Page 25

T he darkness before dawn felt thicker than usual, as if even time itself hesitated to bring the morning that might end my life. My cell remained unchanged: cold stone beneath me, damp walls that sweated moisture, iron bars that separated me from freedom, but something had shifted in the air since Elindir's visit. Hope had crept in where only resignation had existed before.

I traced the phantom sensation of his touch across my lips. Hours had passed since Klaus had smuggled him into my cell, but I could still taste him, still feel the desperate pressure of his mouth against mine. The memory sustained me through the endless night as I counted heartbeats, each one a small victory against my father's intended judgment.

Sleep eluded me entirely. My body ached from untreated wounds, but my mind raced with possibilities. Elindir claimed that allies moved in darkness, that the Assembly votes might not fall as Tarathiel expected. I wanted to believe him. Yet decades of experience had taught me that my father rarely miscalculated. He would have secured the necessary support through whatever means required. Bribes, blackmail, perhaps even assassination if a representative proved particularly stubborn.

Still, something about Elindir's confidence had kindled a dangerous flame within me. Not simply a desire to live, though that burned fierce enough, but a renewed conviction in the cause that had brought us here. The future we envisioned. The world we fought to build.

The phantom pain in my ribs, always present, seemed less insistent now. A familiar ache rather than the sharp torment of previous days. I pressed against it, feeling the raised scar tissue through my thin prison garments. A permanent reminder of what I had sacrificed for love. What I would sacrifice again if given the choice.

Images of Leif and Torsten intruded on my thoughts. Their solemn faces as they practiced in Calibarra's training yard. Their laughter across the breakfast table. The way they had looked at me, not with the fear owed to a king or a master, but with the cautious trust children reserve for those they allow into their hearts. I had promised to protect them, to give them the childhood neither Elindir nor I had experienced. To build a world where collars would never again mark their necks.

Would Taelyn care for them if I died here? Would Katyr ensure they grew up knowing their own worth? I believed they would. The family I had chosen, the bonds we had forged beyond blood, would endure even if I did not.

A sound from the corridor drew me from my thoughts. Boots against stone, multiple guards approaching with purpose rather than the casual patrol of night watchmen. Keys jangled, iron scraped against iron as the lock turned in my cell door.

"Up," commanded a guard I recognized from previous days. "The Primarch requires the prisoner's preparation."

I rose slowly, body protesting each movement. Four guards entered the cell while two more remained watchful in the corridor. More than I would have expected for a weakened prisoner, but my father had always been cautious.

"Where are we going?" I asked, voice rough from thirst and silence.

"Preparation chambers. You will be made presentable before the Assembly."

I knew what that meant. A final dignity before public humiliation. The symbolism would not be lost on those who witnessed my judgment. The fallen prince, cleaned and dressed properly before receiving his sentence, as if good appearance could somehow negate the crimes he stood accused of committing.

They bound my hands before leading me from the cell, the now familiar weight of ceremonial chains settling against my wrists. The corridors beneath the Assembly Hall stretched endlessly, ancient stone absorbing the sound of our passage. Other cells stood empty as we passed, a reminder that the Assembly rarely imprisoned enemies. Execution or exile were the preferred methods of handling political opponents. My continued confinement remained unusual, a special consideration from father to son.

We ascended through levels of increasing ornamentation. Simple stone gave way to carved panels depicting historical events, then to corridors adorned with tapestries and gilded woodwork. The preparation chambers occupied the level just below the Assembly Hall itself, a series of rooms designed for official purification before particularly significant proceedings.

"Strip him," ordered a senior guard once we entered the largest chamber.

The ceremonial cleansing began with unnecessary roughness. Guards cut away my prison garments rather than unshackling me to allow for dignity. I stood naked before them, refusing to show discomfort despite the chilled air against my skin and the pulsing pain of half-healed wounds. My father had calculated this humiliation, knowing that warriors who had once followed me now witnessed my vulnerability.

A female healer entered, her expression professionally neutral as she assessed my condition. "These wounds require treatment before presentation," she announced, addressing the senior guard rather than acknowledging me directly.

He inclined his head slightly. "The Primarch wishes him presentable, not comfortable."

"Some of these injuries will be visible, even in formal attire," she countered evenly. "The Assembly will notice."

Something unspoken passed between them. The Primarch wanted me humiliated but not pitiable. Nothing that might engender sympathy from those who would judge me.

"Proceed with the necessary treatment," the guard conceded.

The healer worked efficiently, cleaning wounds and applying salves that numbed and sealed damaged flesh. Her hands were impersonal, clinical in their assessment of injuries, both recent and older. She paused only briefly at the ritual scar beneath my ribs, her fingers tracing its perfect circular pattern with professional curiosity before continuing her work.

"This is necromantic in origin," she observed, her tone academic rather than accusatory.

I remained silent, offering neither confirmation nor denial. The scar spoke for itself.

When she finished, servants brought heated water that steamed in the chill air. They washed me with ritualistic thoroughness, each scrubbing motion deliberate and symbolic. Washing away not just physical dirt but spiritual contamination. Preparing the accused for judgment.

