Page 35

T he Shikami tunnels wound beneath D'thallanar like the veins of some ancient creature, paths carved through living stone in an age before written memory. Aryn led us through the darkness with only a dim lantern as our guide. The tunnels grew narrower as we descended, the air thickening with age and secrets.

"We're beneath the river now," Aryn murmured, his voice barely audible above the distant rumble of water pressing against stone overhead. "The Assembly island stands directly above us."

My hand instinctively found the scar beneath my ribs, the phantom pain flaring as if in warning. "How much farther?"

"Not far. The southern path leads directly to Tarathiel's private chambers." His eyes met mine briefly. "Are you certain this is the approach you wish to take? We could emerge in the Temple or the Hall of Records instead."

"This ends with him," I replied, the words tasting of iron and resolve. "No more proxies. No more battles through intermediaries. Just father and son, as it was always meant to be."

Aryn nodded once, understanding. We continued in silence, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down upon us more heavily than the countless tons of stone and water overhead.

The tunnel curved sharply upward, leading to a dead end of seamless stone. Aryn stepped back, gesturing toward it.

"This is where we part ways," he said, his voice flat. "The key will open a door that only you can pass through. Blood recognizes blood—a Shikami safeguard against betrayal."

I withdrew the black jade key from within my tunic, feeling its unnatural warmth against my palm. "What will you do?"

"Find another way in. There are passages the Shikami maintain that even Tarathiel doesn't know exist." He gripped my shoulder briefly. "Be careful. He may seem old and weakened, but he didn't survive this long by being predictable."

I nodded. "Take care as well. These tunnels have already claimed enough lives."

A rare smirk appeared on my brother’s face. "The shadows are where I’ve always been most at home,” he said and set the lantern down. Aryn disappeared into the dark, where only his eyes could see.

I turned back to the rock face. It was smooth except for a small keyhole. I slid the key into it smoothly. A soft click echoed in the confined space, followed by the sound of stone grinding against stone as a hidden door slid open.

Beyond lay darkness and the faint scent of incense.

I stepped through alone, the door closing silently behind me with disconcerting finality. For a moment, complete darkness enveloped me. Then my eyes adjusted, revealing the dim outlines of furniture, the faint glow of banked embers in a hearth, the silhouette of a figure seated in a high-backed chair.

"I wondered which entrance you would choose." My father's voice spoke, calm and measured as ever. "The Temple would have been more dramatic. The Hall of Records, more practical. But you always did prefer the direct approach."

A lamp flared to life, illuminating Tarathiel's private chamber in soft golden light. My father sat in a chair near the hearth, dressed not in formal regalia but in a simple robe of deep blue. His silver hair, normally adorned with victory braids, hung loosely around his shoulders. A small table beside him held a decanter of amber liquid and a single glass, half-empty.

He reached for the decanter, lifting it to fill a second waiting glass.

I drew my sword, the whisper of steel against leather impossibly loud in the quiet chamber. "You were expecting me." Not a question, but an accusation.

"I've been expecting you since the day you first defied me." His voice held no anger, only a strange weariness I'd never heard before. "Though I admit, I didn't anticipate the Shikami tunnels. Omashii-Kuno must truly believe in your cause to grant such access." He gestured toward the second chair opposite him. "Will you sit? Or do you plan to kill me standing?"

I remained where I was, sword ready. "Where are your guards? Your battle mages? I know you wouldn't face me alone."

"Dismissed." He took a sip from his glass, the casual gesture at odds with the tension coiling between us. "What purpose would guards serve now? The bridges are destroyed. The Assembly island is cut off. My forces cannot leave, and yours cannot enter—not in numbers that would matter." His eyes, so like my own, studied me with clinical detachment. "Except, apparently, through ways I failed to anticipate."

"You expect me to believe you simply accepted defeat? Waited here alone for an assassin's blade?"

He studied me with something almost like pride. "I know you too well, Ruith. You're too honorable to send blades in the dark to do your work for you. You've always needed to face your enemies directly, to look them in the eye as you end them." He set down his glass with deliberate precision. "Come now, Ruith. You've crossed a city at war, infiltrated my most private sanctuary, and found me here alone. Does that not suggest I wished it so?"

