Page 18

Ruith

T ime contracted to a single breath. The air in the great hall turned heavy as stone, pressing against my lungs, making each heartbeat an effort. Beyond Tarathiel's shoulder, Vinolia watched me with ancient eyes that held none of the frailty her wrinkled face suggested.

"The traitor arrives at last," Tarathiel said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Desperation makes fools of even clever princes."

I forced my feet forward, each step deliberate on the cold stone. My father's silver hair caught the light, victory braids glinting as if they'd been freshly polished for this moment. I'd worn my darkest armor, but he came in courtly finery. He'd never expected this to be a battle.

"You mistake me, Primarch," I said. "I didn't come to surrender. I came to negotiate peace."

Vinolia's ancient face tightened into a web of deeper wrinkles. "Pathetic," she spat, not bothering to mask her contempt. "The rebel whelp still pretends at kingship while his followers gnaw on boot leather behind Calibarra's walls." She gestured to the laden tables with a dismissive flick of her withered hand. "We've prepared this feast to remind you of everything your people lack. Your failure made manifest in roasted meat and wine."

The offerings were ostentatious—roasted meats, exotic fruits that shouldn't have been available in winter, wine in crystal decanters. A display of abundance meant to contrast with the dwindling supplies at Calibarra. How many villages had been stripped bare to create this illusion of plenty?

"I wouldn't want to diminish your hospitality," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. "My delegation is small. Such abundance seems wasteful when so many in the realm hunger under unnatural winter."

Tarathiel leaned forward, elbows resting on the chair's ornate arms. "Always the champion of the common folk. Tell me, does this performance convince the humans you've collected? Do they truly believe an elf cares for their suffering?"

"Some things transcend blood," I answered, thinking of Elindir.

My father's expression hardened. "Nothing transcends blood. That delusion will be your undoing."

Vinolia's gaze settled on Katyr, her ancient eyes gleaming with possessive hunger. "So the golden child returns to us at last," she said, her voice dripping with false warmth that fooled no one. "Stripped of your taps and power. Reduced to a common servant for this pretender. And that hair... like a field worker rather than Runecleaver blood."

Katyr remained silent, his jaw clenched tight enough that I could see the muscle working beneath his skin. The loathing in his eyes would have burned through stone.

"Nothing to say to your grandmother, boy?" Vinolia pressed, leaning forward. "After all I've done to preserve your place in our clan? After all the sacrifices your mother made to birth Tarathiel's seed into our bloodline?"

"I stand with Ruith," Katyr replied, each word precise as a knife thrust, deliberately using my name without title or qualification. "My place is where I choose it to be."

The lich's expression hardened to granite. "Your place is determined by your blood, child. You disgrace your mother's sacrifice by standing with this pretender. She should have been honored that the Primarch chose her, willing or not."

"Honor?" The word escaped through Katyr's teeth before he could contain it. "Is that what you call it?"

Tarathiel's mouth twisted in a cold smile. "I should have known the blood would prove tainted, despite the Runecleaver line. Weak stock produces weak offspring, no matter how carefully bred. Your mother lacked the strength to appreciate what was given to her. Her son clearly inherited that same failing."

Tarathiel's attention shifted to Aryn, his lip curling in undisguised revulsion. "I see the Shikami reject still follows you. Still pretending to be what she is not."

Aryn didn't flinch, though I caught the minute tightening of his jaw. "Father," he acknowledged, the word stripped of all emotion, neither respect nor hatred coloring it.

My father's expression twisted with disgust. "That title isn't yours to use. You may wear men's clothes and mutilate your body, but you cannot change what you are."

"It must eat at you," Aryn replied evenly, "to know all your children have rejected you. Weak stock indeed."

I stepped between them before the exchange could deteriorate further. "We're here to discuss terms, not family grievances."

"Indeed," Vinolia smiled, revealing teeth too perfect for her ancient face. "Terms. As if you have anything to negotiate with." She gestured to one of her attendants, who stepped forward with a rolled parchment. "Here are our conditions. They are generous, all things considered."

I took the scroll but didn't open it. "I prefer to discuss terms directly."

