Page 65 of The War of Four Winters

Father studied me, genuine confusion in his eyes. "After all this time, after everything we've built and fought for, you'd burn it all down for a human slave?"

"You of all people should understand," I said quietly. "You were once a slave yourself. You know what it means to be treated as property, to have your life depend on another's whim."

Father's expression hardened. "I chose to rise above that past. I chose to claim power rather than accept subjugation. I chose to survive by any means necessary." He moved to the maps spread across his desk. "The weak perish, Ruith. Only the strong endure."

"At the cost of becoming the very monster you once fought against? The same kind that once owned you?" I shook my head. "What was the point of your liberation if you simply became the new oppressor?"

His hand paused over the map of D'thallanar. "My liberation ensured our people's survival. Sometimes that requires difficult choices." He turned back to me. "I don't want to kill you. But I will if you force my hand."

"And what of Elindir?" I asked. "Will you hunt him down as you did Miya?"

Father's expression changed, his eyes narrowing with sudden interest. "Ah. So the human consort means even more to you than I suspected." He studied me carefully. "First a slave girl, now a human prince. This weakness for their kind will be your undoing."

He leaned forward, hands flat on the desk between us. "Tell me where Elindir is."

The request—its unexpected nature, its specificity—struck me silent.

"Our sources confirm he escaped Homeshore," Father continued. "Two headhunters were found dead in the western forests six days ago. Witnesses reported seeing a human traveling with what appeared to be an elven warrior. They move east. Why? What could your human consort possibly hope to accomplish so far from your precious Calibarra?"

My mind raced. Elindir alive. Moving east. The knowledge ignited something in my chest, a dangerous warmth I couldn't afford to show. If Father connected Elindir to Miya in his mind, he would hunt him with even greater determination.

"I have no idea," I lied. "Perhaps he’s running from Michail's forces without a destination."

Father studied me, searching for tells I'd learned long ago to disguise. "You sacrificed everything for one human. Would you do the same for another? How many more must die for your... sentiment?"

"You speak as if caring is weakness," I said. "Yet it's your coldness that has cost you everything worth having."

A shadow passed over Father's face. For a moment, something like regret flickered in his eyes before disappearing beneath the familiar mask of control. "Keep your secrets, then. For now." He rose, signaling our conversation had ended. "Rest while you can. We reach D'thallanar tomorrow."

Guards returned, dragging me back into the bitter night. They chained me to the usual stake, but threw a thin blanket over my body, another calculated mercy that only emphasized my complete powerlessness. I curled beneath it, processing what I'd learned.

Elindir was alive. Moving deliberately toward the Assembly. Planning something. The knowledge sustained me through that endless night, through the final day's march, through the growing roar of D'thallanar as we approached its ancient gates.

The city rose before us like a fever dream through swirling snow. Fourteen districts spread across both banks of the sacred River Thallan. Twelve districts belonged to the great clans, with the fourteenth, the pleasure district, nominally independent but secretly controlled by the Shikami. At the center, where the river widened into a perfect circle, stood the island that held the Hall of Wisdom where the Assembly gathered. Enormous bridges connected the mainland to the island, engineering marvels that could be raised to allow ships passage along the river.

Curved pagoda roofs with upturned eaves rose in graceful tiers against the winter sky. The architecture was distinctly elven—elegant wooden structures built without nails, supported by intricately carved pillars stained deep red and black. Paper lanterns glowed like fireflies along the winding streets, their warm light diffused by the falling snow. Stone gardens and frozen ponds punctuated the spaces between buildings. Every structure, from the humblest teahouse to the grandest temple, embodied the elven principles of harmony with nature and elegant simplicity.

Above it all loomed the Primarch's district, occupying the highest point on the eastern bank, its imposing structures featuring steeper roofs and gold-leaf detailing that caught what little sunlight penetrated the winter gloom. Dragons and phoenixes adorned the ridgepoles, carved with such skill they seemed poised to take flight into the swirling snow.

Guards lined our route, holding back crowds that had gathered to witness my shame. Their faces blurred together—some jeering, some silent, some wearing expressions I couldn't interpret. Children pointed. Adults whispered behind their hands. My legs threatened to buckle with each step, but I forced myself forward. I would not be carried into my father's stronghold. I would walk, however broken, until I could walk no more.

We passed through the outer gates, then the second ring, then the third. With each threshold, the crowds changed, poorer citizens giving way to merchants, then minor nobility, then major houses. By the eighth ring, only the most powerful clans maintained residences. Their members watched our procession with calculated neutrality, already positioning themselves for whatever political advantage my fall might bring them.

At the foot of the final ascent, Father raised his hand. The procession halted.

"Take him to the cells," he ordered, not looking at me. "Prepare him for presentation at tomorrow's Assembly."

Rough hands seized my arms. As they dragged me toward a side entrance—the path for prisoners rather than dignitaries—I caught a glimpse of someone watching from the shadows of a nearby archway. Silver-white hair. Storm-gray eyes. A face I recognized from long negotiations and shared meals.

Klaus Wolfheart. Taelyn's father.

Our eyes met for the briefest moment. His expression revealed nothing, but he didn't join the jeering nobles around him. He simply watched, assessing, as guards pulled me through iron doors that clanged shut with ritualistic finality.

The cells beneath the Assembly Hall were ancient, carved directly into the bedrock beneath D'thallanar. No modern comforts softened these chambers. Stone walls sweated moisture. Iron bars separated small cells where prisoners awaited judgment, or simply disappeared from memory, depending on the Primarch's whim.

They threw me into the largest cell at the corridor's end, specially designed for high-profile captives. Its size offered no comfort, only more empty space to emphasize my isolation. A single narrow window near the ceiling let in watery light, but no discernible view. They removed my chains, no longer necessary in a cell warded with suppression sigils.

"Healer comes at bell-hour," the guard captain announced. "Primarch's orders. Can't have you dying before your performance."

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