Page 52 of The War of Four Winters

"They've spotted us." I kept my voice level despite the tension crawling up my spine.

Katyr's eyes narrowed. "Undoubtedly."

A horn sounded from Valdrenn's walls, deep and ominous. The massive gates swung open and a small party emerged, banners bearing the silver and crimson of Clan Runecleaver snapping in the wind.

"The welcoming committee." My tongue tasted bitter. "Remember, every movement, every word, is part of the game now."

"I remember her rules." Katyr's voice held years of suppressed rage. He'd grown under Vinolia's thumb, subject to her manipulations and cruelty. This return was anything but triumphant for him.

"Commander Varyk leads them," Daraith said, his keen sight picking out details despite the distance. "Tarathiel's personal executioner."

"Six silver taps on his arms," Katyr observed. "Earned through blood and cruelty in the north."

The approaching delegation grew clearer. Six riders accompanied Varyk, all wearing the formal crimson cloaks of the Runecleaver house guard.

I gave the signal to advance.

We moved down the ridge toward the valley floor. I kept my posture relaxed but alert, a king secure in his power despite coming to discuss terms. Beside me, Katyr sat straighter, his expression sliding into the careful mask he wore at court. Only I could see the tension in his jaw, the slight whitening of his knuckles on the reins.

We met the Runecleaver delegation at the halfway point. Varyk's mount, a massive black stallion, snorted clouds of vapor into the cold air as they halted before us.

"Prince Ruith," he said, the title dripping with mockery. "How gracious of you to accept our invitation." His sharp features arranged themselves into something resembling welcome. His eyes remained cold. The silver bells in his hair chimed softly as he moved, a sound that had signaled death for countless victims. His eyes flicked briefly to Katyr and narrowed. "And young Runecleaver. The prodigal grandson returns. How... touching."

Katyr inclined his head, the gesture containing precisely the correct amount of acknowledgment without suggesting deference. "Commander Varyk. Still playing the loyal hound, I see."

Varyk's smile tightened. "The Honored Matriarch welcomes you to Valdrenn under the banner of truce, as agreed. You and your party will enjoy guest right for three days, during which negotiations for your surrender will be conducted." His eyes gleamed with cruel anticipation.

"How generous." I matched his false warmth. "My delegation looks forward to experiencing the famed Runecleaver hospitality."

Varyk laughed, sharp as breaking ice. "Follow."

He turned his mount and started back toward the fortress. As we followed, I noticed the odd way the snow behaved around his party, melting and refreezing in patterns that formed an invisible path. One of my guards' horses strayed too far, its hoof sinking deep into what had appeared to be solid ground. The beast whinnied in panic as the snow swallowed its leg.

"Keep to the center," I ordered quietly. "The path is warded."

Katyr nodded, his eyes scanning the innocent-looking snowdrifts. "Typical Vinolia. Even her welcome is a trap."

As we approached the gates, I took in details that would matter if we fought our way out. The walls were even thicker than reports suggested, ancient stone reinforced with newer fortifications. Guards lined the battlements, posture alert despite the cold. Battle mages stood at intervals, their silver taps gleaming at wrists, necks, and temples.

Magic hummed in the air, growing stronger as we passed through the massive gates. The courtyard beyond bustled with activity despite the age of the fortress. Servants scurried about, guards stood at rigid attention, and above it all, an enormous banner displaying the Runecleaver blood oak.

Vinolia had remade this Duskfell ruin into her temporary seat of power.

We dismounted in the inner courtyard. Human slaves hurried forward to take our horses, their eyes fixed on the ground, movements quick with fear.

I dismounted and secured my own horse. "We handle our own mounts," I said, my voice pitched to carry.

“Your weapons," Varyk demanded immediately, gesturing to his guards who stepped forward with drawn swords. "All of them. Now."

I exchanged glances with Aryn and Katyr. We had anticipated this, planned for it. With deliberate slowness, I unbuckled my sword belt.

"The daggers as well," Varyk said, eyes narrowing. "The ones in your boots and at the small of your back."

I smiled thinly, impressed despite myself at his thoroughness. "You've done your research, Commander."

"I've prepared for traitors before," he replied coldly. "Your taps as well, Runecleaver."

Katyr stiffened. "You have no right—"

---