"Very well." Vinolia's wrinkled hands moved to the bone comb in her hair, fingers caressing it absently. "You will renounce all claims to the throne and surrender Calibarra intact. All who have taken up arms against the Primarch will be executed publicly. The rest will be either sold into slavery or imprisoned based on their usefulness."

"And the humans I've freed?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"Property returns to its rightful owners," Tarathiel replied coldly. "Those whose masters can be identified will be returned as chattel. The rest will be auctioned to the highest bidder."

"And when will my execution be scheduled?" I asked directly. "The day after my public surrender, or will you drag it out for maximum effect?"

My father's eyes met mine, no denial in them. "You will be given a trial before the Assembly like any other criminal."

"And what of the human consort?" Vinolia asked, something hungry in her ancient face. "I understand he's quite... remarkable."

The rage that flashed through me was primitive and absolute. I forced it down, maintaining the mask of diplomatic calm. "Elindir is a free man and recognized consort to the crown. He's not part of any negotiation."

Tarathiel's smile was thin and cruel. "The human will be returned to his brother, King Michail. It seems the only reason he's invaded our lands is to retrieve his precious sibling. Once we hand over your pet, he'll withdraw his forces." His eyes hardened. "Your attachment to the human has endangered our entire realm. Another failure of judgment to add to your list of crimes."

"You actually believe Michail would withdraw his forces just for Elindir?" I couldn't keep the disbelief from my voice.

"What I believe is irrelevant," Tarathiel replied. "The arrangement has already been negotiated. The human will be exchanged. You see, everything is negotiable, Ruith. Everyone has a price."

I met his gaze, seeing nothing of myself reflected there. "Not everyone."

"Such nobility," Vinolia mocked. "Tell me, rebel king, how many will starve while you cling to principle? My storms grow stronger each day. No supplies will reach Calibarra. No messengers will break through. Your people pay the price for your pride."

She was right, and the knowledge burned. But I needed to keep them talking, to give Katyr time to locate the phylactery. I glanced around the hall, noting the positions of guards, the battle mages with their hands never far from their taps, the slaves standing unnaturally still against the walls. No route of escape presented itself, but I hadn't expected one so soon.

"You speak of my pride while staging this elaborate display," I said, gesturing to the feast and finery. "All this pageantry for a defeated rebel? It suggests you fear me more than you admit."

Tarathiel's eyes narrowed. "Fear? No. Disappointment? Beyond measure." He leaned back. "You had such potential, Ruith. Intelligence. Strength. Tactical brilliance. You could have been my heir in truth, not just in name."

"I chose a different path."

"You chose weakness," he spat. "Abolishing slavery. Elevating humans. Dismantling traditions that have sustained our people for generations."

"I chose change," I corrected. "The kind that ensures our people survive the coming generations rather than rotting from within due to our own cruelty."

Katyr had moved slightly to my left, positioning himself nearer to Vinolia while attention remained focused on my exchange with Tarathiel. I kept my eyes on my father, drawing his focus.

"Survival requires strength," Tarathiel said. "Strength requires order. Order requires hierarchy. These are natural laws you cannot change, no matter how many rebellions you lead."

"I've seen a different kind of strength," I replied. "In Elindir, in the freed slaves who chose to fight for a world where blood doesn't determine worth. In the humans and elves working side by side to build something better than what came before."

"Sentimentality," Vinolia sneered. "Such a human weakness. Is that what your consort has taught you? To think with your cock instead of your head?"

I didn't rise to the bait. "He taught me that freedom creates stronger bonds than chains ever could."

"Enough philosophy," Tarathiel cut in. "You will sign the terms or watch your rebellion starve. Those are your choices, Ruith."

I unrolled the parchment, scanning its contents without truly reading them. Each moment I delayed was another moment for Katyr to maneuver closer to Vinolia and her phylactery.

"These terms are as harsh as expected," I said, looking up from the document. "May I consult with my advisors before responding?"

"There is nothing to consult about," Tarathiel replied. "You will sign, or you will watch everything you've built crumble to dust."

