Page 27

T he Assembly Hall fell silent as I was led to the center circle. Guards positioned themselves at each cardinal point, their ceremonial spears striking the marble floor in unison, the sound echoing through the cavernous chamber like a heartbeat. Ancient protocol dictated everything, from the precise number of steps I would take before being forced to kneel to the exact wording of accusations that would follow.

I kept my spine straight despite the pain throbbing through my body, my gaze level as I faced the dais where my father sat. The ceremonial chains binding my wrists felt heavier than they had in the cells below, their symbolic weight increasing with each passing moment. I would not show weakness here, not before the Assembly, not before my father.

Tarathiel looked down from his elevated position with a dispassionate gaze. He wore full formal regalia, his silver hair adorned with threads of gold in his victory braids. His expression revealed nothing, no satisfaction, no regret, certainly no familial connection to the son who stood in chains before him.

"The Assembly of the Twelve Clans is now in session," declared the Herald, his ancient voice carrying to every corner of the chamber. "Gathered to render judgment on Ruith of House Deepfrost, who stands accused of high treason against the Primarchy, conspiracy against the Assembly itself, and crimes against elven sovereignty. As is tradition, representatives of the Twelve Clans will hear evidence, render judgment, and determine appropriate punishment should guilt be established."

My eyes swept the eleven occupied clan seats in the front row. Each representative sat in an ornate seat carved with their house symbols. Some faces were familiar, allies from my rebellion or former opponents across negotiating tables. Others were strangers, representatives I knew only by reputation. The twelfth seat, bearing the haunting symbols of House Duskfell, stood conspicuously empty.

"The accused will kneel before the Assembly," the Herald commanded.

I remained standing, ignoring the murmur of surprise that rippled through the observers' gallery above. Guards shifted uneasily, awaiting instruction from the Primarch. This moment of defiance had been carefully calculated, not enough to justify immediate violence, but sufficient to establish that I did not acknowledge the Assembly's authority over me.

My father's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes hardened. "The accused will show proper respect to the assembled representatives," he stated.

"I am your king," I replied, my voice carrying to every corner of the chamber. "I kneel for no one, nor do I acknowledge this Assembly’s authority to judge me. Only the gods or the people may pass judgement upon a king."

Gasps and murmurs erupted from the observers' gallery. The representatives themselves maintained better composure, though several exchanged glances. I had just issued a direct challenge to the Assembly's legitimacy, and by extension, to my father's rule.

The Herald struck his staff against the floor, restoring order. "The accused will—"

"Allow me to clarify," I interrupted, my voice carrying throughout the chamber without shouting. "I stand before this Assembly not as a supplicant begging mercy, but as a king claiming rightful authority. I completed the sacred hunt. I took the heart of Vargulf himself. I bear the ritual markings and carry the blessing of ancient powers. By the oldest laws of our people, my right to rule stands on firmer ground than any who sit in judgment today."

Silence fell, heavy and sudden. Even the Herald seemed at a loss, his ancient protocol disrupted by this unprecedented claim. Traditional elven society revered the sacred hunt above all rituals, a tradition older than the Assembly itself. By invoking it so directly, I had shifted the terms of engagement from political rebellion to competing claims of sacred legitimacy.

My father recovered before anyone else, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. "The accused attempts to distract from his crimes with irrelevant appeals to outdated customs. The sacred hunt no longer determines leadership. The Assembly alone holds that authority."

"Does it?" I countered, taking one deliberate step forward, chains clinking with the movement. "Then why do you style yourself merely 'Primarch' rather than 'King'? Because you know you have no right to the latter title. You know your rule is illegitimate."

The Assembly erupted into chaos. Representatives turned to each other in heated discussion, some gesturing emphatically while others sat stunned by my open declaration. In the observers' gallery, scribes frantically recorded every word, while minor nobles and officials whispered urgently to their companions.

Through it all, my father remained unnaturally still, watching me with the cold calculation of a predator assessing prey. Only those who knew him well would recognize the subtle signs of rage building beneath his perfect mask, the slight tightening around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

"Order!" The Herald's staff struck the floor. "Order in the Assembly! The accused will remain silent while evidence is presented, or he will be removed from these proceedings."

