Page 57 of The War of Four Winters

“A victory in which you are sacrificed is not the victory I want.” Katyr blinked back tears.

I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead to his. “It is not the victory any of us dreamed of, brother. I want it even less. But I’m just one elf. We must think of the people who have fought and died to bring us here, those who wait with hope in their hearts back in Calibarra, those who still wear the chains of their oppressors. They are the rebellion, brother. Not me. I’m just an elf with a dream. This fight is theirs. The victory that comes will be theirs as well, even if I do not live to see it.”

Katyr's jaw tightened, but he gave a reluctant nod. Duty warred with brotherhood in his eyes. "And if I fail? If I cannot destroy the phylactery?"

"Then you get out alive," I insisted. "All of you. Return to Calibarra. Lead in my absence."

Aryn’s jaw tightened. "I won't leave you behind, brother. Not while breath remains in my body."

"You will if I command it," I said. "You swore an oath to me as your king, not just your brother. Honor it if all else fails."

The door swung open and more guards entered, hands on weapons, accompanied by a Runecleaver battle mage.

"Your time for consultation is over," the mage announced. "The Primarch and Matriarch Vinolia await your answer."

"Wonderful," I said, straightening my jacket with deliberate slowness. "We have much to discuss."

The guards formed around us, a prison of bodies and steel that herded us back toward the great hall. I caught Katyr's eye one last time as we walked. He gave me the barest of nods. Understanding passed between us. Whatever happened next, he would do what needed to be done.

The great hall had transformed during our absence. Additional battle mages lined the walls, their silver taps gleaming in the torchlight. Tarathiel had moved to a more elaborate chair on the dais, positioning himself as a king receiving petitioners rather than a father negotiating with his son. Vinolia remained at his side, her ancient fingers still toying with the bone comb in her white hair.

"Have you come to your senses?" Tarathiel asked as we approached.

I moved forward alone, separating myself from my companions. Every eye in the room followed me. Perfect. Keep their attention on me, away from Katyr, who drifted subtly to the right, positioning himself along the wall where shadows pooled deeper.

"I have considered your terms," I said, my voice pitched to carry to every corner of the hall.

Tarathiel leaned forward, victory already gleaming in his eyes. "And?"

I unrolled the parchment. Then, meeting my father's gaze, I tore it in half. The sound of ripping paper echoed in the sudden silence. I continued tearing, reducing the document to confetti that fluttered to the floor at my feet.

"I find them lacking," I said into the stunned quiet.

Vinolia rose from her seat. "Insolent whelp. You've thrown away your only chance at mercy."

"No," I corrected. "I've rejected tyranny. Again." My gaze shifted to Tarathiel. "Did you truly believe I would hand over everything we've built? Everyone who has trusted me? Would you have respected me if I had?"

My father's expression hardened, but I caught the flicker of something else beneath his anger. Pride, perhaps. Or recognition. He'd raised me to be unbending. To never compromise. How could he expect anything less, even aimed against himself?

"Enough of this theater," Vinolia snapped, gesturing to her battle mages. "Seize him. We'll extract his surrender one finger at a time if necessary."

The guards immediately surged forward, weapons drawn. Armored hands grabbed my arms, but I pulled free, shouting, “I invoke the rite of sar'thalan dor ess'thaliel!"

The ritual phrase echoed in the vast chamber, ancient magic resonating in every syllable. Some of the older guards froze, recognizing words not spoken in generations. The language of royal challenge, of kingship contested. Words that predated the Assembly itself.

"I challenge you, Tarathiel, false Primarch of our people," I declared, my voice ringing with power that seemed to vibrate in the very stones beneath our feet. "By blade and blood, by ancient right, by the laws that bind gods and kings, I call you to answer for your crimes against our people."

Silence fell, heavy and absolute. No one moved. No one breathed. The weight of ancient tradition hung in the air, palpable as smoke.

Tarathiel rose slowly from his throne, genuine shock displacing his usual calculated expression before he masked it with contempt. The guards looked to him, uncertain, caught between generations of conditioning to obey their ruler and the primal, instinctive recognition of an even older authority.

Vinolia's withered hand clutched the armrest of her chair, her voice cutting through the silence with a hiss of outrage. "This is absurd. This rebel has no standing to invoke the ancient rites."

I turned to her, refusing to show the slightest hint of submission or doubt.

"I am King Ruith Starfall, son of Queen Siriyama, heir to the throne by birthright and by ritual. I have fulfilled every sacred requirement demanded by our most ancient traditions." My voice carried to every corner of the hall, each word measured and absolute. "I was anointed with the threefold blessing of blood, earth, and fire. I completed the ritual hunt and took the heart of Vargulf himself, the White Wolf of Winter. I bear the scars and carry the blessings."

The older courtiers murmured, recognizing the sacred milestones I named. Some made subtle warding gestures at the mention of Vargulf, the ancient spirit whose favor had not been claimed in living memory before me.

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