Page 20

T he first day, I walked. The wounds from our duel burned with each step, but I kept my spine straight, my eyes forward. Father rode his warhorse beside me, occasionally glancing down with an expression that mixed contempt with something almost like curiosity. The chains they'd bound me with were silver-steel alloy, engraved with ancient runes—ceremonial symbols meant to bind not just the body but the spirit of royal prisoners. They weighed more than ordinary chains would have, the burden both physical and symbolic.

"You'll break before we reach D'thallanar," Father observed casually, as if commenting on the weather. "They all do."

I said nothing. Speech required energy I couldn't spare.

Night fell with brutal swiftness, the magical winter pulling darkness across the sky like a shroud. They made no fire for me, though the guards warmed themselves mere feet away. I lay on frozen ground, shackled to a stake driven deep into the earth. My breath clouded above me as I stared at the unfamiliar stars, wondering if Elindir looked at these same constellations wherever he was.

The second day, Father ordered my boots taken.

"Kings should feel the land they claim to rule," he explained to his captain, though his words were meant for me. "Every stone, every thorn. The pain will remind him of consequence."

Snow packed between my toes, then melted against my skin, then froze again as temperatures dropped further. By midday, I could no longer feel my feet. I stumbled forward on nerveless limbs, vision blurring as the fever from my untreated wounds began to take hold.

"Water," I rasped when we stopped briefly. "Please."

It was the first word I'd spoken since our capture. The guards looked to Father for permission. His expression revealed nothing as he nodded once. The water they brought was lukewarm and tasted of iron, but I gulped it down, knowing it might be my last for hours.

"Do you know why I'm keeping you alive?" Father asked, crouching beside me.

I swallowed the last of the water. "Public execution. You need the spectacle."

I met his gaze but remained silent, conserving what little strength remained.

His laugh held no humor. "Always the stubborn one, Ruith." He took the empty cup from my hand. "I'm keeping you alive because you're still useful."

I stared back at him, refusing to give voice to the denial burning in my throat.

"Your silence changes nothing," he continued. "Your capture demoralizes your followers. Your execution will end your rebellion." He stood, looking down at me through eyes so similar to my own. "And your life, in the meantime, brings Katyr to heel. He'll barter himself for you—his power, his claim to the Runecleavers, all of it. He's already sending messages through his contacts. Offering terms."

Cold fear washed through me, sharper than the winter air. "He wouldn't."

"Wouldn't he? For his beloved brother?" Father's smile never reached his eyes. "Your greatest weakness has always been inspiring too much loyalty in those who should know better."

They didn't let me rest that night. Whenever sleep threatened to claim me, guards prodded me awake with spear butts. Father watched from his tent, occasionally emerging to observe my deterioration with clinical detachment. By morning, hallucinations danced at the edges of my vision—shadows that moved without sources, whispered voices in a language I almost recognized.

I lost track of days after that. Time blurred into a haze of pain and cold. They fed me just enough to keep me alive, watered me like a reluctant plant. Once or twice, they sent a healer to do just enough healing to keep me alive and whole. Father rode beside me, sometimes speaking, sometimes silent for hours. The content of his monologues shifted between political theory, historical parables, and occasional reflections on my childhood training.

On what might have been the fifth day, he ordered me washed in a half-frozen stream. The shock of cold water stole my breath, sent my heart racing dangerously fast. Guards held me under until black spots danced before my eyes, then pulled me up, gasping, only to force me down again.

"Cleansing," Father explained afterward, as I shivered uncontrollably on the bank. "You'll appear before the Assembly as my son, not some filthy rebel. Presentation matters."

They dressed me in clean clothes bearing the Deepfrost insignia—his house, not mine. The fabric scraped against untreated wounds, but felt blessedly warm after days of exposure. That small mercy was calculated, I knew. Kindness now would make whatever came next more devastating.

Just when I believed I understood the pattern of his cruelty, Father surprised me. As we made camp that night, he ordered me brought to his tent. Guards deposited me roughly on a carpet before the brazier, the first real warmth I'd felt in days.

"Leave us," Father commanded. When the guards hesitated, his eyes hardened. "Now."

We sat in silence as their footsteps receded. The tent's interior was austere—a campaign cot, a folding desk covered with maps and correspondence, a single chair. No luxury, no waste. The only personal item visible was a small silver figurine beside his inkwell: a miniature wolf, head thrown back in eternal howl.

