Page 117 of The War of Four Winters

"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.

---