Page 63 of The War of Four Winters

"Possible," I finished for him. "With the right clothing, hair arrangement. Ears can be modified with wax or hidden beneath proper ceremonial headdress." I leaned forward, the excitement of possibility pushing through exhaustion. "I speak elvish well enough to pass a cursory examination. You taught me the proper court mannerisms."

"It's never been done," Niro said, but I could see him considering the possibility. "The penalties for such deception—"

"Would hardly matter if we succeed," I countered. "The Assembly needs to hear what Michail is doing. Sometimes the only way through a door is to become someone who belongs on the other side."

Niro stared at me for a long moment, weighing impossibilities against necessities. The morning light strengthened around us, illuminating the fresh graves of those who had already fallen to Michail's hatred. In that fragile dawn, surrounded by evidence of my brother's cruelty, something shifted in Niro's expression.

"It would require perfect execution," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "The slightest mistake would mean death for us both."

"Then we'll be perfect. If we can make the Assembly understand the true threat Michail poses, some might reconsider their allegiance to Tarathiel. They could see that Ruith's vision is the only path forward."

Niro sighed and looked around him at the sixteen graves he’d dug. There would be many more graves before all this was done, no matter how things played out, but my way… My way meant there might be a few less.

“Very well, Lord Consort,” Niro said, rising, his hand resting on his sword. “If you are so set on making this journey, I cannot stop you. But I gave Ruith my word that I would protect you and I intend to keep my oath until death takes me.”

As we gathered our supplies and covered all evidence of the headhunters' existence, I cast one last glance toward the fresh graves. Sixteen lives ended by hatred and greed. Sixteen families who would never know their loved ones' final resting place. I made a silent promise to them, to Ruith, to the future we were fighting for: Michail's crusade would end. Whatever it cost, whatever I had to become to make it happen, I would ensure that no more innocents died to feed his twisted ambitions.

I only hoped Captain Yisra and her crew had escaped, that they'd managed to return to Calibarra with news of what we'd discovered. More than that, I hoped they'd reached Ruith and told him I was still alive, still fighting to return to him.

"Ready?" Niro asked, the question carrying more weight than the single word suggested.

I nodded, squaring my shoulders as we turned eastward, toward D'thallanar and the Assembly. "Ready."

Thefirstday,Iwalked. The wounds from our duel burned with each step, but I kept my spine straight, my eyes forward. Father rode his warhorse beside me, occasionally glancing down with an expression that mixed contempt with something almost like curiosity. The chains they'd bound me with were silver-steel alloy, engraved with ancient runes—ceremonial symbols meant to bind not just the body but the spirit of royal prisoners. They weighed more than ordinary chains would have, the burden both physical and symbolic.

"You'll break before we reach D'thallanar," Father observed casually, as if commenting on the weather. "They all do."

I said nothing. Speech required energy I couldn't spare.

Night fell with brutal swiftness, the magical winter pulling darkness across the sky like a shroud. They made no fire for me, though the guards warmed themselves mere feet away. I lay on frozen ground, shackled to a stake driven deep into the earth. My breath clouded above me as I stared at the unfamiliar stars, wondering if Elindir looked at these same constellations wherever he was.

The second day, Father ordered my boots taken.

"Kings should feel the land they claim to rule," he explained to his captain, though his words were meant for me. "Every stone, every thorn. The pain will remind him of consequence."

Snow packed between my toes, then melted against my skin, then froze again as temperatures dropped further. By midday, I could no longer feel my feet. I stumbled forward on nerveless limbs, vision blurring as the fever from my untreated wounds began to take hold.

"Water," I rasped when we stopped briefly. "Please."

It was the first word I'd spoken since our capture. The guards looked to Father for permission. His expression revealed nothing as he nodded once. The water they brought was lukewarm and tasted of iron, but I gulped it down, knowing it might be my last for hours.

"Do you know why I'm keeping you alive?" Father asked, crouching beside me.

I swallowed the last of the water. "Public execution. You need the spectacle."

I met his gaze but remained silent, conserving what little strength remained.

His laugh held no humor. "Always the stubborn one, Ruith." He took the empty cup from my hand. "I'm keeping you alive because you're still useful."

I stared back at him, refusing to give voice to the denial burning in my throat.

"Your silence changes nothing," he continued. "Your capture demoralizes your followers. Your execution will end your rebellion." He stood, looking down at me through eyes so similar to my own. "And your life, in the meantime, brings Katyr to heel. He'll barter himself for you—his power, his claim to the Runecleavers, all of it. He's already sending messages through his contacts. Offering terms."

Cold fear washed through me, sharper than the winter air. "He wouldn't."

"Wouldn't he? For his beloved brother?" Father's smile never reached his eyes. "Your greatest weakness has always been inspiring too much loyalty in those who should know better."

They didn't let me rest that night. Whenever sleep threatened to claim me, guards prodded me awake with spear butts. Father watched from his tent, occasionally emerging to observe my deterioration with clinical detachment. By morning, hallucinations danced at the edges of my vision—shadows that moved without sources, whispered voices in a language I almost recognized.

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