"Even diplomatic negotiations allow for consultation," I countered. "Unless you fear what we might discuss?"

Tarathiel's jaw tightened, but Vinolia waved a dismissive hand. "Let them talk. It changes nothing."

She leaned forward with a knowing smirk. "While you deliberate, perhaps you'd like to hear how your beloved consort fares? We've had reports from Homeshore."

The sudden mention of Elindir sent cold fear through my veins. I kept my expression neutral by sheer force of will. "By all means."

"Our sources indicate he was captured by Michail's forces," she said, watching my face for a reaction. "Apparently, diplomatic missions fare no better for you than rebellions."

I forced myself to breathe evenly, though my heart hammered against my ribs. "Your information is incomplete, then. Elindir is more resourceful than you imagine."

"We shall see," she replied, satisfaction in her tone. She had seen the flash of fear despite my control. "Guards, escort our guests to the western antechamber so they may... consult."

Four guards moved to surround us. As I turned to follow, I caught Katyr's eye. A slight nod. He had found what we sought.

T he western antechamber was clearly designed as a holding pen rather than a true consultation room. One door, no windows, sparse furnishings that included a table and several chairs, all bolted to the floor. Four guards remained inside with us, positioned at each corner with hands on sword hilts, while four more stood outside the closed door. They watched our every movement with undisguised hostility.

"Do not touch the prisoners unless they resist," the captain had ordered, but his tone made it clear he hoped for resistance.

I moved as far from the guards as possible, gesturing for the others to join me. One guard immediately stepped forward, hand raised.

"Stay where we can see your hands," he barked.

I raised my palms in mock surrender. "We're consulting, as permitted by your matriarch. Unless diplomatic protocol no longer applies in Valdrenn?"

After a moment of tense silence, the guard stepped back, though his eyes never left us. We huddled together awkwardly, speaking in voices barely above a whisper, conscious of the guards straining to hear every word.

"Tell me you found it," I murmured.

Katyr nodded. "The bone comb in her hair. It pulses with necrotic energy. It's definitely the phylactery."

"Can you destroy it?" Aryn asked, his voice barely audible.

"Not easily, without my taps," Katyr replied. "But I still have the eighth." He discreetly touched his sleeve where the hidden tap remained concealed. "I managed to keep one. It won't be enough for a direct assault, but if I can get close enough..."

Daraith's expression remained carefully neutral as he spoke. "We need a distraction. Something significant enough to draw all attention away from Katyr."

"Something like a fight between the Primarch and his rebellious son?" I suggested.

Aryn's eyes narrowed. "What are you planning?"

"Exactly what Tarathiel expects," I replied. "I'll refuse their terms publicly, dramatically. Challenge his authority directly. He'll respond with force, creating the chaos we need."

"And what about you?" Katyr asked, though I could see in his eyes he already knew.

"Don’t worry about me. Just destroy the phylactery while I keep them occupied."

"He'll kill you,” Katyr insisted, desperation edging in his voice.

"Not immediately," Aryn said. "His pride demands a public execution, a spectacle to deter future rebellion. He’ll want to take Ruith back to D’thallanar.”

I nodded.

“Giving us time to mount a rescue,” Aryn said firmly, holding my gaze. “Because we are not letting you sacrifice yourself for this, Ruith.”

I held Aryn’s gaze. We both understood that the chances of a successful rescue were slim to none, but he would die trying, anyway. I couldn’t stop him.

“I don't like it," Katyr insisted. "There must be another way."

"There isn't," I said firmly. “Even if you’re successful, the place is too guarded for an easy exit. There are too many armed guards for you to fight your way out. We must give my father a choice between taking all of us and taking me. I’m clearly the prize he wants. He will let you go if he has me.”

Silence followed.

I put a hand on Katyr’s shoulder. “Brother, this is bigger than me. We banded together to bring an end to Taratheil’s tyranny. That cannot happen if we don’t defeat Vinolia first, and this is how we do it. With her removed, you can take leadership of the clan and Tarathiel’s biggest advantage is gone, clearing the path for victory.”

“A victory in which you are sacrificed is not the victory I want.” Katyr blinked back tears.

