Page 20 of The War of Four Winters

She joined me at the rail, her salt-whitened hair pulled back in a practical braid. Unlike other elven captains, she wore no ornate jewelry or fine fabrics, only sturdy clothes designed for work rather than appearance.

"Some things never change," she observed wryly. "Were you this green during your first crossing?"

I managed a weak smile, remembering how pathetic I must have appeared, cowering in the boat, clinging to Ruith like a child. "Worse. Much worse. The storm didn't help. I was certain we would all drown."

"This won't be your last sea voyage," she said simply, eyes scanning the horizon with professional assessment. "Whether this mission succeeds or fails, the tide always brings us back to where we belong eventually. You might as well make peace with the waves."

I glanced at her profile, struck by the certainty in her voice. "You sound like you speak from experience."

"Five decades at sea teaches you the patterns of life, Lord Consort." She shrugged, the gesture somehow more eloquent than any courtier's carefully practiced movements. "You're not the first to go from chains to command, though perhaps the first to rise so high so quickly."

The casual mention of my past might have offended me once. Now I found her directness refreshing.

We stood in companionable silence for a moment, the creaking of the ship and the splash of waves the only sounds. A memory surfaced—Ruith teaching me to identify the constellations from Calibarra's highest tower, his voice soft in my ear as he guided my hand to trace the patterns in the sky. I found myself searching for those same stars now, a small comfort in their constancy.

"Your guard sleeps," Yisra observed, nodding toward the hatch that led to where the Broken Blades had been quartered. "All but the night watch. They trust this ship."

"They trust you," I corrected. "Ruith speaks highly of your loyalty to House Starfall."

The captain's weathered face remained impassive, but something softened around her eyes. "I serve those worth serving. Your king has proven himself such, despite his youth."

"And what of his consort?" I asked, curious about her assessment. Few were brave enough to speak plainly to me anymore.

Yisra studied me. "You're an unknown quantity, Lord Consort. A human in an elvish court. Former slave now giving orders to elven warriors." She shrugged again. "Some find it... unsettling."

"And you?"

"I find results more important than origins," she replied. "Why are you really going to face your brother?" she asked suddenly, her gaze still fixed on the horizon. "The diplomatic reasons are clear enough, but there's more to it. I can see it in your eyes when you look toward Homeshore."

I considered deflecting the question, falling back on the carefully constructed reasons we'd discussed in the war council. Instead, I found myself answering honestly.

"To prove something," I admitted. "To myself. To Ruith. That I'm truly healed from what Michail did to me. That I can face him as an equal now, not as the broken thing he made me."

I hadn't fully articulated these thoughts even to myself until that moment. The realization settled over me like the sea mist—cool and clarifying.

"And to prove to Ruith that his trust isn't misplaced," I continued. "That he was right to see more in me than just another slave. That I'm worthy of standing beside him not just in the safety of Calibarra, but in the most dangerous tasks as well."

Yisra nodded slowly. "Good reasons," she said. "Better than pretty diplomatic speeches about peace and cooperation."

"Those matter too," I insisted. "If there's any chance to avoid full-scale war—"

"There isn't," she cut me off, her tone matter-of-fact rather than cruel. "Not with zealots. I've seen their kind before. They don't stop until they'restopped."

The bluntness of her assessment chilled me more than the winter air. "Then why support this mission at all?"

"Because sometimes we need to try peace before war, if only to know we did everything possible to avoid bloodshed." She turned to face me fully now. "And because sometimes facing our demons is necessary before we can truly defeat them."

I thought of the boys waiting back at Calibarra. Leif with his solemn eyes that had seen too much, Torsten with his boundless enthusiasm that somehow survived the horrors of slavery. They were why this mattered, why peace was worth pursuing, even if it seemed impossible. Their future demanded we try every avenue before committing fully to war.

"What worries you, Lord Consort?"

"Leif and Torsten," I confirmed. "They've suffered enough. I don't want them to grow up in a world at war."

"Children adapt," she said, though not unkindly. "I was nine when I first saw battle. Sailors raided our coastal village. My father died defending the docks." She touched a scar at her temple, barely visible in the moonlight. "I survived. Learned. Grew stronger. As will your boys."

"They're not my blood," I felt compelled to clarify.

"Blood means little compared to choice," she replied immediately. "Who feeds them? Who teaches them? Who wakes when their nightmares come?" She waved a dismissive hand. "That's parenthood, Lord Consort, regardless of whose seed spawned them."

---