"You recognize it," Father observed, following my gaze.

"It was Mother’s before..." I swallowed. "Before you poisoned her."

His expression didn't change. "Is that what you believe happened?"

"I know what happened. You couldn't risk her rallying support against you. Once you had your heir, she was of no use to you."

Father sighed, reaching for a flask. He poured amber liquid into two cups, sliding one toward me. When I didn't take it, he shrugged. "Suit yourself. The brandy's Savarran. Quite rare these days."

He drank, eyes never leaving mine. "Your mother died of a fever shortly after you were born, Ruith. You know this. I sent my best healers to her, but she refused to admit them. You’ve inherited her stubbornness, you know. But she chose to abandon you and die. Blame her for that, not me." His mouth twisted. "Idealistic nonsense. Death is death, regardless of how poetically one embraces it."

"You expect me to believe she simply... gave up and died?"

Father set down his cup. "I expect nothing from you. Certainly not understanding. But Siriyama made her choice, as you've made yours." He gestured to the tent around us. "As we all must."

I leaned forward, the motion sending fresh waves of pain through my body. The question that had haunted me since childhood rose to my lips before I could stop it.

"Did you ever love me?"

The words hung in the air between us, naked and raw. Father's hand stilled on his cup, surprise briefly displacing his usual calculation. For one unguarded moment, something flickered in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or memory.

His jaw clenched. “Love is a weakness. Not something I could afford anyone if I wanted to survive. I couldn’t love your mother any more than I could’ve loved Isheda. But you… You were mine. There was a time once when I thought…” He raised his eyes to me and paused, his cup halfway to his mouth. Then something passed over his face, a cold transformation, and he looked away. “What does it matter? My hand is forced now. You ensured that when you chose to go to war with me.” Father reached for the flask again, refilling his cup. "Did you ever consider," he asked, studying the amber liquid, "that I might not want to execute my own son?"

I met his gaze but said nothing.

"The Assembly expects a trial. They demand it. The spectacle of the rebel king brought to justice before the twelve clans." His voice held no emotion, as if discussing trade negotiations rather than my execution. "But there are... alternatives."

My wounds throbbed with each heartbeat. "What alternatives?"

"Publicly renounce your claim. Order your supporters to disband. Make a full confession before the Assembly." He set down his cup. "Do this, and I could spare your life."

"To what end?" I asked. "Permanent imprisonment?"

"Service in the north." Father's expression remained impassive. "The northern territories always need fighters against the Yeutish rebels. A life of purpose, if not comfort." He leaned forward. "You'd never set foot in the central kingdoms again, never see your human consort, never return to Calibarra. But you would live."

"You left me no choice when you killed Miya," I said, the words torn from somewhere deep within me. "When you ordered her execution while my child grew inside her."

Father's expression hardened, his eyes cold. "Is that what this rebellion is truly about? A human slave?" He shook his head, genuine bewilderment in his voice. "She was property, Ruith. Nothing more. You could have had a hundred like her."

"She was everything," I countered, rage giving strength to my broken body. "She was kindness in a world of cruelty. Hope in darkness. And you hanged her while she carried my child."

"She was disrupting proper order," Father replied, unmoved. "Your sentiment blinded you then as it blinds you now. Had you remained discreet, kept her as a private amusement rather than flaunting your attachment, she might have lived. The child would have been disposed of quietly, of course, but—"

"Don't," I warned, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Don't speak of them as if they meant nothing."

Father studied me, genuine confusion in his eyes. "After all this time, after everything we've built and fought for, you'd burn it all down for a human slave?"

"You of all people should understand," I said quietly. "You were once a slave yourself. You know what it means to be treated as property, to have your life depend on another's whim."

Father's expression hardened. "I chose to rise above that past. I chose to claim power rather than accept subjugation. I chose to survive by any means necessary." He moved to the maps spread across his desk. "The weak perish, Ruith. Only the strong endure."

"At the cost of becoming the very monster you once fought against? The same kind that once owned you?" I shook my head. "What was the point of your liberation if you simply became the new oppressor?"

His hand paused over the map of D'thallanar. "My liberation ensured our people's survival. Sometimes that requires difficult choices." He turned back to me. "I don't want to kill you. But I will if you force my hand."

"And what of Elindir?" I asked. "Will you hunt him down as you did Miya?"

