Page 113 of The War of Four Winters

Aryn paused at the threshold, turning to me. "Once we enter, we submit to their laws completely. Their hospitality is sacred, but so are their judgments."

"You're asking if I trust you to handle this?"

"I'm asking if you trust me, despite knowing I once served them. Despite knowing I was sent to kill you."

I studied my half-brother in the fading light. The silver-haired assassin who had been contracted to end my rebellion before it truly began. Who had chosen blood over duty and defied the Shikami's order to spare my life. Who had bled beside me in countless battles since.

"I trust you, brother."

Something shifted in his ice-blue eyes—gratitude, perhaps, or relief. He nodded once, then stepped into the teahouse. I followed. The temperature dropped immediately as the doors closed behind us.

For several heartbeats, we were blind in the darkness. Then, gradually, my eyes adjusted to reveal a corridor whose floor was polished to mirror-like perfection. The walls bore no decorations, just smooth surfaces painted with a black lacquer that seemed to absorb sound as effectively as it absorbed light.

Our escorts maintained a brisk pace, leading us through a maze of corridors that doubled back on themselves, designed to confuse those not initiated into the Shikami's secrets. The air grew cooler, tinged with the scent of tea and something sweeter—ritual incense that made my thoughts feel slightly sluggish, my reactions dulled.

"Kalaraya smoke," Aryn murmured, noticing my disorientation. "Breathe shallowly. It's meant to limit magical abilities and make violence more difficult."

I followed his advice, taking careful, measured breaths. The effect was subtle but undeniable—my connection to the world felt muted, my senses wrapped in gauze. If this was the effect on someone with no magical talent, I could only imagine how it would impact a battle mage like Katyr.

After what seemed like an eternity of twisting passages, we emerged into a vast circular chamber at the teahouse's heart. Unlike the austere corridors, this room exploded with controlled beauty. Cherry blossom trees grew from massive pots, their branches extending toward a glass ceiling that revealed the night sky above. A stream circled the room's perimeter, crossed by small arched bridges of polished black stone. In the center, upon a raised platform, sat a simple tea ceremony arrangement—a low table with cushions on either side.

Around the perimeter, half-hidden among the cherry trees, stood more Shikami. Our escort made a subtle gesture toward the center of the room before melting into the shadows among the cherry trees. The meaning was clear: remain here, wait.

Aryn and I stood alone at the chamber's heart, watched by countless unseen eyes. Minutes stretched painfully, the silence broken only by the gentle gurgle of the stream and the occasional soft clink of metal against metal as unseen assassins shifted position in the darkness.

When she finally appeared, it wasn't from any visible entrance. One moment, the cushion across from us was empty; the next, she occupied it. Omashii-Kuno, the Mistress of Blades, head of the Shikami order. She wore no crown, no ornate robes, nothing to signify her authority beyond a simple black silk kimono and the ceremonial mask that covered her entire face—a smooth, featureless oval of some metal that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.

"The rebel king seeks an audience with the shadows." Her voice carried strange undertones that made my skin prickle. "How curious, when he claims to fight for light and truth."

I stepped forward, offering the formal bow due to a neutral power. "Mistress of Blades, I thank you for receiving us."

"Us? I see only one. The other is a blade that has gone dull."

Aryn stiffened beside me, but maintained his composure.

"I come on behalf of all who value life,” I continued. “All who recognize the threat now spreading from Homeshore."

"The human invasion." She paused, letting the words hang in the air. "Your father's failure becomes increasingly apparent. He cannot hold his own territories, yet claims dominion over all elves."

"This is not merely a human invasion. It's something more. Something that threatens even the shadows."

The Mistress gestured toward the cushion opposite her. "Sit. Explain."

I knelt on the cushion, Aryn taking position slightly behind me. A Shikami blade appeared silently at Omashii-Kuno's side, preparing tea with practiced movements that seemed as much ritual as service.

I described what we had learned—Michail's religious zealots, their systematic extermination of elven populations, the corruption that fought back against Daraith's necromancy, the ritualistic harvesting of elven lives to fuel Michail’s pet mage’s twisted magic.

But Omashii-Kuno seemed unmoved.

"Genocide is nothing new." She accepted a cup of tea from her attendant. "Humans and elves have committed such atrocities against each other since time immemorial. Why should this concern the Shikami?"

"Because Michail's timing is deliberate. He strikes while we are divided, knowing our civil war weakens us. Every day my father and I waste fighting each other, Michail's forces grow stronger." I leaned forward. "Humans vastly outnumber elves. Given enough time, they will overwhelm even our strongest defenses through sheer numbers. This is not conquest. It is extinction."

Aryn shifted position slightly. "This isn't merely politics anymore, Mistress. This threatens our very survival as a people."

"And you believe this because of what you've witnessed?" The mask turned toward Aryn. "You who chose to leave our order when you embraced your true nature?"

A ripple of movement passed through the shadows surrounding us—tension, perhaps, or memory of what had transpired when Aryn declared himself a man in an order comprised solely of women. Aryn didn't flinch.

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