Page 53 of The War of Four Winters

"I have every right," Varyk cut him off. "You come here as prisoners, not guests. The pretense of diplomacy is a courtesy the Honored Matriarch grants, nothing more."

Six guards surrounded Katyr, their weapons drawn. A battle mage approached, hands extended to receive the taps that marked Katyr as one of the most powerful mages in generations. The Yeutland gems were personal, intimate - magical foci that became part of a mage's identity. Surrendering them was both a practical disarmament and a profound humiliation.

With barely concealed contempt, Katyr removed the seven visible taps - the elegant gemstones from his ears, the blue-tinged crystals at his wrists, the crescent-shaped gem at his throat. Each one glowed faintly with stored power as he placed them in the battle mage's outstretched hands.

"Search them thoroughly," Varyk ordered. "And check for any magical concealments."

Daraith submitted to the search with the same distant expression he always wore, surrendering his taps without a fuss.

"The abomination next," one guard sneered. "Female guards for this one." He gestured toward two women soldiers.

Aryn went rigid, his face becoming a perfect mask of control. "I am a man," he said, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I will be treated as such."

"You'll submit to search like the others," Varyk replied coldly.

One of the female guards approached, reaching for Aryn's arm. "Come along, pretty thing. Let's see what you're—"

What happened next occurred so quickly that most missed it. Aryn's hand snapped up, catching the guard's extended wrist. A twist, a shift of his weight, and suddenly the woman was on her knees, arm bent at an unnatural angle, her face contorted in silent pain. Aryn hadn't even changed expression.

"The next person who misgenders me loses their hand," he said, voice perfectly calm despite the deadly intent behind it. Several guards drew weapons, but Aryn simply applied slightly more pressure. The female guard gasped, her face going white.

"I don't need weapons to kill. Remember that," Aryn spat.

"Release her," Varyk commanded, his own hand on his sword hilt. "Now."

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut. The other guards tightened their grips on their weapons, but hesitated. They had all heard stories of Aryn's training with the Shikami assassins. The evidence of those skills was on display right before them.

Aryn released the guard, who scrambled away, clutching her nearly dislocated arm. Without breaking eye contact with Varyk, Aryn removed his outer tunic, the dark blue fabric shimmering in the torchlight.

"If you must search me," he said with deadly quiet, "male guards only."

He tossed the tunic toward Katyr, who caught it reflexively. "Hold this. I won't have it contaminated by their touch."

Every eye in the room was fixed on Aryn, the threat he represented even unarmed and outnumbered. Katyr casually folded the tunic over his arm, his movement smooth and unhurried. Only I noticed how carefully he positioned his hand over the small pocket sewn into the lining—the pocket that contained his eighth tap, the one the Runecleavers didn't know existed.

In the tense aftermath of Aryn's demonstration, with the guards wary and keeping their distance, no one thought to examine the discarded tunic.

A mage passed glowing hands over each of us, searching for hidden enchantments or concealed magical items. But with Aryn's controlled fury commanding everyone's attention, the cursory scan passed quickly over Katyr and the tunic draped across his arm.

When they were done, Aryn snatched his tunic back from Katyr, donning it with sharp, angry movements that perfectly masked the moment when Katyr slipped the hidden tap into his sleeve.

"The Honored Matriarch awaits in the great hall," Varyk said finally, satisfied we were sufficiently disarmed. "I would advise against any foolishness. Your status as 'diplomats' is tenuous at best."

We followed him through corridors of ancient stone, flanked by guards who kept a noticeably wider berth from Aryn. His face had returned to its usual impassive mask, but the tension in his shoulders told me he remained battle-ready.

The fortress felt wrong somehow—too warm for winter, too silent for a military installation. The walls themselves seemed to absorb sound, creating an unnatural hush that pressed against my ears. Tapestries bearing the Runecleaver blood oak hung in places where Duskfell clan symbols should have been, their colors too bright against stone darkened by centuries.

The great hall doors loomed ahead, massive oak reinforced with iron bands. Four guards stood at attention, their crimson cloaks marking them as Vinolia's personal guard rather than mere fortress soldiers.

"A moment," I said, pausing before we reached the doors. "I wasn't aware the Honored Matriarch traveled with such formality. These are not typical field arrangements."

Varyk's smile widened, showing too many teeth. "The Honored Matriarch arranged something special for the rebel who thinks himself a king."

Aryn shifted position slightly, moving closer to my right shoulder, his body language changing in subtle ways only I would recognize. Preparation. Warning. Something about the hall ahead had triggered his instincts.

The doors swung open, revealing a hall transformed. Massive chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, each crystal enchanted to emit cold blue light. Long tables lined the perimeter, laden with food that steamed in the chill air. Battle mages stood at intervals around the room, their silver taps gleaming. Human slaves stood like statues against the walls, their eyes vacant, their bodies unnaturally still.

And at the far end, seated on a raised dais, was Vinolia. Her white-gold hair was arranged in elaborate braids that signified her status and magical prowess. Her face bore the appearance of a stern grandmother, wrinkled in all the right places, with shrewd eyes that missed nothing and thin lips permanently set in disapproval.

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