I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead to his. “It is not the victory any of us dreamed of, brother. I want it even less. But I’m just one elf. We must think of the people who have fought and died to bring us here, those who wait with hope in their hearts back in Calibarra, those who still wear the chains of their oppressors. They are the rebellion, brother. Not me. I’m just an elf with a dream. This fight is theirs. The victory that comes will be theirs as well, even if I do not live to see it.”

Katyr's jaw tightened, but he gave a reluctant nod. Duty warred with brotherhood in his eyes. "And if I fail? If I cannot destroy the phylactery?"

"Then you get out alive," I insisted. "All of you. Return to Calibarra. Lead in my absence."

Aryn’s jaw tightened. "I won't leave you behind, brother. Not while breath remains in my body."

"You will if I command it," I said. "You swore an oath to me as your king, not just your brother. Honor it if all else fails."

The door swung open and more guards entered, hands on weapons, accompanied by a Runecleaver battle mage.

"Your time for consultation is over," the mage announced. "The Primarch and Matriarch Vinolia await your answer."

"Wonderful," I said, straightening my jacket with deliberate slowness. "We have much to discuss."

The guards formed around us, a prison of bodies and steel that herded us back toward the great hall. I caught Katyr's eye one last time as we walked. He gave me the barest of nods. Understanding passed between us. Whatever happened next, he would do what needed to be done.

The great hall had transformed during our absence. Additional battle mages lined the walls, their silver taps gleaming in the torchlight. Tarathiel had moved to a more elaborate chair on the dais, positioning himself as a king receiving petitioners rather than a father negotiating with his son. Vinolia remained at his side, her ancient fingers still toying with the bone comb in her white hair.

"Have you come to your senses?" Tarathiel asked as we approached.

I moved forward alone, separating myself from my companions. Every eye in the room followed me. Perfect. Keep their attention on me, away from Katyr, who drifted subtly to the right, positioning himself along the wall where shadows pooled deeper.

"I have considered your terms," I said, my voice pitched to carry to every corner of the hall.

Tarathiel leaned forward, victory already gleaming in his eyes. "And?"

I unrolled the parchment. Then, meeting my father's gaze, I tore it in half. The sound of ripping paper echoed in the sudden silence. I continued tearing, reducing the document to confetti that fluttered to the floor at my feet.

"I find them lacking," I said into the stunned quiet.

Vinolia rose from her seat. "Insolent whelp. You've thrown away your only chance at mercy."

"No," I corrected. "I've rejected tyranny. Again." My gaze shifted to Tarathiel. "Did you truly believe I would hand over everything we've built? Everyone who has trusted me? Would you have respected me if I had?"

My father's expression hardened, but I caught the flicker of something else beneath his anger. Pride, perhaps. Or recognition. He'd raised me to be unbending. To never compromise. How could he expect anything less, even aimed against himself?

"Enough of this theater," Vinolia snapped, gesturing to her battle mages. "Seize him. We'll extract his surrender one finger at a time if necessary."

The guards immediately surged forward, weapons drawn. Armored hands grabbed my arms, but I pulled free, shouting, “I invoke the rite of sar'thalan dor ess'thaliel!"

The ritual phrase echoed in the vast chamber, ancient magic resonating in every syllable. Some of the older guards froze, recognizing words not spoken in generations. The language of royal challenge, of kingship contested. Words that predated the Assembly itself.

"I challenge you, Tarathiel, false Primarch of our people," I declared, my voice ringing with power that seemed to vibrate in the very stones beneath our feet. "By blade and blood, by ancient right, by the laws that bind gods and kings, I call you to answer for your crimes against our people."

Silence fell, heavy and absolute. No one moved. No one breathed. The weight of ancient tradition hung in the air, palpable as smoke.

Tarathiel rose slowly from his throne, genuine shock displacing his usual calculated expression before he masked it with contempt. The guards looked to him, uncertain, caught between generations of conditioning to obey their ruler and the primal, instinctive recognition of an even older authority.

Vinolia's withered hand clutched the armrest of her chair, her voice cutting through the silence with a hiss of outrage. "This is absurd. This rebel has no standing to invoke the ancient rites."