I inclined my head slightly, the barest acknowledgment of the Herald's authority, and fell silent. I had said what needed saying. The seed was planted, a reminder to the more traditional houses that my claim to leadership rested on foundations older and perhaps more legitimate than my father's political maneuverings.

The Herald struck his staff against the floor, restoring order. "Does any representative wish to speak in defense of the accused?"

A moment of tense silence followed. Speaking in my defense would mean openly opposing Tarathiel, a political risk few were willing to take.

Then Klaus Wolfheart rose from his seat.

The chamber's reaction was immediate and visceral. A collective intake of breath swept through the observers' gallery. Some representatives straightened in their seats, suddenly alert to the unexpected development. Others exchanged subtle glances, already calculating how this might shift the balance of power. The Ivygrass elder leaned close to his Deepfrost counterpart, whispering urgently behind a cupped hand.

But it was my father's reaction that told the true story. For a fraction of a second, genuine surprise flickered across his face before his practiced control reasserted itself. His fingers tightened on the arms of his chair, knuckles whitening briefly before relaxing. Though his expression remained impassive, something dangerous kindled in his eyes as they fixed on Klaus Wolfheart.

"House Wolfheart will speak," Klaus declared.

Klaus moved to the traditional defender's position, opposite Varyk, who had presented the prosecution's case yesterday.

"Honored representatives," he began, "yesterday we heard many accusations against Ruith Starfall. Today I ask you to consider context before judgment. For generations, the northern clans have watched our sons die in endless campaigns against the Yeutlands. We cannot sustain these losses, and yet more blood is demanded. More sons."

Several northern representatives nodded slightly, their own clans having suffered similar losses.

"We watched slavery expand under Tarathiel's rule, despite our ancestors' teachings that such practices corrupt both master and bondsman. We witnessed executions called justice and oppression called order."

He gestured toward me, his expression solemn. "The accused stands charged with treason for opposing these practices. With rebellion for seeking peace with the Yeutlands. With conspiracy for building alliances across clan lines rather than enforcing ancient rivalries."

Klaus turned to face my father directly, an unprecedented breach of Assembly protocol that sent a ripple of shock through the chamber. "If these are crimes, then I stand equally guilty. For I, too, have questioned the endless northern campaigns. I too have opposed expansion of slavery. I, too, have sought cooperation rather than conflict."

My father's expression remained carved from ice, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the fury beneath his controlled exterior.

"Representatives of the Twelve Clans," Klaus continued, turning back to address the Assembly as a whole, "before you vote on the accused's fate, ask yourselves this: Is it treason to seek a different path when the current one leads toward destruction? Is it conspiracy to build bridges where walls have failed? Is it rebellion to question authority when that authority has strayed from our most sacred values?"

He let these questions hang in the air for a moment before concluding. "House Wolfheart has seen enough of our sons sacrificed to outdated ambitions. We have watched enough of our traditions twisted to serve personal power rather than collective prosperity. We stand with Ruith Starfall not because he is perfect, but because he offers what we most desperately need: the courage to imagine a different future."

Klaus returned to his seat amidst profound silence. No one had expected such a direct challenge to Tarathiel's leadership, especially from a house that had, up until that moment, supported the Primarch in that chamber.

"Does any other representative wish to speak?" the Herald asked after a moment, his voice betraying slight uncertainty at this deviation from the expected protocol.

No one rose. Klaus Wolfheart's statement had been powerful precisely because it was unexpected. Others who might have sympathized would wait to see which way the political winds blew before committing themselves.

"The accused may now address the Assembly," the Herald announced, gesturing toward me. "The Assembly will hear final words before rendering judgment."

I stepped forward, chains clinking. Every eye watched me, from the representatives in their ornate seats to the observers crowded in the gallery above.

"Representatives of the Twelve Clans," I began, my voice steady despite the exhaustion and pain. "I stand before you not merely as the accused, but as someone who has walked the bloodied fields of battle under both my father's banner and my own. Someone who has held dying warriors in my arms and promised families I would return their sons safely, knowing those promises might prove empty."