Father's expression changed, his eyes narrowing with sudden interest. "Ah. So the human consort means even more to you than I suspected." He studied me carefully. "First a slave girl, now a human prince. This weakness for their kind will be your undoing."

He leaned forward, hands flat on the desk between us. "Tell me where Elindir is."

The request—its unexpected nature, its specificity—struck me silent.

"Our sources confirm he escaped Homeshore," Father continued. "Two headhunters were found dead in the western forests six days ago. Witnesses reported seeing a human traveling with what appeared to be an elven warrior. They move east. Why? What could your human consort possibly hope to accomplish so far from your precious Calibarra?"

My mind raced. Elindir alive. Moving east. The knowledge ignited something in my chest, a dangerous warmth I couldn't afford to show. If Father connected Elindir to Miya in his mind, he would hunt him with even greater determination.

"I have no idea," I lied. "Perhaps he’s running from Michail's forces without a destination."

Father studied me, searching for tells I'd learned long ago to disguise. "You sacrificed everything for one human. Would you do the same for another? How many more must die for your... sentiment?"

"You speak as if caring is weakness," I said. "Yet it's your coldness that has cost you everything worth having."

A shadow passed over Father's face. For a moment, something like regret flickered in his eyes before disappearing beneath the familiar mask of control. "Keep your secrets, then. For now." He rose, signaling our conversation had ended. "Rest while you can. We reach D'thallanar tomorrow."

Guards returned, dragging me back into the bitter night. They chained me to the usual stake, but threw a thin blanket over my body, another calculated mercy that only emphasized my complete powerlessness. I curled beneath it, processing what I'd learned.

Elindir was alive. Moving deliberately toward the Assembly. Planning something. The knowledge sustained me through that endless night, through the final day's march, through the growing roar of D'thallanar as we approached its ancient gates.

The city rose before us like a fever dream through swirling snow. Fourteen districts spread across both banks of the sacred River Thallan. Twelve districts belonged to the great clans, with the fourteenth, the pleasure district, nominally independent but secretly controlled by the Shikami. At the center, where the river widened into a perfect circle, stood the island that held the Hall of Wisdom where the Assembly gathered. Enormous bridges connected the mainland to the island, engineering marvels that could be raised to allow ships passage along the river.

Curved pagoda roofs with upturned eaves rose in graceful tiers against the winter sky. The architecture was distinctly elven—elegant wooden structures built without nails, supported by intricately carved pillars stained deep red and black. Paper lanterns glowed like fireflies along the winding streets, their warm light diffused by the falling snow. Stone gardens and frozen ponds punctuated the spaces between buildings. Every structure, from the humblest teahouse to the grandest temple, embodied the elven principles of harmony with nature and elegant simplicity.

Above it all loomed the Primarch's district, occupying the highest point on the eastern bank, its imposing structures featuring steeper roofs and gold-leaf detailing that caught what little sunlight penetrated the winter gloom. Dragons and phoenixes adorned the ridgepoles, carved with such skill they seemed poised to take flight into the swirling snow.

Guards lined our route, holding back crowds that had gathered to witness my shame. Their faces blurred together—some jeering, some silent, some wearing expressions I couldn't interpret. Children pointed. Adults whispered behind their hands. My legs threatened to buckle with each step, but I forced myself forward. I would not be carried into my father's stronghold. I would walk, however broken, until I could walk no more.

We passed through the outer gates, then the second ring, then the third. With each threshold, the crowds changed, poorer citizens giving way to merchants, then minor nobility, then major houses. By the eighth ring, only the most powerful clans maintained residences. Their members watched our procession with calculated neutrality, already positioning themselves for whatever political advantage my fall might bring them.

At the foot of the final ascent, Father raised his hand. The procession halted.

"Take him to the cells," he ordered, not looking at me. "Prepare him for presentation at tomorrow's Assembly."

Rough hands seized my arms. As they dragged me toward a side entrance—the path for prisoners rather than dignitaries—I caught a glimpse of someone watching from the shadows of a nearby archway. Silver-white hair. Storm-gray eyes. A face I recognized from long negotiations and shared meals.

Klaus Wolfheart. Taelyn's father.

Our eyes met for the briefest moment. His expression revealed nothing, but he didn't join the jeering nobles around him. He simply watched, assessing, as guards pulled me through iron doors that clanged shut with ritualistic finality.

