Page 59 of The War of Four Winters

His smile vanished. "Your pride will be your downfall."

He came at me with renewed fury, decades of battlefield experience behind every strike. I defended as best I could, but he drove me steadily backward. A burning line opened across my shoulder as his blade found a gap in my defense. Pain sharpened my focus rather than diminishing it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of gold. Katyr. He had somehow worked his way behind the dais where Vinolia now stood, watching our duel with avid interest. Her attention was fixed on us, on the spectacle of father against son. She didn't notice the shadow that detached itself from the wall behind her.

I needed to ensure she remained distracted. With deliberate recklessness, I launched an attack that left my left side exposed. Tarathiel's blade sliced through my defenses, opening a wound along my ribs that instantly soaked my tunic with blood.

"Sloppy," Tarathiel chided, though concern flickered briefly in his eyes. "I taught you better than that."

I grimaced through the pain. "Perhaps I've found better teachers since leaving your side."

Rage darkened his features. Good. Keep him focused on me. I risked a glance toward Vinolia just as Katyr made his move. His hand extended toward her from the shadows, fingers splayed, the concealed tap at his wrist.

Vinolia stiffened, one hand flying to her hair where the bone comb sat. She turned, ancient eyes widening as she spotted Katyr. Her mouth opened to shout a warning, but no sound emerged. Katyr's spell had sealed her voice.

Tarathiel pressed his attack with renewed vigor, forcing me to devote all my concentration to staying alive.

Magic crackled at the edge of my awareness. The battle mages sensed something amiss, but in the confusion of the duel, they couldn't pinpoint the source. Daraith had begun murmuring his own incantations, silver tattoos gleaming as he cast subtle spells to muddle magical perceptions around the room.

Tarathiel scored another hit, this one across my thigh. My leg buckled, nearly sending me to my knees. I caught myself at the last moment, blocking his follow-up strike more by instinct than skill. Blood loss was making my movements sluggish. I wouldn't last much longer.

Just a little more time. That's all Katyr needed.

A scream tore through the hall, high and inhuman. Vinolia's voice had broken through Katyr's spell. She clawed at her hair, at the bone comb that had come loose in her struggle. Katyr stood fully revealed behind her, his concealed tap blazing with power as he reached for the comb.

"Traitor!" she shrieked, her face contorting with rage and fear. "Guards! Mages! Kill him!"

Battle erupted across the hall. Mages launched spells at Katyr, but Daraith intercepted them, his silver tattoos flaring white hot as he channeled death magic to counter their attacks. Aryn moved like smoke through the chaos. He snatched blades from a nearby guard and cut down any who tried to reach his half-brother.

Tarathiel hesitated, torn between continuing our duel and responding to the greater threat. I used his moment of distraction to strike, driving him back several paces.

"You planned this," he realized, eyes widening. "The duel was never the point."

"The duel was always the point," I countered. "But winning never was."

Behind the dais, Katyr had snatched the bone comb from Vinolia's grasp. She lunged for him, but he stepped back and simply snapped the comb in half before letting his mage fire consume it.

The crack echoed like thunder through the hall. Vinolia froze mid-motion, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her body began to wither before our eyes, ancient skin crumbling like parchment left too long in the sun. Centuries of suppressed age caught up in an instant as the magic sustaining her unnatural life dissipated.

Where Vinolia had stood moments before, only dust remained, sifting slowly to the floor like dirty snow. The destruction of her phylactery had unraveled centuries of necromantic magic, reducing her to the age she should have been—nothing but ash and memory.

"Every true leader must be willing to sacrifice for their people," I told my father as we circled each other. "That's what you taught me."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "You sacrifice yourself to destroy her."

"I sacrifice what's necessary to save our people. From her. From you. From what we've become."

Tarathiel roared. His blade swept toward me with killing intent, all restraint abandoned. I was too slow, too weakened by blood loss to block properly. Steel bit deep into my side.

"Ruith!" Katyr's voice reached me through a growing haze of pain.

Daraith's spell exploded outward in a wave of silver light. Those nearest him fell where they stood, dropping into supernatural sleep that would hold them until he released the magic. Battle mages and guards alike crumpled to the floor, leaving only the most powerful still standing.

"Go!" I commanded, using the last of my strength to parry another of Tarathiel's strikes. "Get out. Now!"

Katyr surged toward me as if he meant to intervene but Aryn grabbed his shoulder. Our eyes met. In that moment, more passed between us than words could express. The silent language of brothers who had survived a lifetime under Tarathiel's shadow. Aryn understood what I was sacrificing, and why it was necessary. His face hardened with grief and resolve, a barely perceptible nod acknowledging what I had chosen. We had always communicated best in silence, in the spaces between words.

Aryn grabbed Katyr by the arm. Katyr's anguish was plain, but he yielded to Aryn's command, understanding that my sacrifice would mean nothing if they all died here.

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