I closed my eyes as they washed my hair, feeling the weight of water against my scalp. The sensation transported me briefly to Calibarra, to the bathing chamber I had shared with Elindir before his departure for Homeshore. I could almost feel his hands working oil through my hair, the comfortable intimacy we had found despite our complicated beginning.

"His braids require proper arrangement," one servant murmured to another.

"No," the senior guard countermanded. "The Primarch's instructions were specific. No victory braids, no symbols of status."

Another calculated insult. My hair, normally kept in the seven traditional braids marking my victories in battle and diplomatic arena, would hang loose like an untested youth's. Another visual reminder that my father intended to strip me of everything I had earned before the Assembly.

After the washing came formal attire laid out with ceremonial care. Not my own clothing with Starfall colors, but formal garments bearing House Deepfrost insignia. My father's house. His symbols of authority, not the plum blossom tree I had chosen to represent my reign.

The tunic bore silver embroidery signifying royalty, but with subtle modifications that marked me as a subject rather than sovereign. To the untrained eye, it appeared as clothing befitting a prince. To those versed in Assembly protocol, it screamed submission.

As servants secured the final fastenings, the senior guard approached with a small wooden box. The sight of it sent ice through my veins. I knew what it contained.

"The Primarch requests the ceremonial submission symbol be placed."

From the box, he withdrew a slender band of silver set with a single blue stone. Not a mark of authority, but a symbol of formal submission. Last worn by political prisoners of royal blood during the Succession Wars centuries ago. Its placement would communicate to the Assembly that I accepted my father's ultimate authority, that I recognized the illegitimacy of my own claim to leadership.

"I will not wear it," I stated calmly, meeting the guard's gaze directly.

Uncertainty flickered in his eyes. My father's instructions had likely not accounted for refusal at this stage. "The Primarch insists—"

"I am still Ruith Starfall until the Assembly rules otherwise," I said, keeping my voice level but firm. "I will not enter that chamber wearing symbols of submission before judgment has been rendered."

The guard hesitated, clearly torn between my father's orders and the protocol breach that forcing the symbol would represent. Before he could decide, a new figure entered the preparation chamber.

"That won’t be necessary."

My father stood in the doorway, silver hair immaculate, victory braids woven with threads of gold catching the morning light that filtered through high windows. His ceremonial robes of state transformed him into something more symbol than elf, power made flesh and draped in tradition.

The guards immediately bowed, fists pressed to hearts in formal salute. "Primarch," they acknowledged in unison.

"Leave us," he commanded without inflection. The guards hesitated for just a heartbeat, uncertain whether to abandon their post. Tarathiel did not raise his voice or repeat himself. He simply fixed his gaze on the senior guard, who immediately straightened.

"At once, Primarch."

They filed out silently, the senior guard returning the silver band to its box before withdrawing. The door closed with soft finality, leaving me alone with the father who intended to end my life before the day concluded.

Tarathiel studied me with clinical detachment, walking a slow circle around my bound body. His gaze inventoried every detail of my appearance with the same dispassionate assessment he might give a piece of property or a tactical map. There was nothing paternal in his scrutiny, only the cold evaluation of a strategist considering how best to utilize an asset.

"Adequate," he pronounced, completing his circuit to stand before me. His voice carried no more emotion than if he were discussing the weather. "Though still unworthy of the bloodline you've betrayed."

I met his gaze steadily. "I've betrayed nothing. It is you who abandoned the values Mother died defending."

Not a muscle moved in his face at the mention of my mother. If I had hoped to provoke some reaction, I failed completely. "Your mother's idealism was a weakness I tolerated because it served other purposes." He spoke of his dead wife with the same tone he might use to discuss a trade agreement. "A weakness you unfortunately inherited."

"Her strength," I corrected. "Her vision for a better world."

"Her vision accomplished nothing except hastening her death," he replied evenly. "As yours will do to you unless you finally recognize reality."

He turned to glance out the window at the Assembly Hall's grand dome visible against the lightening sky. The gesture was economical, measured. Dawn approached, bringing with it the hour of judgment. When he spoke again, his voice remained precisely modulated, revealing nothing of his inner thoughts.

"Your execution would be inefficient and wasteful."

The cold practicality made me wary. My father never acted without calculating every potential advantage. "The Assembly will render judgment according to evidence presented. Or has the outcome already been decided in private?"

He turned back to me. No anger, no frustration, just the same impassive mask. "The political reality is that six clans will vote for your execution, four against, with two potentially vacillating. I control the outcome, as I have controlled every meaningful vote in the Assembly for the past thirty years." He stated this not as a boast but as a simple fact. "But dead princes have limited utility."

Understanding dawned. This private meeting, the careful preparation, the timing just before dawn… My father wanted something from me. Something that required negotiation rather than simple command.

"What are you offering?"

His eyes held mine, not searching for weakness but calculating value. "Exile to the northern territories rather than public execution. Hard labor in the mines for ten years, after which you might be permitted to serve in the border patrols. Your life would be spared." He delivered these terms with the same dispassion he might use to dictate trade tariffs. "The memory of your rebellion would fade, but you would maintain potential future usefulness."