I turned to her, refusing to show the slightest hint of submission or doubt.

"I am King Ruith Starfall, son of Queen Siriyama, heir to the throne by birthright and by ritual. I have fulfilled every sacred requirement demanded by our most ancient traditions." My voice carried to every corner of the hall, each word measured and absolute. "I was anointed with the threefold blessing of blood, earth, and fire. I completed the ritual hunt and took the heart of Vargulf himself, the White Wolf of Winter. I bear the scars and carry the blessings."

The older courtiers murmured, recognizing the sacred milestones I named. Some made subtle warding gestures at the mention of Vargulf, the ancient spirit whose favor had not been claimed in living memory before me.

"The gods themselves witnessed my ascension," I continued, turning back to Tarathiel. "Can you say the same? You who took your crown through betrayal and murder? You who never completed the sacred hunt? You who wears the mantle of leadership while serving only yourself?"

My eyes fixed on him with piercing intensity. "That was the whole reason you've chosen to call yourself a Primarch and not a king. You are no king, and you know it."

Tarathiel's jaw tightened, rage warring with calculation in his eyes. He knew as well as anyone that I spoke the truth. His rise to power had been through political maneuvering and violence, not the sacred rituals that legitimized kings in the eyes of tradition.

"It is you who stands as pretender," I declared, loud enough for every ear to hear, "unless you can prove otherwise with victory in sacred combat. Or will you refuse the challenge and confirm before all these witnesses that your claim to leadership is built on falsehood?"

The court erupted in whispers. Even Tarathiel's most loyal supporters shifted uncomfortably. To refuse an ancient challenge properly invoked would be to admit illegitimacy. No amount of political power could wash away such a stain on his authority. The old ways still held too much power in the hearts of our people.

Tarathiel's face betrayed nothing as he listened to my words. Not anger, not surprise, not even contempt. His discipline was absolute, his control perfect. He would not give the court the satisfaction of seeing him react to my invocation of his past. When I finished speaking, he simply rose from his throne, the movement deliberate and unhurried.

"Bring the ceremonial blades," he commanded, his voice carrying effortlessly across the suddenly silent hall.

Vinolia rose from her seat, fury distorting her ancient features. "This is absurd! Guards, seize him!"

But none moved. All eyes remained fixed on Tarathiel, waiting. In that moment, the true balance of power revealed itself. For all her magical might, all her political influence, Vinolia was not the one whose legitimacy had been challenged. This was between father and son now. Between past and future.

Tarathiel descended from the dais, each footfall echoing in the tense silence. His eyes, so like mine in color, yet so different in what lay behind them, never left my face.

Two guards hurried to obey his command, returning with ornate swords that had not seen use in generations. Ritual blades, their edges no less deadly for their ceremonial purpose. One was presented to Tarathiel with a deep bow. The other was offered to me with visible reluctance.

I took the blade, feeling its perfect balance, the weight of history it carried. These weapons had decided the fate of kingdoms before either my father or I drew breath.

"So be it," he said, raising his blade in the formal salute of ritual combat. "Let blood and steel decide the future of our people."

Guards filtered silently to the edges of the hall, clearing a space. Battle mages positioned themselves at strategic points, ready to contain the violence about to unfold. Courtiers pressed back against the walls, eager to witness yet afraid to be too close to the dangerous dance about to begin.

We began to circle each other, blades raised in identical stances. My father had trained me himself, after all. Every technique I knew came from him. The sword felt awkward after months of wielding my own blade, but I adapted quickly, muscle memory compensating for the unfamiliar weight.

"I taught you better than this, Ruith," he said.

"No," I countered. “You taught me to win.”

His face darkened. "Insolent to the end."

He struck first, a testing blow that I parried with effort. The unfamiliar blade made my movements less fluid than usual, but I maintained my defense. The clash of steel echoed through the hall. Everyone had fallen back to the walls, watching in silence as father and son enacted the ancient ritual. I caught glimpses of my companions positioning themselves strategically around the room. Still no sign of Katyr. Had he found a way to reach Vinolia's phylactery? I couldn't afford to wonder. Tarathiel required my full attention.