I swept my gaze across the chamber, meeting each representative's eyes in turn. "I have led the summer raids. I have fought in the northern campaigns. I have sent good soldiers to their deaths based on orders I did not fully understand, for victories that felt increasingly hollow. I have watched the light leave a friend's eyes on a battlefield that would be forgotten by the next season. I have carried battle brothers home on their shields while politicians debated which territory to contest next. I have felt the weight of command and the crushing responsibility for lives lost under my watch."

A murmur rippled through the gallery, quickly silenced by the Herald's staff striking stone.

I turned slightly to face my father directly, chains scraping against the stone floor. "The Primarch calls me traitor for daring to question why we continue fighting wars that empty our villages of their young. For believing that our people deserve a king who serves them rather than demands their sacrifice for his own ambitions. For daring to believe in a world where humans serve not as our slaves, but as our allies. As our friends, our neighbors. Am I a traitor for believing in a world built not upon the blood of the fallen, but upon the cooperation of the living?"

My father's expression remained frozen.

"You have heard that I took a human consort," I continued, turning back to address the full Assembly. "This too was portrayed as betrayal. Yet Elindir walked beside me through fire and blood, faced death with courage that would honor any elven warrior, sacrificed everything for a vision of peace rather than endless conflict. His crime was loving across boundaries we created. Mine was believing those boundaries serve no one but those who profit from our division."

I straightened my shoulders, ignoring the pain that shot through my battered body. "I completed the sacred hunt while carrying the weight of these truths. I bear the ritual markings that our ancestors recognized as divine blessing because whatever my faults, my heart serves the people rather than my own ambition."

The silence that followed felt weighted with possibility and danger. In that moment, I sensed a genuine wavering in the Assembly, a collective uncertainty that might yet be turned to hope.

"At Calibarra, warriors who once fought each other now break bread together. Children who once feared the future now dream of possibilities beyond survival. Families find security not in walls and weapons, but in communities built on mutual respect. When they look to their king, they see not a distant figure who demands tribute, but someone who works alongside them, who understands their struggles because he has lived them."

My gaze found Klaus Wolfheart, silently acknowledging his unexpected support. "I ask each representative to vote not as politicians calculating advantage, but as elves who have also known loss. Who have also questioned whether endless bloodshed honors our ancestors or betrays their dream of a people guided by wisdom rather than fear. Who have also wondered if the throne serves the people, or if the people merely serve the throne."

I fell silent, having said all that needed saying. For a heartbeat, the entire chamber seemed suspended in that moment of choice, of possibility.

The Herald cleared his throat, clearly discomfited by the unexpected direction of proceedings. "The Assembly will now vote on the matter before us. Yea signifies guilty, Nay signifies acquittal. Each clan shall cast its vote, beginning with the representatives seated to my right and proceeding around the circle."

The Deepfrost representative rose from his seat. "House Deepfrost votes Yea."

No surprise there. My father’s puppet would always vote with him. The vote proceeded around the circle, each representative rising in turn.

"House Turtlefall votes Yea."

"House Ivygrass votes Yea."

"House Seashore votes Yea."

"House Longclaw votes Yea."

Five votes for my guilt, exactly as expected. I kept my expression neutral, revealing nothing of my thoughts as attention turned to the Stoneriver representative. Lord Talinar stood with dignified calm.

"House Stoneriver votes Nay."

A murmur rippled through the gallery, quickly silenced by the Herald's staff. The pattern was clear now. Traditional houses aligned with Tarathiel voting for conviction, those sympathetic to my cause voting for acquittal. But simple mathematics still placed me at a disadvantage. I needed at least seven votes for acquittal to claim victory.

"House Craiggybottom votes Nay," declared Captain Seagrave, standing proud in her merchant clan's distinctive indigo robes.

"House Northfire votes Nay."

Three votes for acquittal. The tension in the chamber increased visibly with each declaration.

"House Wolfheart," Lady Miriel announced, rising with the distinctive silver-white hair of her clan, "votes Nay."

Suddenly, a commotion erupted at the chamber's entrance. The massive bronze doors swung open to admit a small delegation led by a familiar figure with golden curls.

The Herald's staff struck stone. "Who dares disturb the Assembly proceedings?"

