Page 19

M ist clung to the ancient pines as we moved through the forest. Dawn was still an hour away, but we'd been walking since midnight, following game trails and streams to avoid the main roads. Five days had passed since our desperate leap from Homeshore's keep window. Five days eating what little we could hunt and scavenge, minimal fires, and constant vigilance as we pushed toward D'thallanar.

Today marked the twelfth day since I'd left Ruith at Calibarra's gates. I should have been returning to him by now, sailing home with news of peace negotiations or at least clearer intelligence about Michail's forces. Instead, I was moving deeper into danger, breaking my promise to return quickly. At night, when exhaustion finally claimed me, I dreamt of Ruith's face as he watched me board Captain Yisra's ship. The trust in his eyes. The faith that I would come back to him.

Every mile that carried me farther from Calibarra pulled at something in my chest, a physical ache that no amount of purpose could fully ease.

But this journey had to be made. The Assembly needed to hear directly what I'd witnessed in Homeshore. If they understood the true nature of Michail's crusade, perhaps some clans would shift their support from Tarathiel to Ruith. The civil war could end, and we could unite against the real enemy. If I failed, Michail's campaign would continue unchecked, and thousands more would die—including, eventually, Ruith himself.

The borrowed clothes we'd taken from a hunting lodge two days ago were wool and leather, sturdy but not made for winter journeying. Still, they were better than the salt-crusted, frozen garments we'd discarded after our swim through Homeshore's icy harbor.

I had no idea what had become of Captain Yisra or her ship. No way of knowing if Commander Caris and the Broken Blades had escaped Michail's forces, or if they'd been captured—or worse. The uncertainty gnawed at me. Had I led them all into a trap? Had Yisra's loyal service to House Starfall ended in her death?

"Hold," Niro whispered, raising his fist.

I froze instantly, sinking to one knee beside him, straining to hear what had caught his attention. For several heartbeats, there was nothing but the soft patter of melting snow falling from branches and the distant call of a morning bird.

Then I heard it. Voices, still distant but drawing closer. Human voices.

Niro tilted his head, ears catching nuances my human hearing missed. "Two, maybe three," he murmured. "And something else. An animal?"

I nodded, already calculating. We couldn't afford an encounter, not this close to our goal. D'thallanar lay just three days' journey ahead if we maintained our pace. The Assembly would be gathering now, preparing for their winter session.

"We should avoid them," I whispered, gesturing to a dense thicket to our right. "Circle around, keep moving."

But Niro hesitated, his face troubled in the fading moonlight. "Something feels wrong," he said.

The voices grew clearer. A man laughed, then another's response. They didn't sound like soldiers on patrol. Their casual tone suggested travelers, perhaps merchants, though what legitimate business would bring anyone to these woods remained a question.

"Wait here," I told Niro, already rising.

He caught my arm, his grip like iron. "Absolutely not."

"They're human," I countered, keeping my voice low. "They'll be less suspicious of me approaching alone. I can find out who they are, why they're here."

"And if they're Michail's scouts? Or bandits taking advantage of the chaos?" Niro's dark eyes held mine. "I won't risk—"

"Pull your hood forward," I interrupted. "In this light, with your ears covered, they'll never know you're elven. We'll approach together, two travelers lost in the woods."

For a moment, I thought he would refuse. Then a tight smile touched his lips. "You've grown bolder since Homeshore," he observed. "Very well. But at the first sign of trouble—"

"You'll do what you do best," I finished for him.

We moved forward, adjusting our posture and gait to appear more casual, less military. Niro pulled his hood lower, shrouding his features. Even in the dim light, his elven heritage would be obvious to anyone looking closely, but travelers exhausted from fighting through a snowstorm might miss the telltale signs.

As we rounded a bend in the trail, the source of the voices came into view. Two men stood in a small clearing, one holding the reins of a heavily laden mule. They had erected a crude lean-to against the snow, and a small fire sputtered beneath it, sending thin tendrils of smoke into the gray morning light. Their backs were to us, attention focused on adjusting the animal's burden.

"Hail, camp!" I called, keeping my tone carefully neutral.

Both men spun, hands dropping to weapons before relaxing at the sight of what appeared to be fellow humans. The older of the two, a weathered man with a graying beard and snow crusting his eyebrows, offered a gap-toothed smile.

"Well met, travelers," he called back. "Didn't expect company in these parts, especially not with this cursed weather."

"Nor did we," I replied, approaching with caution, my boots crunching through the fresh snow. "What brings you so far from the main roads?"

The younger man, barely more than a boy with snow caught in his thin beard, shifted nervously, but the older one just chuckled. "Could ask the same of you. These are dangerous times to be wandering."

"We're heading south," I said, offering what had become a common story among displaced humans. "Escaped our master during the chaos when the northern villages burned. Heard Ruith's rebels are taking in humans, giving food and shelter to those who join them. Storm caught us before we could reach the southern road."

"South, eh?" The older man studied us with new interest. "Those rebel handouts are just stories, boy. You'll find nothing but more elvish masters down there. You'd be better served heading west, toward Homeshore. That's where the real opportunities are these days. For free men."