The cells beneath the Assembly Hall were ancient, carved directly into the bedrock beneath D'thallanar. No modern comforts softened these chambers. Stone walls sweated moisture. Iron bars separated small cells where prisoners awaited judgment, or simply disappeared from memory, depending on the Primarch's whim.

They threw me into the largest cell at the corridor's end, specially designed for high-profile captives. Its size offered no comfort, only more empty space to emphasize my isolation. A single narrow window near the ceiling let in watery light, but no discernible view. They removed my chains, no longer necessary in a cell warded with suppression sigils.

"Healer comes at bell-hour," the guard captain announced. "Primarch's orders. Can't have you dying before your performance."

"His kindness overwhelms me," I rasped.

The captain regarded me dispassionately. "Don't mistake purpose for mercy, traitor. He wants you presentable, not comfortable."

They left me there, alone with the dripping walls and my own ragged breathing. I dragged myself to the bench, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through abused muscles and untreated wounds. The blanket was rough wool, hardly adequate against the cell's deep chill, but I wrapped it around my shoulders anyway.

As darkness fell, bringing deeper cold, I found myself reciting names like a prayer: Elindir. Katyr. Aryn. Ieduin. Daraith. Taelyn. Leif. Torsten. The people who had become my true family, replacing the bloodline that had brought only pain. I thought of Miya too, her gentle smile, her fierce spirit. The child we had created, lost before it could draw breath. In their memory, I had built something new. Something worth fighting for, worth dying for.

If Elindir truly approached D'thallanar, he moved into terrible danger. Yet knowing he lived, that he fought still, rekindled something within me that Father's cruelty had nearly extinguished.

I must have slept, for the sound of my cell door opening startled me awake. I struggled to sit upright, expecting the promised healer with his impersonal hands and grudging care.

Instead, Klaus Wolfheart stood framed in the doorway, his imposing figure silhouetted against torchlight from the corridor. He dismissed the guards with a gesture that brooked no argument. When we were alone, he entered, closing the door behind him with surprising gentleness.

"You look terrible," he observed, voice gruff.

I managed a smile that pulled at cracked lips. "The accommodations leave something to be desired."

Klaus snorted, but there was no humor in the sound. He studied me with the same calculating gaze I remembered from war councils and treaty negotiations. The man who had once been my staunchest northern ally before Elindir entered my life.

"Why are you here?" I asked when his silence stretched uncomfortably long.

"To see for myself what Tarathiel has done to the boy who would be king." He moved closer, withdrawing something from beneath his cloak. A flask. "Drink. It's water, not poison. Though many would prefer the latter for you."

I accepted it cautiously, taking a small sip before gulping the rest. Clean, sweet water. A luxury after days of brackish rations. Klaus watched me drink, his expression unreadable.

"Thank you," I said, returning the empty flask.

He tucked it away. "Don't thank me yet. I haven't decided where I stand in this mess you've created."

"Where does Taelyn stand?"

Something flickered in his storm-gray eyes—the same eyes my queen had inherited. "My daughter remains at Calibarra, coordinating your council in your absence. She sends ravens daily, seeking news of your capture." His jaw tightened. "She remains loyal, despite everything."

"She's a remarkable woman."

I hesitated, then asked the question that had been burning in my mind. "The boys... Leif and Torsten. Has she written about them?"

Klaus' expression softened unexpectedly. "She begs me to tell you they are well and safe. She mentions them in every message." He paused, something raw and personal passing across his weathered features. "She writes that they ask for you constantly."

The image tightened my throat. "Thank you for telling me."

Klaus nodded, his eyes distant. "I lost all five of my sons in the Yeutland campaigns. Even now, years later, I sometimes find myself watching the northern road. A father should never have to bury his children.”

The unspoken rebuke to Tarathiel hung in the air between us.

"I still have hope I’ll return to them," I said, the words both promise and prayer.

"Taelyn writes that you were planning to formally adopt those human boys. Make them your heirs."

The statement carried no obvious judgment, but I tensed anyway. This had been our breaking point before. My refusal to produce proper elven heirs with his daughter, my growing closeness with Elindir, my plans for a different kind of succession.

"Yes," I confirmed. "Leif and Torsten are my sons now, in every way that matters."

Klaus turned back to me, his face half-shadowed. "Taelyn writes that she loves them as her own."