I studied him, the father who had trained me since childhood to look beyond surface offers to the underlying motivations. "And what would this arrangement cost me?"

"A full confession before the Assembly. Public renunciation of your claim to leadership. An order for your forces to stand down and disperse." He delivered each requirement without emphasis, then added with the same neutral tone, "And formal repudiation of your relationship with the human consort."

There it was. The true purpose behind this unexpected offer. My father needed me to disavow Elindir publicly, to declare our union a mistake, a political error, perhaps even treason against elven kind. He needed to erase the example we had set, the possibility we represented for a different future between our peoples.

"You want me to renounce Elindir?" I stated, making certain there could be no misunderstanding.

"Your attachment to the human compromises your judgment," he replied, as if stating an obvious truth rather than an opinion. "It undermines stability and appropriate hierarchy. Correct this error publicly, and you may live."

I almost laughed at the fundamental misunderstanding revealed in those words. My father, for all his political acumen, had never grasped the truth of what Elindir meant to me. What we had built together.

"You still don't understand, do you?" I asked quietly.

"I understand that sentiment is a luxury no ruler can afford." His tone remained measured, his expression unchanged. "The human served a purpose. That purpose is now ended. This should be a simple calculation."

I thought of Elindir in my cell just hours ago, the desperation in his kiss, the fierce determination in his eyes as he promised that I wasn't alone in this fight. My father couldn't be more wrong, but I saw no benefit in correcting his misconception.

"Mother would be disappointed," I said instead. "To see what you've become."

My father might as well have been carved from ice for all the emotion he showed. "Siriyama is dead. Her opinions, like her idealism, are irrelevant to current considerations. Only results matter."

"I've already died once," I replied calmly. "For love. For purpose. For something larger than myself." My hand moved instinctively to the scar beneath my ribs. "I'm not afraid to do so again, if necessary."

Not even this declaration provoked a visible reaction. If there was any disappointment or frustration behind his perfect mask, it remained hidden. "Then you choose death for yourself and all who follow you. An inefficient outcome, but one I have planned for, nonetheless."

The morning light strengthened, filtering through high windows to cast long shadows across the preparation chamber. My father's expression remained utterly unchanged, as if he were merely concluding a minor administrative matter rather than condemning his own son to death.

"The consequences of your choice are as follows," he stated. "The Assembly will vote for execution. Commander Varyk will carry out the sentence before sunset. Your followers will be systematically eliminated, starting with those of the highest rank and working methodically downward. Your human consort will be captured and returned to his brother or eliminated during the attempt. All records of your rebellion will be expunged from official documentation within six months."

I met his gaze steadily. "Or perhaps your calculation is flawed. Perhaps you've miscounted your supporters in the Assembly. Perhaps the votes will fall differently than you expect."

Something minute shifted in his posture, almost imperceptible. Not uncertainty, but a slight recalibration, like a master chess player noting an unexpected but ultimately inconsequential move.

"The Assembly convenes at mid-morning," he said, turning toward the door with the same measured movements. "Should you reconsider before the final vote, signal the guards. The proceedings can be temporarily suspended."

"I won't," I replied simply.

He stopped at the doorway, not turning back. For a moment, he was perfectly still, as if running final calculations. "You received the worst traits of both bloodlines. Her sentimentality. My stubbornness." He delivered this assessment as if discussing the breeding of horses, with neither anger nor disappointment.

"Her vision," I corrected. "Her courage. Her conviction that our people deserve better than fear and cruelty disguised as tradition."

He turned just enough to give me one final assessment, his expression as coldly perfect as a winter moon. "Disappointing, but not unexpected. Guards, prepare the prisoner for formal presentation. The Assembly awaits."

As he departed, I felt a strange sense of peace settle over me. My father had offered me the very thing I had once believed I wanted most: his recognition, his approval, his acceptance. But the price he demanded was one I could never pay.

Whatever came in the Assembly chamber hours from now, I would face it knowing that I had remained true to the man I had become. To the world we were fighting to create. To the love that had transformed me from ruler to something far more significant: partner, protector, father to boys who deserved better than the world my father had built.

Guards reentered the preparation chamber, arranging themselves around me. "Time to go," the senior officer announced, his expression carefully neutral.

I squared my shoulders beneath the Deepfrost insignia, standing tall despite the chains that bound me. Whatever judgment awaited in the Assembly Hall, I would face it as Ruith Starfall, rebel king, consort to Prince Elindir, father to Leif and Torsten. Not as the Primarch's errant son begging forgiveness for challenging the world as it was.

The future we envisioned might not come in my lifetime. Might not come for generations. But someone had to take the first stand, had to show that another way was possible. If my death served that purpose, then so be it. The seeds we had planted would grow regardless, nurtured by those who shared our vision.

As they led me from the preparation chamber toward the Assembly Hall where my fate would be decided, I thought of Elindir one last time. His final words echoed in my mind, sustaining me as we approached the massive bronze doors of judgment.

Trust that you're not alone in this fight.

For the first time in my life, I chose to trust completely in someone beyond myself. Whatever came next, we would face it together, even if separated by chains and circumstance. In that trust lay a different kind of freedom than my father could ever understand.