We exchanged a series of blows, feeling out each other's defenses. My father fought with the patience of centuries, economical movements that wasted no energy. I matched him, refusing to be drawn into reckless attacks despite the urgency burning beneath my skin.

"You fight like me," he observed after a particularly complex exchange left us both unscathed.

"I’m better than you," I countered, feinting left before attacking from the right.

“Perhaps,” he admitted, stepping back and raising his sword to guard. “But I have more experience, and I know your every weakness. You cannot win this, Ruith.”

His next attack came faster, harder. I blocked, but the force drove me back several steps. Age had not diminished his strength. If anything, the decades of rule had honed him to a more deadly edge. We were evenly matched in technique, but his experience gave him an advantage I couldn't overcome.

Unless I surprised him.

I shifted my stance subtly, adopting the low guard position Hawk had taught me—a human technique from the Ostovan military that emphasized economy of movement over elven flourish. The slight change in balance and foot positioning was almost imperceptible, but to a master swordsman like Tarathiel, it registered as something foreign, something he hadn't taught me.

Confusion flickered across his face for just an instant. He recognized the stance as something outside his influence, something beyond his teachings. That momentary uncertainty gave me the opening I needed. I lunged forward in the quick, direct attack style Elindir had drilled into me for hours on end. No wasted motion, no elaborate setup, just brutal efficiency that scored a shallow cut along Tarathiel's right arm.

First blood. Gasps rippled through the watching crowd.

Tarathiel glanced at the wound with something like respect. "The student surprises the master."

"The student became his own master long ago," I replied.

His smile vanished. "Your pride will be your downfall."

He came at me with renewed fury, decades of battlefield experience behind every strike. I defended as best I could, but he drove me steadily backward. A burning line opened across my shoulder as his blade found a gap in my defense. Pain sharpened my focus rather than diminishing it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of gold. Katyr. He had somehow worked his way behind the dais where Vinolia now stood, watching our duel with avid interest. Her attention was fixed on us, on the spectacle of father against son. She didn't notice the shadow that detached itself from the wall behind her.

I needed to ensure she remained distracted. With deliberate recklessness, I launched an attack that left my left side exposed. Tarathiel's blade sliced through my defenses, opening a wound along my ribs that instantly soaked my tunic with blood.

"Sloppy," Tarathiel chided, though concern flickered briefly in his eyes. "I taught you better than that."

I grimaced through the pain. "Perhaps I've found better teachers since leaving your side."

Rage darkened his features. Good. Keep him focused on me. I risked a glance toward Vinolia just as Katyr made his move. His hand extended toward her from the shadows, fingers splayed, the concealed tap at his wrist.

Vinolia stiffened, one hand flying to her hair where the bone comb sat. She turned, ancient eyes widening as she spotted Katyr. Her mouth opened to shout a warning, but no sound emerged. Katyr's spell had sealed her voice.

Tarathiel pressed his attack with renewed vigor, forcing me to devote all my concentration to staying alive.

Magic crackled at the edge of my awareness. The battle mages sensed something amiss, but in the confusion of the duel, they couldn't pinpoint the source. Daraith had begun murmuring his own incantations, silver tattoos gleaming as he cast subtle spells to muddle magical perceptions around the room.

Tarathiel scored another hit, this one across my thigh. My leg buckled, nearly sending me to my knees. I caught myself at the last moment, blocking his follow-up strike more by instinct than skill. Blood loss was making my movements sluggish. I wouldn't last much longer.

Just a little more time. That's all Katyr needed.

A scream tore through the hall, high and inhuman. Vinolia's voice had broken through Katyr's spell. She clawed at her hair, at the bone comb that had come loose in her struggle. Katyr stood fully revealed behind her, his concealed tap blazing with power as he reached for the comb.

"Traitor!" she shrieked, her face contorting with rage and fear. "Guards! Mages! Kill him!"

