Page 38 of The War of Four Winters

Tariq considered his empty glass. "I've built a good life, Elindir. Freedom to go where I please, take what I want, answer to no one but myself and my crew."

"And yet here you are," I pointed out, "drawn to Ostovan's waters despite the danger Michail poses to you. Some part of you already feels the pull of home."

"I'll consider it," Tariq said suddenly, his voice startling me from near-sleep. "The throne. If Michail falls. If the circumstances are right."

"You'll be a terrible king," I mumbled, feeling Bash's warmth spreading through my chest like a physical manifestation of the alcohol in my blood. "Absolutely dreadful. The nobles will be scandalized."

"Precisely why it might work," came his reply, followed by a quiet laugh. "Now, one last drink to seal our pact. A Savarran tradition: the cup of future remembrance."

I groaned, pushing myself upright with effort. Bash complained at the disruption but relocated to my shoulder as I struggled to focus on the small black bottle Tariq had produced from somewhere.

"This," he announced with the gravity of the truly intoxicated, "is the tears of the desert moon. The strongest spirit in all of Savarra. Reserved for the most sacred oaths."

He poured a thimbleful of clear liquid into each of our cups. It looked innocuous enough, but the mere scent made my eyes water.

"To Ostovan's future," Tariq declared, raising his cup. "And to brothers reunited by fate's strange currents."

"To better kings than those who came before us," I added, clinking my cup against his.

The drink hit my tongue like liquid fire, burning a path down my throat and exploding in my stomach. For a moment, everything became crystal clear - Tariq's face, the cabin around us, the weight of what we'd just agreed to. Then darkness swept over me, pulling me into oblivion.

Thewarcouncilhadbeen arguing for the better part of an hour. I drummed my fingers on the ancient oak table and ground my teeth as Lord Northfire and Lord Stoneriver circled the same points like dogs chasing their tails. Maps and dispatches covered the table, reports from our scattered scouts detailing Vinolia's troop movements. Each one was more worrying than the last.

"We've lost three more shipments from the Riverlands," Victorin Stoneriver announced, tapping the eastern trade routes marked on the map. "That's the sixth convoy this month. Our grain reserves are down to half what they should be for winter."

"Then we take the fight to Vinolia," Northfire countered, his fist striking the table. "Strike at Rünhyll while the bulk of her forces are still at Valdrenn and break her blockade before we're starved into submission."

"With what army?" Victorin replied through clenched teeth. "There won't be a fight to be had if we have no food to feed our men. Already the refugee quarters are on reduced rations."

"The Craiggybottoms promised shipments by sea," Lady Taelyn interjected. "Why have they not arrived?"

Hawk cleared his throat. "The Seashores have established patrols throughout the Bay of Ghosts, my lady. They’ve got mages on their ships now and attack any vessel not flying Taratheil’s banner."

I caught Katyr's eye across the table. My half-brother gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. The gesture was subtle, but its meaning clear: the situation was worse than anyone was openly stating.

I rose, and the council chamber fell silent.

"Vinolia and the Seashores aren't just preparing for battle," I said, my voice cutting through the tension. "They're executing Tarathiel's strategy to strangle us before the first sword is drawn. They target our supplies because a fortress with empty storerooms cannot withstand siege, no matter how thick its walls are ."

The council members shifted uncomfortably. The map before us told its own story: trade routes cut, rivers blocked, shipping routes cut off. Supply lines severed one by one while magical storms made alternative paths increasingly treacherous.

"The eastern granaries report their winter stores at critical levels," Victorin said, his voice steady despite the gravity of his news. "What grain remained after the autumn taxes was meant to be supplemented by Riverland shipments. Without those..." He didn't need to finish the thought.

"And our own stores?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Six weeks at current consumption," he replied. "Four if we include the newest refugees. Less if the weather worsens."

I turned to Katyr, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meeting. "What have your apprentices detected?"

My half-brother straightened. "The weather patterns have shifted," he said, his voice soft but carrying to every corner of the room. "Unnatural cold fronts moving against the prevailing winds. Snowfall heavier and more sustained than any natural storm."

"Winter is always harsh in the mountains," Northfire interjected. "Nothing magical about snow in Wintermoon."

"These aren't ordinary winter storms," Katyr replied, a hint of irritation breaking through his usual composure. "They're being directed, concentrated where they'll cause the most damage to our supply routes. The patterns are too precise, too targeted."

I sighed. "Vinolia's mages are ensuring nothing reaches us by land while the Seashores block coastal shipments. We must either break the storm or the blockade."

"Can we counter the Runecleaver magic?" Taelyn asked.

---