Suspicion coiled through me, cold and sharp. This felt too easy, too convenient. My father had never been one to surrender, never one to accept defeat gracefully. This must be some kind of trap, some final gambit.

"You've laid some kind of ambush," I said, advancing a step, sword still raised. "More battle mages waiting to strike? Hidden guards ready to emerge at your signal?"

"No ambush. No hidden guards." He gestured to the untouched glass beside him. "Only an old man who would share one final drink with his son."

The admission—that this truly might be his end, that he had prepared for it—struck me with unexpected force. I approached cautiously, sword still ready, and sat in the chair opposite him. The blade I kept across my knees, a barrier and promise between us.

"Even the most skilled general recognizes when the battle is lost and preserves what forces remain for wars yet to come." He reached for a sealed letter on the side table, its parchment yellowed with age, its seal broken. "Do you recognize this?"

I studied it from where I sat, the significance dawning slowly. "The letter from the Temple of the Sower. The one you received before ordering me to Ostovan."

"Yes. The message that set all of this in motion." He turned it in his hands, studying the broken seal. He pulled something from within the scroll I hadn't noticed before—a second page, folded small and tucked within the first. "What you saw that day was not the entire message, nor was it the most important part. Instead, the letter contained a proposal.”

"What kind of proposal?"

"An arrangement. Michail knew the rot would spread, consume him gradually. He had discovered a temporary solution—a way to slow its progress through blood magic using his brother's life essence. The problem was that he knew if he kept Elindir close, he would eventually find a way out. The human princeling had sympathizers, you see. People who would have rallied behind him if he were discovered still alive. Michail simply wanted me to take the collared prince away. Far away, he said, where he would never find his way home again.”

Disgust rose in my throat, sharp and bitter. "And you agreed? To become the jailer of a human prince whose only crime was being born to the same father as Michail?"

"I agreed to a politically advantageous arrangement." Tarathiel's jaw tightened. "Michail promised regular tribute—gold, goods, additional slaves for our holdings, access to their trade routes. Practical benefits in exchange for keeping one insignificant human confined. A bargain any sensible ruler would have made."

"And you believed him."

"I believed in making practical decisions." His eyes finally lifted to meet mine, clear and hard as winter ice. "The human was already collared. Already being drained. His continued existence or comfort meant nothing to me. He was just another human, barely more than an animal. We've taken thousands of humans as slaves over the centuries. What difference did one more make, especially when his confinement brought such advantages?"

Tarathiel reached to refill his empty glass. "You were supposed to bring the collared prince to D'thallanar. The collar Michail and his physician Modir placed on him was already working, channeling his life essence into Michail in small, controlled amounts. All I required was for you to deliver this valuable commodity."

I remembered the moment I first saw Elindir, collared and defiant despite everything that had been done to him. I remembered how I'd initially kept him as ordered, even manipulating him to serve my own purposes—using his natural leadership to galvanize the other slaves into rebellion. I had seen him first as a tool, then as an ally, before finally recognizing him as so much more.

"You never anticipated that I would see the potential in him," I said, understanding washing over me. "That I would support the slave uprising he inspired rather than crushing it. That I would eventually come to view him as an equal rather than following your plan."

"A chain of foolish decisions that sparked an unnecessary war," he replied coolly. "You turned a simple arrangement into a conflict that has cost thousands of lives. Had you controlled the human as intended, had you seen the strategic advantage rather than allowing sentiment to influence you, none of this would have been necessary."

I surged to my feet, sword in hand. "You speak of it so clinically. As if you were trading cattle rather than a person. As if you hadn't sent me after him, knowing I'd find him there."

"That is what kings must do, Ruith. Calculate the cost in lives and choose the path of least suffering." He didn't flinch, didn't move as I loomed over him, sword in hand. "I chose what I believed would preserve the most lives. One human prince, gradually drained but kept alive, in exchange for peace with Ostovan."

"And Miya? Was she just another calculated sacrifice?" I demanded, grief and rage twisting my voice. "The woman who carried my child?"

He frowned. "She became a symbol that threatened the stability I had worked to maintain. Her execution was... unfortunate, but necessary to maintain order."