Battle erupted across the hall. Mages launched spells at Katyr, but Daraith intercepted them, his silver tattoos flaring white hot as he channeled death magic to counter their attacks. Aryn moved like smoke through the chaos. He snatched blades from a nearby guard and cut down any who tried to reach his half-brother.

Tarathiel hesitated, torn between continuing our duel and responding to the greater threat. I used his moment of distraction to strike, driving him back several paces.

"You planned this," he realized, eyes widening. "The duel was never the point."

"The duel was always the point," I countered. "But winning never was."

Behind the dais, Katyr had snatched the bone comb from Vinolia's grasp. She lunged for him, but he stepped back and simply snapped the comb in half before letting his mage fire consume it.

The crack echoed like thunder through the hall. Vinolia froze mid-motion, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her body began to wither before our eyes, ancient skin crumbling like parchment left too long in the sun. Centuries of suppressed age caught up in an instant as the magic sustaining her unnatural life dissipated.

Where Vinolia had stood moments before, only dust remained, sifting slowly to the floor like dirty snow. The destruction of her phylactery had unraveled centuries of necromantic magic, reducing her to the age she should have been—nothing but ash and memory.

"Every true leader must be willing to sacrifice for their people," I told my father as we circled each other. "That's what you taught me."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "You sacrifice yourself to destroy her."

"I sacrifice what's necessary to save our people. From her. From you. From what we've become."

Tarathiel roared. His blade swept toward me with killing intent, all restraint abandoned. I was too slow, too weakened by blood loss to block properly. Steel bit deep into my side.

"Ruith!" Katyr's voice reached me through a growing haze of pain.

Daraith's spell exploded outward in a wave of silver light. Those nearest him fell where they stood, dropping into supernatural sleep that would hold them until he released the magic. Battle mages and guards alike crumpled to the floor, leaving only the most powerful still standing.

"Go!" I commanded, using the last of my strength to parry another of Tarathiel's strikes. "Get out. Now!"

Katyr surged toward me as if he meant to intervene but Aryn grabbed his shoulder. Our eyes met. In that moment, more passed between us than words could express. The silent language of brothers who had survived a lifetime under Tarathiel's shadow. Aryn understood what I was sacrificing, and why it was necessary. His face hardened with grief and resolve, a barely perceptible nod acknowledging what I had chosen. We had always communicated best in silence, in the spaces between words.

Aryn grabbed Katyr by the arm. Katyr's anguish was plain, but he yielded to Aryn's command, understanding that my sacrifice would mean nothing if they all died here.

Battle mages were recovering from Daraith's spell, new guards pouring into the hall from adjacent corridors. But the chaos that followed Vinolia's destruction gave my companions the opening they needed. Daraith released another pulse of silver energy, clearing a path to the nearest exit.

Battle mages launched spells that exploded against the walls, sending stone fragments raining down. Through the dust and confusion, I saw my brothers fighting their way toward freedom. Katyr looked back once, his face a mask of agony. I smiled through the pain, willing him to understand. This was always the plan. One of us had to survive to lead what came next.

Tarathiel grabbed me by the throat, his sword at my chest. "Call them back or die here."

"They won't come," I wheezed. "And killing me defeats your purpose."

His eyes burned with fury but also calculation. He was already thinking ahead, already planning how to use my capture to his advantage. Public humiliation. Formal execution. All to prove his absolute power over those who dared defy him.

"You've lost them," I continued, blood dripping from my wounds to pool at our feet. "Even if you kill me, what I built continues. Katyr unites the Runecleavers now. Aryn commands the shadows. And Elindir..." I smiled through the pain. "Elindir will burn your world to ash to avenge me."

Doubt flickered in his eyes. Not fear, never that, but uncertainty. The realization that even in defeat, I had altered the game we'd played all these years.

"Take him!" Tarathiel commanded the guards who had finally fought their way to his side. "Secure him for transport to D'thallanar. The rebel king will face justice before the full Assembly."

They seized me roughly, uncaring of my wounds. Through the windows, I caught a glimpse of three figures racing across the courtyard toward the forest beyond. Freedom. They'd made it.

As the guards secured me, my thoughts drifted back to Elindir. Forgive me for going where you could not follow.