Page 21 of The War of Four Winters

I hadn't thought of it that way. Perhaps in the small daily acts of care, I was already becoming something akin to a father.

"Rest, Lord Consort," Yisra said, pushing away from the rail. "Tomorrow brings stronger winds, if my joints speak true. You'll need your strength for what lies ahead."

I nodded, recognizing the wisdom in her words. "Thank you, Captain. For the conversation. And the honesty."

She acknowledged this with a slight inclination of her head before turning away, her footsteps fading as she returned to her duties.

Alone again, I took one last look at the vast expanse of stars before heading below to my cabin, moving carefully to maintain my balance as the ship rolled beneath me. The massage Ruith had shown me on the first crossing helped somewhat, but my stomach still protested with each dip and sway. The cabin was small but comfortable, with a narrow berth built into the wall and a tiny desk bolted to the floor. A lantern swung gently with the ship's motion, casting warm light across the space and sending my shadow dancing in nauseating patterns that I tried my best to ignore.

On the desk lay the book I'd been reading earlier—a history of human-elven relations that Ruith had insisted I take with me. "Know the past to change the future," he'd said, pressing it into my hands before departure.

I picked it up, turning to where I'd marked my place, and something fluttered to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, I found a pressed plum blossom. It’d been perfectly preserved, its delicate petals still carrying a hint of their original color.

My throat tightened unexpectedly. The plum blossom, symbol of House Starfall. Ruith must have slipped it between the pages before giving me the book, a private message meant only for my eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd done this. He’d taken to leaving small tokens for me to find of late.

I brought the dried flower to my lips, the gesture feeling both foolish and necessary. How strange that this relationship, begun in the worst possible circumstances—master and slave, captor and captive—had transformed into something that sustained rather than diminished me.

Carefully, I placed the blossom back between the pages, a tangible reminder of Ruith's presence even as leagues separated us. I ran my fingers along the book's spine, remembering his hands as he'd given it to me, the weight of unsaid words between us. We'd come so far from those first days, when every interaction had been threaded with fear and resentment.

Settling onto the narrow berth, I listened to the rhythmic creaking of the ship around me. Tomorrow would bring us closer to Homeshore. Closer to Michail. Closer to whatever fate awaited me at my brother's hands. But tonight, I carried Ruith's silent message against my heart, a token of a love neither of us had sought but both had found.

Thehorizonrefusedtostay in place. It pitched and rolled like a drunken dancer, mocking my attempts to find steady footing on Captain Yisra's treacherous deck. My stomach lurched as the ship crested another wave, sending a freezing spray across my face. I swallowed hard against the rising bile in my throat, determined not to humiliate myself again before the stoic Broken Blades who had maintained their dignity despite the churning seas.

"Still finding your sea legs, Lord Consort?" Captain Yisra's voice carried the rough edge of someone who had spent decades shouting over storms. Her weathered face creased with what might have been sympathy or amusement. It was impossible to tell with the perpetual squint she'd developed from years facing salt winds.

I managed a weak nod, not trusting my voice. Three days at sea had done nothing to acclimate my body to this constant motion. The irony wasn't lost on me; I, who had faced torture, slavery, and death itself, was being undone by simple waves.

"Here." She pressed a small cloth pouch into my hand. It smelled of ginger and some bitter herb I couldn't name. "Put this under your tongue. Old Savarran remedy. Won't cure you completely, but might keep your breakfast where it belongs."

I mumbled thanks, tucking the pungent sachet beneath my tongue. The taste was foul, but the alternative was worse. My third day of sickness had left me hollow and weak, my throat raw from emptying what little I managed to consume.

Captain Yisra's weathered face tightened as she stared northward, her eyes narrowing to slits against the wind. Her hand went to the silver pendant at her throat, a sailor's charm I'd noticed she touched only when troubled. She stood absolutely still for several moments, reading the distant horizon with the expertise of decades at sea.

"Storm's gathering," she said finally, gesturing toward the northern horizon where dark clouds massed like an invading army. "Might be we need to change course, seek shelter until it passes."

The news should have concerned me more than it did. Delay meant Michail had more time to strengthen his position, more time to spread his poisonous faith throughout Homeshore. But my treacherous body felt only relief at the prospect of solid ground, however temporary.

"How long?" I managed to ask, the words bitter with herbs.

Yisra's eyes narrowed as she studied the horizon. "Half day to reach the nearest safe harbor. Might be there a night, might be three. Winter storms are fickle beasts. They linger or pass as they please, not as elves or men command."

Behind us, Commander Caris of the Broken Blades approached, her black armor gleaming despite the salt spray. "Dangerous to delay," she said, her voice pitched low enough that only Yisra and I could hear. "The king expects us in Homeshore within the week."

"The king expects his consort alive," Yisra countered bluntly. "We sail into that, we might all be feeding the depths before nightfall."

I straightened, forcing steel into my spine despite the nausea swimming through me. "The mission comes first. If we can push through—"

"With respect, Lord Consort," Yisra cut me off, "I've been sailing these waters since before you were born. That storm's no natural thing. See how the clouds move against the wind? How they gather rather than scatter?" She spat over the rail, the gesture oddly formal, almost ritualistic. "There's magic in that tempest. Battle magic, if I don't miss my guess."

Caris' hand dropped to her sword hilt, a warrior's instinctive response to threat. "Michail's mages?"

"Or Vinolia's," I suggested. The thought sent ice through my veins despite the heavy cloak wrapped around my shoulders. "Either way, sailing directly into magical storms seems unwise."

"There's a place we can shelter," Yisra said, her voice dropping lower as she leaned in. "Saltmire. Half a day's sail east. Not on any proper charts, but I know it well."

The name alone conjured images of rot and decay. My mouth twisted around the taste of the bitter herbs. "Saltmire?"

"Not the most welcoming port," she admitted, weathered fingers tapping against the ship's rail. "But the safest harbor within reach. Deep water approach through a narrow channel, protected cove behind. Storm might rage for days out here, but we'll feel nothing more than its breath in there."

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