her image.

The cold bled through my gloves as I gripped the reins tighter. My breath clouded in front of me, caught in the unnatural stillness of the air. The pain beneath my ribs flared, a constant reminder of what I'd sacrificed for Elindir. What I might yet sacrifice again.

Katyr pulled his mount alongside mine. "She's not hiding her work." His voice was tight, golden curls peeking from beneath his hood. "No natural storm gathers this way."

I nodded, taking in the frozen landscape. From Valdrenn's broken walls, concentric rings of increasingly severe winter spread outward. The outer ring was buried in drifts taller than a horse while the middle ring was encased in ice so thick it swallowed trees whole. And directly around Valdrenn itself, was an area suspiciously clear, as if Vinolia had pushed all winter's fury outward to form a barrier.

"A display of power," I said. My jaw ached from clenching it too long.

"And to drain resources." Daraith's voice came from my other side, barely audible. "She shows us she can maintain this winter indefinitely while keeping her own space comfortable."

Aryn brought his mount forward. “For the record, I’m still opposed to this entire plan.”

“Noted,” I said, though it was too late to go back now.

My twenty warriors shifted uneasily on their mounts. They wore the blue and silver of House Starfall rather than their usual armor. Another gesture of peaceful intent that felt increasingly like weakness with every passing moment.

I studied Valdrenn's defenses, memorizing approaches, gates, potential weaknesses. The outer walls, ancient stone, fifteen feet thick. The inner keep rising another hundred feet above that, its highest tower piercing the winter sky. Vinolia would be there, in that tower along with her phylactery.

"They've spotted us." I kept my voice level despite the tension crawling up my spine.

Katyr's eyes narrowed. "Undoubtedly."

A horn sounded from Valdrenn's walls, deep and ominous. The massive gates swung open and a small party emerged, banners bearing the silver and crimson of Clan Runecleaver snapping in the wind.

"The welcoming committee." My tongue tasted bitter. "Remember, every movement, every word, is part of the game now."

"I remember her rules." Katyr's voice held years of suppressed rage. He'd grown under Vinolia's thumb, subject to her manipulations and cruelty. This return was anything but triumphant for him.

"Commander Varyk leads them," Daraith said, his keen sight picking out details despite the distance. "Tarathiel's personal executioner."

"Six silver taps on his arms," Katyr observed. "Earned through blood and cruelty in the north."

The approaching delegation grew clearer. Six riders accompanied Varyk, all wearing the formal crimson cloaks of the Runecleaver house guard.

I gave the signal to advance.

We moved down the ridge toward the valley floor. I kept my posture relaxed but alert, a king secure in his power despite coming to discuss terms. Beside me, Katyr sat straighter, his expression sliding into the careful mask he wore at court. Only I could see the tension in his jaw, the slight whitening of his knuckles on the reins.

We met the Runecleaver delegation at the halfway point. Varyk's mount, a massive black stallion, snorted clouds of vapor into the cold air as they halted before us.

"Prince Ruith," he said, the title dripping with mockery. "How gracious of you to accept our invitation." His sharp features arranged themselves into something resembling welcome. His eyes remained cold. The silver bells in his hair chimed softly as he moved, a sound that had signaled death for countless victims. His eyes flicked briefly to Katyr and narrowed. "And young Runecleaver. The prodigal grandson returns. How... touching."

Katyr inclined his head, the gesture containing precisely the correct amount of acknowledgment without suggesting deference. "Commander Varyk. Still playing the loyal hound, I see."

Varyk's smile tightened. "The Honored Matriarch welcomes you to Valdrenn under the banner of truce, as agreed. You and your party will enjoy guest right for three days, during which negotiations for your surrender will be conducted." His eyes gleamed with cruel anticipation.

"How generous." I matched his false warmth. "My delegation looks forward to experiencing the famed Runecleaver hospitality."

Varyk laughed, sharp as breaking ice. "Follow."

He turned his mount and started back toward the fortress. As we followed, I noticed the odd way the snow behaved around his party, melting and refreezing in patterns that formed an invisible path. One of my guards' horses strayed too far, its hoof sinking deep into what had appeared to be solid ground. The beast whinnied in panic as the snow swallowed its leg.

"Keep to the center," I ordered quietly. "The path is warded."

Katyr nodded, his eyes scanning the innocent-looking snowdrifts. "Typical Vinolia. Even her welcome is a trap."

As we approached the gates, I took in details that would matter if we fought our way out. The walls were even thicker than reports suggested, ancient stone reinforced with newer fortifications. Guards lined the battlements, posture alert despite the cold. Battle mages stood at intervals, their silver taps gleaming at wrists, necks, and temples.

Magic hummed in the air, growing stronger as we passed through the massive gates. The courtyard beyond bustled with activity despite the age of the fortress. Servants scurried about, guards stood at rigid attention, and above it all, an enormous banner displaying the Runecleaver blood oak.

Vinolia had remade this Duskfell ruin into her temporary seat of power.

We dismounted in the inner courtyard. Human slaves hurried forward to take our horses, their eyes fixed on the ground, movements quick with fear.

I dismounted and secured my own horse. "We handle our own mounts," I said, my voice pitched to carry.

“Your weapons," Varyk demanded immediately, gesturing to his guards who stepped forward with drawn swords. "All of them. Now."

I exchanged glances with Aryn and Katyr. We had anticipated this, planned for it. With deliberate slowness, I unbuckled my sword belt.

"The daggers as well," Varyk said, eyes narrowing. "The ones in your boots and at the small of your back."

I smiled thinly, impressed despite myself at his thoroughness. "You've done your research, Commander."