That surprised me. Taelyn had been kind to the boys, certainly, but I hadn't realized her feelings ran so deep. "They are easy to love."

"Even though they're human? Even though they can never truly be elven princes?"

"Perhaps that's precisely why they should be," I replied. "They bridge worlds that have been separate too long. They represent the future I'm fighting for. The future Miya and our child never had the chance to see."

Klaus's expression softened at the mention of Miya, an unexpected reaction. "I opposed you when I first learned of your relationship with that slave woman. I thought it was political suicide." He paused, weighing his words. "But when Tarathiel had her executed... That was the moment many began to question his judgment. His cruelty."

I stared at him, caught off guard by this revelation.

"One does not kill a pregnant woman, human or otherwise, and maintain moral authority," Klaus continued. "Not in the eyes of those with conscience."

He was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. "Your father plans quite a spectacle for your trial. Public humiliation. Forced confession. Eventually, execution by Commander Varyk's hand."

I had expected as much, but hearing it confirmed still sent a chill through me. "You didn't come here just to deliver that news."

"No." Klaus approached the bench where I sat, lowering his voice as though we were alone. "Taelyn's latest message contained something unusual. A request delivered through unusual channels. Your brother Katyr has united the Runecleaver clan following Vinolia's sudden... departure. He marches for D’thallanar with the combined force of the Runecleaver and Northfire clans. I never thought I would see the day when they stood united. Yet here we are.”

Hope flared in my chest before caution tamped it down. "Tarathiel believes Katyr comes to barter for my life, to surrender in exchange for mercy."

Klaus' expression revealed nothing. "Perhaps. Or perhaps your father sees only what he expects to see: a son willing to sacrifice others for power." His voice dropped further. "As he would do himself."

"Why tell me this?"

"Because things change quickly in power's highest circles." Klaus straightened. "Vinolia's death creates opportunity. The Runecleavers united under Katyr rather than divided among pretenders. The sudden allegiance of the Duskfells through their last remaining son. The Spine tribes' growing support for your vision." He paused. "And rumors that the Shikami have finally chosen sides in this civil war."

My breath caught. The Shikami's neutrality was legendary, their refusal to intervene in matters of elven succession an absolute principle. "That's not possible."

"Many impossible things have happened since you raised your banner against your father." Klaus moved toward the door, clearly preparing to leave. "History turns on such moments, Ruith Starfall. On choices made when all seems lost."

He knocked once on the iron door, signaling the guards beyond. Before they could respond, he looked back at me. "My daughter loves you, in her way. Not as a wife loves a husband, perhaps, but as one ruler respects another. She believes in what you're building." His eyes hardened. "I believe in her judgment, if nothing else."

The lock turned in the door.

I rose hesitantly on weak legs. “Is it too forward to ask if I might look out at the Assembly chamber tomorrow and see at least one friendly face?”

He hesitated. “I think you have more friends here in the capital than you realize,” he said carefully.

The door swung open. Guards waited beyond, respectful of Klaus's rank but clearly anxious about his unauthorized visit.

"Lord Wolfheart," their captain began, "the Primarch has ordered—"

"The Primarch has ordered many things throughout our history," Klaus cut him off. "Some wiser than others." He stepped through the doorway without a backward glance. "See that the prisoner receives proper medical attention. He represents House Wolfheart's interests until proven guilty by proper Assembly vote."

The door closed behind him, locks engaging with heavy finality. I sat in the darkness once more, but something had changed. A spark had been lit where before there was only cold despair.

I pressed my hand against my side where Father's sword had cut deepest. The wound throbbed, a constant reminder of failure. Yet Klaus's visit suggested that failure might not be absolute. Katyr rallied forces. The Shikami potentially broke their neutrality. Somewhere out there, Elindir moved toward D'thallanar with unknown purpose.

And Klaus had said I might find allies in the Assembly chamber tomorrow.

For the first time since my capture, I allowed myself to consider the possibility that tomorrow might not end with my death. That the story we had begun together—all of us who dreamed of something better—might continue beyond my own final chapter.

I closed my eyes, seeing Elindir's face as clearly as if he stood before me. The copper of his hair catching firelight. The determined set of his jaw when facing impossible odds. The way his eyes softened when looking at Leif and Torsten.

"Whatever you’re planning, Elindir," I whispered into the darkness. "Be safe."