Page 31 of The War of Four Winters

"I'm strong," Leif insisted, sitting up straighter. "Master Gracin says I have good arms for smithing. He lets me help with the small hammers sometimes."

I couldn't help smiling at his earnestness. "Perhaps we can start with something a bit less... lethal. Wooden practice weapons first, then we'll see about steel when you're ready."

A sudden commotion near the hall windows drew everyone's attention. Warriors and servants alike were gathering to peer outside, their expressions a mixture of awe and concern.

"It's starting," Katyr said, rising from his seat. "The storm I sensed earlier. It's arriving faster than I expected."

We moved to the nearest window, the boys hurrying alongside us. Outside, the world was transforming. What had begun as a gentle snowfall was rapidly becoming something more dramatic. Great swirling curtains of white obscured the distant mountains, while closer at hand, wind-driven snow danced in intricate patterns around Calibarra's towers.

"Will it be bad?" Leif asked, pressing his face to the glass.

"Probably the worst storm we've seen this winter," Katyr replied, his expression thoughtful as he studied the darkening sky. "But we're safe here. Calibarra has weathered countless winters."

"That means we'll be snowed in tomorrow," Torsten said, his face brightening with the universal joy of children granted unexpected freedom. "No lessons and no training in the yard!"

"But plenty of other things to do," I added, placing a hand on each boy's shoulder. "A king’s work is never done. The same can be said for princes."

As we stood watching the gathering storm, Leif's small hand found mine. He didn't speak, but when I glanced down, I caught a glimpse of something I'd rarely seen on his serious face: a smile.

Outside, the wind howled and snow swirled, nature's fury building to its crescendo. But here, within these ancient walls, something else was building too—something warm and precious and entirely unexpected. A family, forged not by blood but by choice and strange circumstance.

Midnightoilburnedlowin its iron holder, casting wavering shadows across the maps and parchments scattered over my desk. Outside, winter winds howled against Calibarra's ancient walls, carrying the unnatural bite of Vinolia's battle magic. This storm was her doing—not just winter's natural fury, but a calculated weapon meant to freeze supply lines and starve us into submission.

I traced my finger along the eastern passes, now buried beneath twenty feet of snow. No supplies would reach us from those routes until spring—if spring ever came to a realm locked in magical winter. To the west, Michail's zealots controlled the coastal routes. My gaze lingered on Homeshore, where Elindir had gone to confront his brother. Five days had passed since his departure. Five days of waiting, of strategizing, of pretending for the sake of my warriors that I remained focused solely on our survival.

The phantom pain beneath my ribs flared suddenly, a reminder of my death price for Elindir. I pressed my palm against the spot where Daraith's ritual knife had carved out that perfect circle, feeling the raised scar through the thin fabric of my nightshirt. The pain always worsened when Elindir and I were apart, as if death itself was reminding me that our separation might become permanent.

"Stop it," I muttered to myself, straightening. "He's survived worse."

I rolled up the maps, resigned to another night of fitful sleep. The chambers felt hollow without Elindir's presence, the bed too large, the silence too complete. I had grown accustomed to his breathing beside me, to the quiet murmurs he made while dreaming, to the simple warmth of another body grounding me when nightmares came.

A cry pierced the silence, so faint I nearly missed it beneath the howling wind. I froze, listening. When it came again—a small, strangled sound of distress—I recognized its source immediately.

Leif.

I moved swiftly through the connecting chamber that Hawk had converted into sleeping quarters for the boys. The makeshift room wasn't much, just a space with two small beds, a chest for their few belongings, and a window that offered a view of the inner courtyard. In the faint moonlight that filtered through frost-covered glass, I saw Torsten sleeping soundly, sprawled across his bed with childish abandon, untroubled by whatever haunted his foster brother.

Leif thrashed beneath his blankets, his small face contorted in fear. "No," he whimpered, "come back!"

I knelt beside his bed, hesitating. I had commanded armies, negotiated treaties, faced my father's wrath. Yet this small boy's nightmare left me uncertain. What would Elindir do in this moment? He seemed to know instinctively how to comfort them, how to ease their fears with just the right words.

"Leif," I said softly, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Leif, wake up. You're safe."

His eyes flew open, wide with terror before recognition dawned. "King Ruith?" His voice was small, uncertain.

"Just Ruith," I corrected gently. "Remember?"

He nodded, pushing himself upright. The moonlight caught the faint scars around his neck where a slave collar had once rested. The sight of those marks on a child no older than ten rekindled the rage that had fueled my rebellion. No child would wear such marks again, not while I drew breath.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, his solemn eyes studying my face with that unnerving perception that made him seem far older than his years.

"No," I assured him. "I was already awake. Working too late, as Elindir would certainly scold me for."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips at the mention of Elindir, only to fade just as quickly. His small fingers twisted in the blanket.

"Would you like to talk about it?" I asked. "The nightmare?"

He looked away, staring at the ice-covered window. "It wasn't really a nightmare. Not like the other ones."

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