Katyr stepped forward, his bearing regal despite travel-stained clothing. "I am Katyr Runecleaver, the rightful head of House Runecleaver, following Matriarch Vinolia's... departure. I have appointed General Niro as my clan's representative in this Assembly."

"I protest!" Vinolia's appointed representative cried, rising from the Runecleaver seat. "This is outrageous! There has been no formal recognition of succession!"

Katyr held up a document bearing official seals. "The succession documents were filed with the Assembly archives upon my arrival this morning. By ancient law, I claim my rightful place as clan head and name General Niro as our voice in these proceedings."

The Herald examined the documents with obvious reluctance, then nodded slowly. "The documents appear properly executed. By Assembly law, the rightful clan head may appoint their chosen representative at any time."

The elderly elf descended from the Runecleaver seat, fury evident in every line of his body. Niro ascended with calm dignity, taking his place among the representatives. His eyes met mine briefly, conveying silent reassurance.

"The vote will continue," the Herald declared after restoring order. "House Runecleaver, you may cast your vote."

Niro rose. "House Runecleaver votes Nay."

"House Redrock, how do you vote?" the Herald asked.

Lady Sariel rose, the morning light catching on the Rivers Circlet adorning her brow. "House Redrock has always valued ancient traditions. The sacred hunt. The rites of kingship that predate even this Assembly." Her copper ringed eyes swept the chamber. "Ruith Starfall has fulfilled these sacred requirements. He has walked the path our ancestors recognized as divine blessing. House Redrock votes Nay."

The gallery erupted in whispers. Only the vacant Duskfell seat remained, and Tarathiel could claim they voted in absentia however he chose.

"House Duskfell has no appointed representative," the Herald began, "the Primarch shall speak for—"

"House Duskfell has a representative." The voice came from the entrance, where another figure moved forward.

Aryn.

He approached the Assembly floor. The Herald began to object, but Aryn presented a scroll bearing the distinctive black wax seal of House Duskfell.

"I am Aryn, appointed representative of House Duskfell by right of marriage to Daraith Duskfell, the last living heir of the bloodline. Our appointment was properly filed with the Assembly archives this morning."

The Herald examined the documents. After a moment, he nodded reluctantly. "The documents appear in order. House Duskfell may cast its vote."

Aryn ascended to the vacant seat that had stood empty since the massacre of Daraith's family. He settled into it with the natural grace of someone claiming what was rightfully theirs.

"House Duskfell," he declared, his voice echoing through the suddenly silent chamber, "votes Nay."

Seven votes for acquittal. Five for conviction. I had won.

Relief flooded my body, and I fought the urge to sag, or fall to my knees and whisper a prayer of thanks.

For a moment, no one moved. The mathematics were clear, the outcome unprecedented. The Assembly had voted against the Primarch's wishes, undermining his authority in the most public manner possible.

Then the gallery erupted in chaos, nobles and officials alike unable to contain their reactions to this historic moment. The Herald's staff struck stone repeatedly, struggling to restore order.

Guards shifted uncertainly, looking to my father for instruction. This was the moment of true vulnerability. Would Tarathiel accept the Assembly's judgment, or attempt something more desperate?

My father rose slowly from his chair, his expression still a perfect mask of control. The chamber fell silent as he raised his hand, a gesture that commanded attention by ancient right.

"The Assembly's vote has been duly recorded," he stated calmly. "However, there is a matter of greater concern that supersedes normal protocol." He descended from the dais. "Assembly Decree Forty-Seven, established during the Succession Wars, grants the Primarch emergency powers when the realm faces existential threat."

No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t ! Surely even he could see that invoking Decree Forty-Seven was political suicide.

The Herald's expression shifted to one of genuine alarm. "Primarch, that decree has not been invoked in over six centuries—"

"I invoke it now," my father declared, his voice hardening to steel. "The human armies invading our western territories constitute an unprecedented threat to elven survival."

He turned to face the full Assembly, command radiating from every line of his body. "Under emergency powers granted by Decree Forty-Seven, I overrule the Assembly's judgment. The execution will proceed as scheduled. Guards, take the prisoner back to his cell. Commander Varyk will carry out the sentence immediately."