"I've prepared for traitors before," he replied coldly. "Your taps as well, Runecleaver."

Katyr stiffened. "You have no right—"

"I have every right," Varyk cut him off. "You come here as prisoners, not guests. The pretense of diplomacy is a courtesy the Honored Matriarch grants, nothing more."

Six guards surrounded Katyr, their weapons drawn. A battle mage approached, hands extended to receive the taps that marked Katyr as one of the most powerful mages in generations. The Yeutland gems were personal, intimate - magical foci that became part of a mage's identity. Surrendering them was both a practical disarmament and a profound humiliation.

With barely concealed contempt, Katyr removed the seven visible taps - the elegant gemstones from his ears, the blue-tinged crystals at his wrists, the crescent-shaped gem at his throat. Each one glowed faintly with stored power as he placed them in the battle mage's outstretched hands.

"Search them thoroughly," Varyk ordered. "And check for any magical concealments."

Daraith submitted to the search with the same distant expression he always wore, surrendering his taps without a fuss.

"The abomination next," one guard sneered. "Female guards for this one." He gestured toward two women soldiers.

Aryn went rigid, his face becoming a perfect mask of control. "I am a man," he said, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I will be treated as such."

"You'll submit to search like the others," Varyk replied coldly.

One of the female guards approached, reaching for Aryn's arm. "Come along, pretty thing. Let's see what you're—"

What happened next occurred so quickly that most missed it. Aryn's hand snapped up, catching the guard's extended wrist. A twist, a shift of his weight, and suddenly the woman was on her knees, arm bent at an unnatural angle, her face contorted in silent pain. Aryn hadn't even changed expression.

"The next person who misgenders me loses their hand," he said, voice perfectly calm despite the deadly intent behind it. Several guards drew weapons, but Aryn simply applied slightly more pressure. The female guard gasped, her face going white.

"I don't need weapons to kill. Remember that," Aryn spat.

"Release her," Varyk commanded, his own hand on his sword hilt. "Now."

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut. The other guards tightened their grips on their weapons, but hesitated. They had all heard stories of Aryn's training with the Shikami assassins. The evidence of those skills was on display right before them.

Aryn released the guard, who scrambled away, clutching her nearly dislocated arm. Without breaking eye contact with Varyk, Aryn removed his outer tunic, the dark blue fabric shimmering in the torchlight.

"If you must search me," he said with deadly quiet, "male guards only."

He tossed the tunic toward Katyr, who caught it reflexively. "Hold this. I won't have it contaminated by their touch."

Every eye in the room was fixed on Aryn, the threat he represented even unarmed and outnumbered. Katyr casually folded the tunic over his arm, his movement smooth and unhurried. Only I noticed how carefully he positioned his hand over the small pocket sewn into the lining—the pocket that contained his eighth tap, the one the Runecleavers didn't know existed.

In the tense aftermath of Aryn's demonstration, with the guards wary and keeping their distance, no one thought to examine the discarded tunic.

A mage passed glowing hands over each of us, searching for hidden enchantments or concealed magical items. But with Aryn's controlled fury commanding everyone's attention, the cursory scan passed quickly over Katyr and the tunic draped across his arm.

When they were done, Aryn snatched his tunic back from Katyr, donning it with sharp, angry movements that perfectly masked the moment when Katyr slipped the hidden tap into his sleeve.

"The Honored Matriarch awaits in the great hall," Varyk said finally, satisfied we were sufficiently disarmed. "I would advise against any foolishness. Your status as 'diplomats' is tenuous at best."

We followed him through corridors of ancient stone, flanked by guards who kept a noticeably wider berth from Aryn. His face had returned to its usual impassive mask, but the tension in his shoulders told me he remained battle-ready.

The fortress felt wrong somehow—too warm for winter, too silent for a military installation. The walls themselves seemed to absorb sound, creating an unnatural hush that pressed against my ears. Tapestries bearing the Runecleaver blood oak hung in places where Duskfell clan symbols should have been, their colors too bright against stone darkened by centuries.

The great hall doors loomed ahead, massive oak reinforced with iron bands. Four guards stood at attention, their crimson cloaks marking them as Vinolia's personal guard rather than mere fortress soldiers.

"A moment," I said, pausing before we reached the doors. "I wasn't aware the Honored Matriarch traveled with such formality. These are not typical field arrangements."

Varyk's smile widened, showing too many teeth. "The Honored Matriarch arranged something special for the rebel who thinks himself a king."

Aryn shifted position slightly, moving closer to my right shoulder, his body language changing in subtle ways only I would recognize. Preparation. Warning. Something about the hall ahead had triggered his instincts.

The doors swung open, revealing a hall transformed. Massive chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, each crystal enchanted to emit cold blue light. Long tables lined the perimeter, laden with food that steamed in the chill air. Battle mages stood at intervals around the room, their silver taps gleaming. Human slaves stood like statues against the walls, their eyes vacant, their bodies unnaturally still.

And at the far end, seated on a raised dais, was Vinolia. Her white-gold hair was arranged in elaborate braids that signified her status and magical prowess. Her face bore the appearance of a stern grandmother, wrinkled in all the right places, with shrewd eyes that missed nothing and thin lips permanently set in disapproval.

But it wasn't Vinolia who made my blood freeze in my veins. It was the figure seated beside her.

Tall, even while seated. Silver hair arranged in victory braids. Features I saw reflected in my own face every morning, though harder, colder. Eyes that watched with the dispassionate calculation of an executioner assessing his next victim.

Tarathiel.

My father.

The Primarch of the elves had come to witness the humiliation and likely execution of his treasonous son.