Page 26 of The War of Four Winters

"So you didn't create it?" I pressed.

"Create it? Oh, Maiden’s tits, no." Tariq shook his head. "Recognize it early enough to avoid its worst effects? Yes. There's a difference between reading the language of the sky and writing it." He gestured vaguely toward where we knew the tempest raged beyond the mangroves. "This storm has all the markings of power far beyond Malik's abilities. Even he doesn't know who conjured it."

Behind him, the mist swirled thicker, obscuring The Mirage completely now. Night had fallen fully, turning the cove into a realm of shadows and whispered movements. In the distance, something large disturbed the water, sending ripples across the otherwise still surface.

Bash chirped, a sound incongruously sweet from such a dangerous creature, and turned her head toward the disturbance. Tariq stroked her scales absently, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Since we're both here," Tariq continued, "I thought we might combine our resources. Family reunion and all that." He leaned closer, dropping his voice. "And between brothers, your elvish king has excellent taste. I'd hate to see anything happen to my new favorite relative before I get the chance to properly scandalize both our kingdoms with tales of our adventures. What do you say? Truce?” He extended his hand.

I studied his face in the flickering lantern light—the features so similar to my own, yet shaped by a different life, a different mother, a different path. Behind him, Caris tensed, her hand still on her sword hilt. Beside me, Captain Yisra watched with the wary patience of someone who had seen enough of the world to distrust coincidence.

And yet...

I clasped Tariq's outstretched hand. His grip was firm, calloused in different places than mine. Bash chirped approvingly from his shoulder.

"Truce," I agreed. "Though if this turns out to be some elaborate scheme, I'll feed you to whatever made those ripples in the water."

Tariq's laugh rolled across the misty cove. "Fair enough, brother. Fair enough."

SnowswirledaroundCalibarra'sinner courtyard, gathering in drifts against the ancient stone walls. I watched from the covered walkway as Leif and Torsten charged through the fresh powder, their laughter echoing in the small space. Torsten had fashioned a crude snow fortress, decorated with bits of pine bough and stones. Leif, quieter but no less determined, was carefully forming snowballs with care that would have impressed master craftsmen.

"They have remarkable skill," Katyr said, joining me at the railing. "Look at how Torsten’s designed that snow fort. Strategic mindset, even in play."

I smiled, watching as Torsten executed a flanking maneuver that would indeed have made my commanders proud. "He has good instincts. Better than mine at his age."

"That's because you were too busy trying to live up to Taratheil’s impossible standard," Katyr replied, his voice hardening on our father's name.

My hand found the spot beneath my ribs where Daraith's ritual knife had carved out my death price for Elindir. The phantom pain was always worse in the cold. "Trying and failing."

Below us, Torsten had taken a direct hit from one of Leif's snowballs. Instead of anger, his face lit with delight at his friend's success. He fell backward into the snow with dramatic flair, clutching his chest as though mortally wounded. Leif's quiet laughter floated up to us, a sound still rare enough to feel like victory.

"You're good with them," Katyr observed. "Better than I would have expected."

I raised an eyebrow. "You thought I'd be terrible?"

"I thought you'd delegate." He leaned against the railing, his hands curled around a steaming mug. "Instead, you sit with Torsten at meals, check on Leif after his nightmares. All while managing a war on three fronts."

"I promised Elindir," I said simply.

"Is that all it is? A promise?"

I watched as the boys began constructing a snow figure, their heads bent together in concentration. Just weeks ago, they had been property, their lives worth less than the chains that bound them. Now they played in the courtyard as princes.

"No," I admitted finally. "It's not just the promise."

Katyr waited, his silence a space for my thoughts to fill. Of all my half-siblings, he had always been the most patient, the most willing to listen rather than compete for attention.

"When I look at them," I continued, "I see what could have been. What should have been."

"Your child," he said softly. "With Miya."

The name sent a familiar ache through my chest. Few dared speak of her, the slave whose execution had sparked the D'thallanar riots. Fewer still knew she had been carrying my child when Tarathiel ordered her hanged.

"She never even had the chance to feel it quicken," I said, my voice rough. "Father made sure of that."

Below us, Torsten had climbed onto Leif's shoulders, reaching up to place a pinecone atop their snow creation. They wobbled precariously before tumbling into the soft powder, their laughter bright against the winter silence.

"He was a monster to you," Katyr said quietly. "To all of us, in different ways."

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