Page 62 of The War of Four Winters

He turned back to his mule, adjusting the grisly cargo. "We're camped just over that rise. Got a fire going, some decent wine... you're welcome to share our breakfast before we head out."

It was the opening we needed. I moved forward as if to follow, placing myself directly behind him. Niro stayed where he was, watching the nervous young man who was now looking at us with growing suspicion.

I met Niro's eyes briefly. A nearly imperceptible nod passed between us.

I grabbed Brecht's hunting knife from his belt and drove it into his back without ceremony or warning, angling the blade upward to find his heart. His body stiffened in shock, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as I twisted the steel. No honor, no chance to defend himself. A man who hunted innocents for sport deserved no better.

As he slumped forward, I withdrew my blade and let him fall face-first into the snow. A patch of crimson spread quickly around him, staining the white powder.

The nephew had time for one startled cry before Niro was on him. A sickening crack echoed through the clearing as his neck snapped, and then he too crumpled to the ground.

Silence fell, broken only by the nervous stamping of the mule, disturbed by the scent of fresh blood. I cleaned my blade on Brecht's cloak before resheathing it. The metallic tang of blood hung in the air, mingling with the scent of woodsmoke and decay.

Niro moved toward the sacks, untying them with gentle hands and laying each one on the ground with reverence. When he opened the first sack and saw the contents fully, his shoulders stiffened, but he didn't pause in his grim task.

"Sixteen," he said, his voice rough. "Men, women. Some hardly more than children."

I stood beside him, watching as he carefully arranged each severed head on the clean snow. My chest felt hollow. These weren't soldiers who had fallen in battle, but innocents caught in Michail's campaign of hatred. Merchants. Healers. Perhaps even children.

"We should bury them," I said. "Properly, according to your customs."

Niro turned to me, something like surprise flickering across his features. "That would delay us considerably. The Assembly—"

"Will still be there," I interrupted. "We cannot leave them like this." I gestured to the severed heads, each one representing a life, a family, a story cut violently short. "I won't let Michail deny them even this basic dignity."

For a moment, Niro simply looked at me. Then he nodded once, the gesture carrying more meaning than words could express. "Thank you," he said quietly.

We spent hours digging through frozen ground with improvised tools, creating proper graves according to elven custom. Niro spoke ancient words over each head as we wrapped them in clean cloth taken from the hunters' supplies. I didn't understand all the ritual, but I recognized the reverence in his actions, the way he carefully bound specific knots in the cloth and placed each bundle facing east. When we finally lowered them into the ground, he sang a low, haunting melody that made the hair on my arms rise despite the cold.

When the last grave was filled, Niro approached me, sitting beside me on a fallen log. "You surprise me, Lord Consort," he said, his formal address at odds with the quiet intimacy of his tone.

"How so?"

"Most humans wouldn't understand the importance of these rites." He gestured to the freshly turned earth. "Most would see only the delay to our mission."

I thought of Ruith, of how he had respected my own traditions even while introducing me to his. "Respect doesn't always require understanding," I said.

Niro studied me for a long moment. "Then perhaps it's time you understood what awaits us in D'thallanar," he said. "The Assembly is not merely a gathering of noble houses. It's the oldest continuous political body in our world, bound by traditions older than any living elf's memory."

"You're worried they won't let me speak," I guessed.

"I'm certain they won't," he corrected. "No human has ever addressed the Assembly directly. The closest any have come is serving as scribes or message bearers, and even then, they never entered the sacred hall itself. And even if you could speak, many clans are deeply committed to Tarathiel. They would dismiss any warning from someone associated with Ruith's rebellion as a desperate ploy."

The weight of what we were attempting settled more firmly on my shoulders. A diplomatic gambit with impossible stakes. The survival of both peoples hung in the balance. We needed to find a way not just to be heard, but to be believed. "Then how do we proceed?"

Niro sighed, his breath forming a small cloud in the cool morning air. "There is a ritual for approaching the Assembly Hall," he began. "One all supplicants must follow, regardless of rank or purpose."

He described the process in detail—the surrendering of weapons at the hundred-foot marker, the point beyond which no human servant could pass, the removal of boots before walking the final approach on bare feet over jagged stones. The ritual cleansing with earth, water, and ash. Each element was designed to humble even the proudest elf.

"The path is deliberately painful," he explained. "Stone sharp enough to draw blood from even elven feet. It's meant to focus the mind, to ensure that only those with true purpose would seek the Assembly's attention."

I considered his words, understanding the implications. "And they've never made an exception? Not even in times of war or crisis?"

"Never," Niro confirmed. "The ancient laws are absolute."

A thought struck me, the solution emerging from our recent deception. I glanced at Niro, the beginnings of a plan forming. "What if we reverse what we just did? Not an elf pretending to be human, but..."

Niro's eyes widened as he caught my meaning. "A human pretending to be elven? That's—"

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