"Necessary." The word tasted like ash. "You've justified every cruelty, every betrayal as 'necessary.' Where does it end, Father? At what point is the price too high?"

For the first time, Tarathiel's perfect composure faltered. Something vulnerable flickered across his features, a shadow of an emotion I had never seen him display. He looked away, his fingers trembling slightly on the glass he held.

"Isheda," he said, the name barely audible, almost a prayer. "The price was too high with Isheda."

The admission stunned me. My father never spoke of the Runecleaver nobleman who had helped him claim the throne—the lover he had executed as a traitor once his usefulness ended.

"I told myself it was necessary," he continued, his voice strained in a way I had never heard before. "That a king could not show favoritism, could not spare one traitor without inviting others. That mercy would be seen as weakness." His eyes, when they met mine again, held an unfamiliar sheen. "I was wrong."

He took a deep, unsteady breath. "I have lived a long time since that day, and not one has passed without his face appearing in my dreams. Not one festival season where I don't hear his laugh in the celebration songs. Not one winter where I don't feel the phantom warmth of his hand in mine." Something broke in his expression, a crack in the perfect mask he had worn for as long as I had known him. "Some prices are indeed too high, even for kings. I recognized it too late."

"What changed?" I demanded, still standing, still clutching my sword. "You were ready to execute me days ago. What revelation has made you suddenly accept defeat?"

Tarathiel's eyes met mine. "Michail betrayed our arrangement. What began as a private bargain involving one collared prince has expanded to a wholesale slaughter of elven villages. The refugees from Homeshore brought tales of entire communities exterminated, their essence harvested to fuel battle magic of increasing potency." He set down his glass. "I miscalculated. I thought when you freed Elindir and sparked your rebellion, the worst consequence would be losing the tribute Michail had promised. I believed offering to recapture the human would restore our arrangement. I was wrong."

"And that's all?" I demanded, disbelief sharpening my words. "A simple admission of error? After all the lives lost, all the suffering caused?"

"What would you have from me, Ruith? Tears? Self-flagellation? Begging for forgiveness?" His voice remained steady, though something in his eyes had changed—a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. "I have done what I believed was necessary to ensure our people's survival. Every decision, every sacrifice, was made with that singular purpose in mind."

"Including Mother's death?"

The question hung between us, sharp and dangerous as a blade. For the first time, Tarathiel's composure wavered, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his features.

"Your mother died of a fever after you were born, Ruith," he said, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.

"You expect me to believe that?" I scoffed, years of suspicion hardening my voice. "After everything you've done, all the lives you've taken when it suited your purposes?"

Tarathiel met my gaze directly. "What reason would I have to lie now? Here, at the end?"

The simple logic struck me harder than any calculated defense. He was right—there was no reason for deception now. The realization was disorienting. All these years, I had convinced myself that he had murdered her, had poisoned her as he had so many others who stood in his way. That certainty had fueled part of my hatred, had justified my rebellion.

"I never wished her ill," he continued, looking away. "I admired her strength, her conviction, even when it frustrated me."

Silence stretched between us, the weight of unspoken truths and half-formed accusations hanging in the air like smoke. Without breaking eye contact, Tarathiel reached for a small crystal vial that had been sitting beside the decanter. He uncorked it with a practiced motion, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet chamber.

"What are you doing?" I asked, though I already knew.

"Making a choice," he replied simply. He upended the vial into his glass, the clear liquid disappearing into the amber spirits. "The only one left to me."

"Poison?" My hand tightened on my sword hilt, though I made no move to stop him.

"Dreamleaf extract. Swift, relatively painless." He swirled the glass, watching the liquids blend.

I could have knocked the glass from his hand. Could have denied him this controlled exit. But I remained still, watching as he raised the poisoned wine to his lips.

"You won't stop me?" he asked, pausing with the glass a breath away from his mouth.

"Would you stop if I asked?"

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "No."

"Then we understand each other, at last."

He drank deeply, draining the glass in a single swallow. For several heartbeats, nothing happened. His face remained composed, his hands steady as he set the empty vessel back on the table.

