Page 24 of The War of Four Winters

The answering laugh was rich and unabashed, carrying across the water like warm honey. One of the figures struck a lamp that flared with surprising brightness, illuminating their small party.

"Is this better,alazhirus?" He spread his arms wide, turning slightly to give us a full view. "I've brought some of my most charming companions, though none, I assure you, as charming as myself."

Behind him, three men stood at attention, their hands conspicuously near weapons. They wore similar Savarran garb in more subdued colors, marking them as his crew.

"You look as insufferable as ever," Yisra replied, though I caught the barest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "State your business before I change my mind."

"Shelter from the storm, same as you." He gestured toward the north where, beyond the protective mangrove wall, we knew the magical tempest raged. "And perhaps a conversation with your distinguished passenger."

Caris stepped forward, placing herself between the stranger and me. "The Lord Consort has no business with the likes of you."

"Ah, but he might, Commander," the man said, his gaze shifting to find me in the gloom. "We have more in common than he realizes."

Something about his face tugged at my memory, a familiarity I couldn't place. The set of his jaw, perhaps, or the way one eyebrow arched slightly higher than the other.

"Let him aboard," I said, surprising myself as much as Caris.

"My lord—" she began.

"I'll hear what he has to say," I cut her off. "Under guard, of course."

Yisra nodded to her crew, who lowered a rope ladder. The stranger climbed with practiced grace, bringing with him the scents of exotic spices and something else—a faint smell of smoke and brimstone that seemed to cling to his elaborate coat.

Up close, he cut an even more striking figure. Desert heritage marked his bronze skin and strong features, though his eyes—a startling amber that caught the light like a cat's—spoke of mixed bloodlines. He moved with fluid grace, each gesture deliberate yet seemingly effortless. The curved Savarran blade at his hip bore elaborate engravings along its scabbard, the hilt inlaid with mother-of-pearl and topped with a large amber stone that matched his eyes.

His gaze swept the deck, pausing appreciatively on several of the Broken Blades before settling on me with sudden, sharp interest. The smile that bloomed across his face transformed his handsome features into something truly magnificent.

"Well now," he practically purred, stepping closer than propriety would normally allow. "Had I known Ruith's consort was blessed with such... attributes, I might have made this acquaintance much sooner."

His guards took positions around him, alert but relaxed, clearly accustomed to their captain's behavior.

"Tariq Al'Sharif," he introduced himself with an elaborate bow that somehow managed to be both theatrical and sincere. "Captain of The Mirage, trader of exotic treasures, occasional liberator of excessive wealth, undefeated duelist, appreciator of beauty in all its forms, and—" he paused, eyes meeting mine with unexpected intensity that cut through his flirtatious demeanor, "—your half-brother."

I raised my sword instinctively, the tip hovering inches from his throat. "Explain. Now."

He didn't flinch, didn't even look at the blade. "Same father, different mothers. Mine was a Savarran merchant princess who caught King Zygfried's eye during a trade delegation some thirty-three years ago." His smile turned wry. "Our father did have such varied and excellent taste, didn't he? You really think you were his only bastard?"

My mind raced. Father had been notorious for his appetite, his wandering eye. Rumors had always circulated about children scattered across neighboring kingdoms, but I'd never met any. After Michail's purge...

"Michail had all father's bastards killed," I said, the words bitter on my tongue.

"He tried," Tariq agreed, the easy smile slipping for just a moment to reveal something harder beneath. " I've never set foot in our father's kingdom. I was born and raised in Savarra by my mother's family."

I studied him more carefully, looking for my father's features in his face. The jawline, yes. The shape of the eyes. And something in his stance, the way he held himself with that particular blend of arrogance and calculation that had been our father's trademark.

"You could be lying," I said, though doubt had already crept in. "How would I know for certain?"

Tariq's laugh was short and sharp. "Think about it, brother. Why would anyone pretend to be a bastard of Zygfried?" He gestured to the scar visible at his collar. "Not many people go around falsely claiming to be someone Michail wants dead. It's terrible for one's health."

He had a point. Claiming kinship with the former king of Ostovan, especially claiming to be one of his bastards, was essentially painting a target on his back. Michail's purge of our father's illegitimate children had been thorough and brutal. No one would invite that kind of attention without good reason.

"Besides," he added, "look at us." He gestured between our faces. "Same eyes, same jawline. My skin's darker from my mother's side and years in the Savarran sun, but the blood shows."

He wasn't wrong. The resemblance, now that I looked for it, was unmistakable.

"What do you know of Michail's activities?"

Tariq's expression sobered, the playfulness dropping away like a discarded mask. "Only what I've heard from merchants and refugees fleeing Homeshore. I've never met our brother in person. I've made it a point to keep my distance. Assassination attempts tend to sour familial relations. Besides, in Savarra, we have a saying: 'Beware the man who claims to speak directly for the gods, for either he is mad or the gods have chosen poorly.'"

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