Niro tensed. Something about the man's tone had changed, an eagerness that hadn't been there before.

"What kind of opportunities?" I asked, moving closer to the fire.

"Profitable ones. The new king in Homeshore, he pays well for certain... services." He gestured toward his mule. "A silver piece for each knife-ear head. No questions about where they came from or how you got them."

The sacks tied to the mule's flanks suddenly took on horrific meaning. I could see shapes within them now, rounded forms that could only be one thing.

"You're collecting bounties," I said, keeping my voice steady through sheer will. "On elven heads."

"Quick on the uptake, aren't you?" The man grinned, interpreting my words as approval. "Name's Brecht. This here's my nephew Tam. Been working our way through these forests for a fortnight now. Good hunting, if you know where to look."

Niro's presence beside me was like a coiled spring, but his control was absolute. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face as this human casually discussed murdering his kind.

"May I see?" I asked, gesturing to the sacks.

Brecht nodded eagerly. "Got sixteen fresh ones. Well, mostly fresh." He untied one of the sacks, reaching inside without hesitation. "This one's a real prize. Some kind of officer, judging by the fancy hair ornaments."

He pulled out a severed head by its long silver hair, holding it up like a trophy. The face was male, youngish by elven standards, with the high cheekbones and refined features typical of the northern clans. The skin had already begun to gray, but the expression of terror remained frozen in death. Delicate silver beads still clung to the blood-matted braids, ice crystals forming where melting snow had refrozen.

"You know these bastards believe their souls live in their heads?" Brecht continued, oblivious. "What a crock of sheep shit. That's why we don't bury them, though. Keeps their spirits trapped, unable to reincarnate or some such nonsense. Psychological warfare, he calls it." He gave the head a little shake. "Wouldn't know about all that, but silver spends the same whether you believe in elvish souls or not. Far better pay than whatever scraps the rebel king might throw your way."

"Sixteen heads," I said carefully. "That's quite a haul. You hunt them alone?"

"Not as hard as you'd think," Brecht replied, casually returning the head to its sack. "Elves everywhere. Course, it's easier when you're hunting merchants and womenfolk and not soldiers, eh?" His laughter sounded like a hiss.

"And King Michail pays for this?" I asked, needing to hear the confirmation.

"Aye, silver piece per head, no matter the age or rank," Brecht confirmed.

Beside me, Niro made a sound so soft only I could hear it, a breath drawn through clenched teeth. I placed a subtle hand on his arm, a request for patience. Not yet.

"Seems like good business," I observed. "Any room for partners? Beats begging for rebel charity."

Brecht studied me with new consideration. "Depends. You handy with that blade? Knife-ears die easy enough, but sometimes they've got friends."

"I manage," I said. "Served in the palace guard back home, before all this."

His eyes widened with interest. "Palace guard! Well now, that's different. King's always looking for trained men." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Tell you what. Help us deliver this batch to Homeshore, and I'll introduce you personally. Good bounties are just the start. He's building something there, something big. Needs men with proper training. A man who knows how to use a sword can rise high. No more bowing to knife-ears or hoping for handouts from pretender kings."

He turned back to his mule, adjusting the grisly cargo. "We're camped just over that rise. Got a fire going, some decent wine... you're welcome to share our breakfast before we head out."

It was the opening we needed. I moved forward as if to follow, placing myself directly behind him. Niro stayed where he was, watching the nervous young man who was now looking at us with growing suspicion.

I met Niro's eyes briefly. A nearly imperceptible nod passed between us.

I grabbed Brecht's hunting knife from his belt and drove it into his back without ceremony or warning, angling the blade upward to find his heart. His body stiffened in shock, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as I twisted the steel. No honor, no chance to defend himself. A man who hunted innocents for sport deserved no better.

As he slumped forward, I withdrew my blade and let him fall face-first into the snow. A patch of crimson spread quickly around him, staining the white powder.

The nephew had time for one startled cry before Niro was on him. A sickening crack echoed through the clearing as his neck snapped, and then he too crumpled to the ground.

Silence fell, broken only by the nervous stamping of the mule, disturbed by the scent of fresh blood. I cleaned my blade on Brecht's cloak before resheathing it. The metallic tang of blood hung in the air, mingling with the scent of woodsmoke and decay.

Niro moved toward the sacks, untying them with gentle hands and laying each one on the ground with reverence. When he opened the first sack and saw the contents fully, his shoulders stiffened, but he didn't pause in his grim task.

"Sixteen," he said, his voice rough. "Men, women. Some hardly more than children."

I stood beside him, watching as he carefully arranged each severed head on the clean snow. My chest felt hollow. These weren't soldiers who had fallen in battle, but innocents caught in Michail's campaign of hatred. Merchants. Healers. Perhaps even children.

"We should bury them," I said. "Properly, according to your customs."

Niro turned to me, something like surprise flickering across his features. "That would delay us considerably. The Assembly—"

"Will still be there," I interrupted. "We cannot leave them like this." I gestured to the severed heads, each one representing a life, a family, a story cut violently short. "I won't let Michail deny them even this basic dignity."