"It will take a few minutes," he said, his voice unchanged. "Enough time to complete what must be done."

"And what is that?"

"One final favor. A request from father to son." His eyes held mine without wavering. "Take my head while I still live. Grant me a warrior's death."

The request stunned me into momentary silence. "What?"

"I do not fear dying, Ruith. I have lived long enough, seen enough to accept its inevitability." His voice remained steady, though I noticed a slight tremor beginning in his hands. "What I fear is my soul becoming trapped, unable to join the ancestors among the stars."

"You would have me execute you?" I asked, disbelief coloring my words.

"I would have you grant me the dignity afforded to any defeated warrior." A faint sheen of sweat appeared on his brow as the poison began its work. "My death is certain either way. How I meet it is the only choice remaining."

Something shifted between us in that moment, the hatred I had carried for so long suddenly complicated by this unexpected vulnerability. Here was my father, the man I had fought against for years, asking for the same mercy I would grant any fallen opponent on a battlefield.

"Don't misunderstand," he said, a brief spasm of pain flickering across his features. "This isn't sentiment. The ancient rites must be observed properly. A warrior's death, sword in hand, ensures proper transition. Without it, my spirit might linger, trapped between realms."

"And you trust me to do this?"

He stood, wincing. "Who else remains?" He gestured to the empty chamber around us. "My guards are gone. My allies scattered or dead. There is only you, my son. My blood."

The word struck me with unexpected force. Blood. After everything, after all the betrayal and cruelty, that connection remained, undeniable as the sword in my hand.

Tarathiel moved to the center of the chamber. There, to my surprise, he lowered himself to his knees. The Primarch of the Elven Realms, kneeling before the son who had rebelled against him.

"Make it clean,” he said, presenting his neck.

I moved forward, raising my blade. The weapon felt suddenly heavier, the weight of centuries of ritual and duty concentrated on its edge.

"Wait," he said, looking up at me. "The words. You must speak the words."

I had not performed this ceremony since the northern campaigns, had not thought to ever perform it for him. Yet the ancient ritual came back without hesitation, the words rising from some deep well of memory.

"I send your wisdom to the stars," I intoned, positioning myself behind his kneeling form, blade raised. "Your strength to the earth. May the ancestors welcome you, brave warrior."

Tarathiel straightened his spine, lifting his chin to expose his neck. "Thank you," he said simply, no tremor in his voice despite the poison beginning to work through his system. "Remember what I taught you. Not the cruelty. The strength."

The blade fell in a single clean arc.

There was a sound—wet and final—as my father's head separated from his body. Blood erupted from the severed neck in a crimson fountain, spraying across the polished floor in an expanding pool. The body remained kneeling for one moment before toppling forward, muscles still contracting in their final commands.

I stood motionless, sword still extended, blood dripping from its edge. My father's head had rolled several feet away, coming to rest facing the eastern window where the first light of dawn now streamed in. His eyes were open, his expression almost peaceful, silver hair matted with blood.

In death, stripped of the mask of control he had worn for decades, he looked suddenly smaller. Just an elf, after all. Not the monster of my nightmares, nor the god of my childhood. Just flesh and bone and blood.

The same blood that flowed in my veins.

I cleaned my blade methodically on a piece of tapestry torn from the wall, the practical action anchoring me against the strangeness of what had just transpired. Dawn light had begun to filter through the high windows, casting long shadows across the chamber where a king had fallen and another had risen.

The civil war was over. My father was dead by his own choice, though my hand had completed the act. The throne he had fought so hard to secure now passed to me, not through battles or political maneuvering, but through this private ritual in a locked chamber as the city lay divided around us.

I would carry my father's head to the Assembly Hall and declare the war's end. His loyalists would have little choice but to surrender once they saw their leader was truly gone. We could then turn our united forces against Michail, against the true threat facing all our people.

As I gathered the grisly trophy, wrapping it in a piece of silk from a nearby table, I couldn't help but wonder what Elindir would say when I returned. If he would understand why I had granted this mercy to the man who had caused us both such suffering. If he would recognize, as I now did, the terrible symmetry of fathers and sons, of rulers and rebellions, of deaths that birthed new beginnings.