Page 58 of The War of Four Winters

"The gods themselves witnessed my ascension," I continued, turning back to Tarathiel. "Can you say the same? You who took your crown through betrayal and murder? You who never completed the sacred hunt? You who wears the mantle of leadership while serving only yourself?"

My eyes fixed on him with piercing intensity. "That was the whole reason you've chosen to call yourself a Primarch and not a king. You are no king, and you know it."

Tarathiel's jaw tightened, rage warring with calculation in his eyes. He knew as well as anyone that I spoke the truth. His rise to power had been through political maneuvering and violence, not the sacred rituals that legitimized kings in the eyes of tradition.

"It is you who stands as pretender," I declared, loud enough for every ear to hear, "unless you can prove otherwise with victory in sacred combat. Or will you refuse the challenge and confirm before all these witnesses that your claim to leadership is built on falsehood?"

The court erupted in whispers. Even Tarathiel's most loyal supporters shifted uncomfortably. To refuse an ancient challenge properly invoked would be to admit illegitimacy. No amount of political power could wash away such a stain on his authority. The old ways still held too much power in the hearts of our people.

Tarathiel's face betrayed nothing as he listened to my words. Not anger, not surprise, not even contempt. His discipline was absolute, his control perfect. He would not give the court the satisfaction of seeing him react to my invocation of his past. When I finished speaking, he simply rose from his throne, the movement deliberate and unhurried.

"Bring the ceremonial blades," he commanded, his voice carrying effortlessly across the suddenly silent hall.

Vinolia rose from her seat, fury distorting her ancient features. "This is absurd! Guards, seize him!"

But none moved. All eyes remained fixed on Tarathiel, waiting. In that moment, the true balance of power revealed itself. For all her magical might, all her political influence, Vinolia was not the one whose legitimacy had been challenged. This was between father and son now. Between past and future.

Tarathiel descended from the dais, each footfall echoing in the tense silence. His eyes, so like mine in color, yet so different in what lay behind them, never left my face.

Two guards hurried to obey his command, returning with ornate swords that had not seen use in generations. Ritual blades, their edges no less deadly for their ceremonial purpose. One was presented to Tarathiel with a deep bow. The other was offered to me with visible reluctance.

I took the blade, feeling its perfect balance, the weight of history it carried. These weapons had decided the fate of kingdoms before either my father or I drew breath.

"So be it," he said, raising his blade in the formal salute of ritual combat. "Let blood and steel decide the future of our people."

Guards filtered silently to the edges of the hall, clearing a space. Battle mages positioned themselves at strategic points, ready to contain the violence about to unfold. Courtiers pressed back against the walls, eager to witness yet afraid to be too close to the dangerous dance about to begin.

We began to circle each other, blades raised in identical stances. My father had trained me himself, after all. Every technique I knew came from him. The sword felt awkward after months of wielding my own blade, but I adapted quickly, muscle memory compensating for the unfamiliar weight.

"I taught you better than this, Ruith," he said.

"No," I countered. “You taught me to win.”

His face darkened. "Insolent to the end."

He struck first, a testing blow that I parried with effort. The unfamiliar blade made my movements less fluid than usual, but I maintained my defense. The clash of steel echoed through the hall. Everyone had fallen back to the walls, watching in silence as father and son enacted the ancient ritual. I caught glimpses of my companions positioning themselves strategically around the room. Still no sign of Katyr. Had he found a way to reach Vinolia's phylactery? I couldn't afford to wonder. Tarathiel required my full attention.

We exchanged a series of blows, feeling out each other's defenses. My father fought with the patience of centuries, economical movements that wasted no energy. I matched him, refusing to be drawn into reckless attacks despite the urgency burning beneath my skin.

"You fight like me," he observed after a particularly complex exchange left us both unscathed.

"I’m better than you," I countered, feinting left before attacking from the right.

“Perhaps,” he admitted, stepping back and raising his sword to guard. “But I have more experience, and I know your every weakness. You cannot win this, Ruith.”

His next attack came faster, harder. I blocked, but the force drove me back several steps. Age had not diminished his strength. If anything, the decades of rule had honed him to a more deadly edge. We were evenly matched in technique, but his experience gave him an advantage I couldn't overcome.

Unless I surprised him.

I shifted my stance subtly, adopting the low guard position Hawk had taught me—a human technique from the Ostovan military that emphasized economy of movement over elven flourish. The slight change in balance and foot positioning was almost imperceptible, but to a master swordsman like Tarathiel, it registered as something foreign, something he hadn't taught me.

Confusion flickered across his face for just an instant. He recognized the stance as something outside his influence, something beyond his teachings. That momentary uncertainty gave me the opening I needed. I lunged forward in the quick, direct attack style Elindir had drilled into me for hours on end. No wasted motion, no elaborate setup, just brutal efficiency that scored a shallow cut along Tarathiel's right arm.

First blood. Gasps rippled through the watching crowd.

Tarathiel glanced at the wound with something like respect. "The student surprises the master."

"The student became his own master long ago," I replied.

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