For a moment, Niro simply looked at me. Then he nodded once, the gesture carrying more meaning than words could express. "Thank you," he said quietly.

We spent hours digging through frozen ground with improvised tools, creating proper graves according to elven custom. Niro spoke ancient words over each head as we wrapped them in clean cloth taken from the hunters' supplies. I didn't understand all the ritual, but I recognized the reverence in his actions, the way he carefully bound specific knots in the cloth and placed each bundle facing east. When we finally lowered them into the ground, he sang a low, haunting melody that made the hair on my arms rise despite the cold.

When the last grave was filled, Niro approached me, sitting beside me on a fallen log. "You surprise me, Lord Consort," he said, his formal address at odds with the quiet intimacy of his tone.

"How so?"

"Most humans wouldn't understand the importance of these rites." He gestured to the freshly turned earth. "Most would see only the delay to our mission."

I thought of Ruith, of how he had respected my own traditions even while introducing me to his. "Respect doesn't always require understanding," I said.

Niro studied me for a long moment. "Then perhaps it's time you understood what awaits us in D'thallanar," he said. "The Assembly is not merely a gathering of noble houses. It's the oldest continuous political body in our world, bound by traditions older than any living elf's memory."

"You're worried they won't let me speak," I guessed.

"I'm certain they won't," he corrected. "No human has ever addressed the Assembly directly. The closest any have come is serving as scribes or message bearers, and even then, they never entered the sacred hall itself. And even if you could speak, many clans are deeply committed to Tarathiel. They would dismiss any warning from someone associated with Ruith's rebellion as a desperate ploy."

The weight of what we were attempting settled more firmly on my shoulders. A diplomatic gambit with impossible stakes. The survival of both peoples hung in the balance. We needed to find a way not just to be heard, but to be believed. "Then how do we proceed?"

Niro sighed, his breath forming a small cloud in the cool morning air. "There is a ritual for approaching the Assembly Hall," he began. "One all supplicants must follow, regardless of rank or purpose."

He described the process in detail—the surrendering of weapons at the hundred-foot marker, the point beyond which no human servant could pass, the removal of boots before walking the final approach on bare feet over jagged stones. The ritual cleansing with earth, water, and ash. Each element was designed to humble even the proudest elf.

"The path is deliberately painful," he explained. "Stone sharp enough to draw blood from even elven feet. It's meant to focus the mind, to ensure that only those with true purpose would seek the Assembly's attention."

I considered his words, understanding the implications. "And they've never made an exception? Not even in times of war or crisis?"

"Never," Niro confirmed. "The ancient laws are absolute."

A thought struck me, the solution emerging from our recent deception. I glanced at Niro, the beginnings of a plan forming. "What if we reverse what we just did? Not an elf pretending to be human, but..."

Niro's eyes widened as he caught my meaning. "A human pretending to be elven? That's—"

"Possible," I finished for him. "With the right clothing, hair arrangement. Ears can be modified with wax or hidden beneath proper ceremonial headdress." I leaned forward, the excitement of possibility pushing through exhaustion. "I speak elvish well enough to pass a cursory examination. You taught me the proper court mannerisms."

"It's never been done," Niro said, but I could see him considering the possibility. "The penalties for such deception—"

"Would hardly matter if we succeed," I countered. "The Assembly needs to hear what Michail is doing. Sometimes the only way through a door is to become someone who belongs on the other side."

Niro stared at me for a long moment, weighing impossibilities against necessities. The morning light strengthened around us, illuminating the fresh graves of those who had already fallen to Michail's hatred. In that fragile dawn, surrounded by evidence of my brother's cruelty, something shifted in Niro's expression.

"It would require perfect execution," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "The slightest mistake would mean death for us both."

"Then we'll be perfect. If we can make the Assembly understand the true threat Michail poses, some might reconsider their allegiance to Tarathiel. They could see that Ruith's vision is the only path forward."

Niro sighed and looked around him at the sixteen graves he’d dug. There would be many more graves before all this was done, no matter how things played out, but my way… My way meant there might be a few less.

“Very well, Lord Consort,” Niro said, rising, his hand resting on his sword. “If you are so set on making this journey, I cannot stop you. But I gave Ruith my word that I would protect you and I intend to keep my oath until death takes me.”

As we gathered our supplies and covered all evidence of the headhunters' existence, I cast one last glance toward the fresh graves. Sixteen lives ended by hatred and greed. Sixteen families who would never know their loved ones' final resting place. I made a silent promise to them, to Ruith, to the future we were fighting for: Michail's crusade would end. Whatever it cost, whatever I had to become to make it happen, I would ensure that no more innocents died to feed his twisted ambitions.

I only hoped Captain Yisra and her crew had escaped, that they'd managed to return to Calibarra with news of what we'd discovered. More than that, I hoped they'd reached Ruith and told him I was still alive, still fighting to return to him.

"Ready?" Niro asked, the question carrying more weight than the single word suggested.

I nodded, squaring my shoulders as we turned eastward, toward D'thallanar and the Assembly. "Ready."