Page 54 of The War of Four Winters

But it wasn't Vinolia who made my blood freeze in my veins. It was the figure seated beside her.

Tall, even while seated. Silver hair arranged in victory braids. Features I saw reflected in my own face every morning, though harder, colder. Eyes that watched with the dispassionate calculation of an executioner assessing his next victim.

Tarathiel.

My father.

The Primarch of the elves had come to witness the humiliation and likely execution of his treasonous son.

Ruith

Timecontractedtoasingle breath. The air in the great hall turned heavy as stone, pressing against my lungs, making each heartbeat an effort. Beyond Tarathiel's shoulder, Vinolia watched me with ancient eyes that held none of the frailty her wrinkled face suggested.

"The traitor arrives at last," Tarathiel said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Desperation makes fools of even clever princes."

I forced my feet forward, each step deliberate on the cold stone. My father's silver hair caught the light, victory braids glinting as if they'd been freshly polished for this moment. I'd worn my darkest armor, but he came in courtly finery. He'd never expected this to be a battle.

"You mistake me, Primarch," I said. "I didn't come to surrender. I came to negotiate peace."

Vinolia's ancient face tightened into a web of deeper wrinkles. "Pathetic," she spat, not bothering to mask her contempt. "The rebel whelp still pretends at kingship while his followers gnaw on boot leather behind Calibarra's walls." She gestured to the laden tables with a dismissive flick of her withered hand. "We've prepared this feast to remind you of everything your people lack. Your failure made manifest in roasted meat and wine."

The offerings were ostentatious—roasted meats, exotic fruits that shouldn't have been available in winter, wine in crystal decanters. A display of abundance meant to contrast with the dwindling supplies at Calibarra. How many villages had been stripped bare to create this illusion of plenty?

"I wouldn't want to diminish your hospitality," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. "My delegation is small. Such abundance seems wasteful when so many in the realm hunger under unnatural winter."

Tarathiel leaned forward, elbows resting on the chair's ornate arms. "Always the champion of the common folk. Tell me, does this performance convince the humans you've collected? Do they truly believe an elf cares for their suffering?"

"Some things transcend blood," I answered, thinking of Elindir.

My father's expression hardened. "Nothing transcends blood. That delusion will be your undoing."

Vinolia's gaze settled on Katyr, her ancient eyes gleaming with possessive hunger. "So the golden child returns to us at last," she said, her voice dripping with false warmth that fooled no one. "Stripped of your taps and power. Reduced to a common servant for this pretender. And that hair... like a field worker rather than Runecleaver blood."

Katyr remained silent, his jaw clenched tight enough that I could see the muscle working beneath his skin. The loathing in his eyes would have burned through stone.

"Nothing to say to your grandmother, boy?" Vinolia pressed, leaning forward. "After all I've done to preserve your place in our clan? After all the sacrifices your mother made to birth Tarathiel's seed into our bloodline?"

"I stand with Ruith," Katyr replied, each word precise as a knife thrust, deliberately using my name without title or qualification. "My place is where I choose it to be."

The lich's expression hardened to granite. "Your place is determined by your blood, child. You disgrace your mother's sacrifice by standing with this pretender. She should have been honored that the Primarch chose her, willing or not."

"Honor?" The word escaped through Katyr's teeth before he could contain it. "Is that what you call it?"

Tarathiel's mouth twisted in a cold smile. "I should have known the blood would prove tainted, despite the Runecleaver line. Weak stock produces weak offspring, no matter how carefully bred. Your mother lacked the strength to appreciate what was given to her. Her son clearly inherited that same failing."

Tarathiel's attention shifted to Aryn, his lip curling in undisguised revulsion. "I see the Shikami reject still follows you. Still pretending to be what she is not."

Aryn didn't flinch, though I caught the minute tightening of his jaw. "Father," he acknowledged, the word stripped of all emotion, neither respect nor hatred coloring it.

My father's expression twisted with disgust. "That title isn't yours to use. You may wear men's clothes and mutilate your body, but you cannot change what you are."

"It must eat at you," Aryn replied evenly, "to know all your children have rejected you. Weak stock indeed."

I stepped between them before the exchange could deteriorate further. "We're here to discuss terms, not family grievances."

"Indeed," Vinolia smiled, revealing teeth too perfect for her ancient face. "Terms. As if you have anything to negotiate with." She gestured to one of her attendants, who stepped forward with a rolled parchment. "Here are our conditions. They are generous, all things considered."

I took the scroll but didn't open it. "I prefer to discuss terms directly."

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