Page 49 of The War of Four Winters

"Faith is the most powerful weapon in any arsenal," Michail replied quietly. "Give men a god to fight for, and they'll commit atrocities they'd never dream of in their own name."

The admission was startling in its cynicism, even for Michail. "You don't believe any of it, do you? The divine mission, the cleansing fire. It's all just a pretense."

His smile was thin. "Belief is for the simple-minded. I need soldiers willing to die for my cause. The Eight Divines provide that motivation far better than any speech about territorial expansion could." He glanced at a nearby mural of the Warrior slaying elves. "Tell them the Mother weeps for human children taken as slaves. Tell them the Maiden's virtue is defiled by elven magic. Tell them the Reaper cannot claim elven souls because they have none. Give them a holy purpose, and they'll march into fire without question."

The great hall had been transformed. What had once been an elven administrative chamber now resembled a temple to the Eight. Golden braziers burned incense. The air felt too thick. Banners bearing religious symbols hung from every wall—the scythe of the Reaper, the Warrior's sword, the Mother's broken heart.

A massive altar dominated the far end, beneath a mural of the Reaper harvesting elven lives. The painting showed elves falling like stalks of wheat before his great scythe, their essences rising up as golden light to feed human figures who stood tall and strong in the background. The altar's surface was stained dark. Blood. I was certain of it. The ritual implements arranged nearby matched those Modir had used in his "treatments" - silver knives, crystal vials, brass collection bowls. This was no temple of worship. It was a slaughterhouse dressed in religious garb.

Michail moved to a raised dais where an ornate chair awaited him. Modir took his place at Michail's right hand.

"Leave us," Michail commanded the guards and priests. "I would speak with my brother alone."

The attendants filed out, throwing suspicious glances at Niro, who stood silently at my shoulder. When the heavy doors closed, Michail's posture changed. The religious performance dropped away.

"So," he said, leaning forward. "The slave returns as a consort. Quite the promotion, little brother." His fingers toyed with a small idol of the Maker on his armrest. "The faithful would call it sacrilege. A human lying with an elf. The Maiden herself would weep."

"I'm here to discuss the withdrawal of your forces from elven territories," I said, refusing to be baited. "This crusade serves no one but your own ambition."

Michail laughed. The sound echoed in the vast chamber. "Always so direct. It's refreshing, actually, after so many sycophants." He gestured to the empty hall. "No audience now. Just us. So tell me, did you truly come here believing I would withdraw my armies on your word alone?"

"I came hoping to avoid unnecessary bloodshed," I said. "Your so-called holy war threatens everything we're building."

"Touching," Michail said, voice dripping mockery. "You speak of equality and a better world while wearing his colors." He leaned forward, dropping all pretense of dignity now that we were alone. "Tell me, brother, is elven cock really so good that you'd betray your entire species for it? Or did he simply break you so thoroughly that you've convinced yourself you enjoy the leash?"

My jaw clenched. I saw what he was doing. Trying to provoke me. To make me lash out so he'd have cause to strike. To prove I was still the hot-headed brother he remembered rather than the diplomat I'd become.

"You don't care about human oppression," I said, keeping my voice level. "You'd sacrifice every human in Ostovan if it meant another day without the Rot showing on your face. You're just annoyed that I found purpose while you're still rotting from the inside out."

Rage flashed across what was visible of his face. His hand gripped the throne's armrest until his knuckles whitened.

"Does it burn you," I continued, watching his reaction carefully, "knowing that while your body rots, I've found something worth living for? Something beyond just surviving another day?"

"Surviving? Is that all you think I'm doing?" He rose from the throne, approaching with measured steps. "I'm building a kingdom, little brother. Carving out humanity's rightful place in this world while you spread your legs for our ancestral enemy."

I gestured to his mask. "How much of your face is left beneath that pretty gold? How long do you have before it consumes the rest of you?”

His hand twitched toward his face, then dropped. "You know nothing about it."

"I know more than you think. I know my slave collar wasn't just about control. I know you used it somehow to try to fix your face."

Shock flickered across what remained of his face before he tipped his head back, barking out a laugh. “You really have no idea, do you? You think the collar was the beginning? Really?”

A chill crawled up my spine. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, little brother." His voice dripped with false pity. "We've been draining you for years. Those headaches after drinking wine with your lovers? The strange fatigue that would come and go?" He circled me slowly, like a predator. "Every lover you took to your bed was paid handsomely for their service. A few drops in your wine, and you'd sleep so soundly while Modir collected his vials."

The room tilted around me. Memories flashed through my mind. Waking with unexplained bruises, the persistent weakness I'd attributed to training too hard, the metallic taste that sometimes lingered in my mouth upon waking.

"You're lying," I whispered, but I knew he wasn't.

"You accuse me of poisoning our father and his heir." Michail's voice was almost gentle now, as if explaining something to a child. "But no, brother. They were…” He turned to Modir.

“Necessary sacrifices,” Modir provided. “Fortunately, I’ve refined the process now.”

"Father was already dying," Michail said, as if this justified everything. "He couldn’t keep his cock put away. Probably spread syphilis to half the Free Cities. I only took advantage of an opportunity. And Andrej... well, he became inconvenient. Started asking too many questions. The irony is, he was concerned about you. Noticed your recurring 'illnesses.' The fool might’ve lived if he’d cared a little less."

Bile rose in my throat. I'd thought Andrej distant in those final months. Cold. He hadn't been withdrawing from me. He'd been trying to protect me.

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