Page 119 of The War of Four Winters

"He'll return," Taelyn said from the doorway. "Ruith has survived worse."

I nodded without conviction, unwilling to voice my fears aloud. What if Tarathiel had been waiting? What if the Shikami tunnels held traps we hadn't anticipated?

"The boys are asking for you," she continued. "They haven't seen you since morning."

"I'll go to them," I promised, gathering my strength. "In a moment."

When she left, I moved to the window overlooking the compound's central courtyard. Below, warriors from a dozen clans mingled freely, united in common purpose despite centuries of rivalry. Stoneriver archers shared a whetstone with Wolfheart infantry. Yeutish warriors demonstrated throwing techniques to interested onlookers. The merchant-sailors of Clan Craiggybottom moved between groups, their indigo sashes bright against the winter gloom.

Here, before my eyes, was Ruith's vision taking shape—former enemies finding common ground, centuries of clan rivalries giving way to shared purpose. The dream we had bled for, had nearly died for, was materializing in small moments of cooperation and unlikely friendships.

And I stood there wondering if Ruith would return to witness what he had set in motion.

A commotion in the courtyard below caught my attention. Warriors rushed to form an honor guard. Shouts of recognition cut through the winter air. I leaned out the window, heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.

Ruith rode through the gates, his raven-black hair unmistakable even from a distance. Behind him, warriors carried what could only be a body on a stretcher. My heart stopped, then thundered back to life with such force I felt dizzy. He was alive. Against all my fears, against the nightmares that had plagued me since he'd descended into those tunnels, Ruith had returned.

I raced from the chamber, my pain forgotten, driven by a desperate need to touch him. The stairs blurred beneath me as I took them two at a time, pushing past servants and warriors alike, deaf to their startled exclamations. Nothing mattered but reaching him.

The crowd parted before me. And then there he was. Blood-spattered but alive. My vision blurred with tears. Our eyes met across the courtyard, and I saw my relief mirrored in his face.

"Ruith," I whispered, his name a prayer on my lips.

Blood spattered his armor, dried brown against silver and blue. His black hair hung loose, without victory braids. In his arms, he carried a cloth-wrapped bundle. The warriors behind him bore a stretcher with a larger burden.

"It's done," he said, voice flat with exhaustion. "The civil war is over."

I reached for him in the courtyard, ignoring those watching around us. My hands found his face, checking for injuries, needing to confirm he was really alive and whole. His eyes held mine steadily as I examined him. When I was satisfied, my gaze dropped to the bundle in his arms.

"Tarathiel?"

"His head," Ruith confirmed flatly. "The body follows, as tradition demands."

I looked at the warriors with the stretcher, understanding why they handled their burden so carefully.

"Leave us," Ruith told the warriors. "Place him in the chamber for burial rites."

They bowed and left with Tarathiel's body. Another warrior stepped forward, his hands extended. Ruith hesitated only briefly before surrendering the wrapped head with a ceremonial nod.

"See that proper preparations begin," he ordered. "The funeral will be held tomorrow."

Only then did he turn to me, his face a careful mask as he acknowledged the gathering crowd, accepting their salutes and bows with the dignity expected of their king. We walked together through the compound, warriors and servants alike stepping aside to let us pass.

When we reached our private chambers and the door closed behind us, his control finally faltered. His shoulders sagged and his hands began to tremble as he stood with his back to me.

"He knelt," he whispered. "At the end, he drank poison and knelt before me, asking for a warrior's death."

I moved closer, unsure what comfort to offer. How do you comfort someone who had to execute their father?

"I granted him mercy he denied others," Ruith continued, his voice breaking. "Why? After everything he did, why would I grant him that?"

"Because you are not him," I said. "Because mercy separates you from Tarathiel. From Michail."

His shoulders shuddered with the force of a suppressed sob. He reached for me suddenly, arms wrapping around me with desperate strength, face against my neck. I held him as silent sobs shook his body. This was Ruith as no one else saw him—without his kingly mask, raw with grief and confusion. I felt his tears hot against my skin, stark against the cold metal of his armor.

"I've got you," I said into his hair.

When he finally straightened, his eyes were red but dry, control returning through years of discipline.

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