Page 64 of The War of Four Winters

I lost track of days after that. Time blurred into a haze of pain and cold. They fed me just enough to keep me alive, watered me like a reluctant plant. Once or twice, they sent a healer to do just enough healing to keep me alive and whole. Father rode beside me, sometimes speaking, sometimes silent for hours. The content of his monologues shifted between political theory, historical parables, and occasional reflections on my childhood training.

On what might have been the fifth day, he ordered me washed in a half-frozen stream. The shock of cold water stole my breath, sent my heart racing dangerously fast. Guards held me under until black spots danced before my eyes, then pulled me up, gasping, only to force me down again.

"Cleansing," Father explained afterward, as I shivered uncontrollably on the bank. "You'll appear before the Assembly as my son, not some filthy rebel. Presentation matters."

They dressed me in clean clothes bearing the Deepfrost insignia—his house, not mine. The fabric scraped against untreated wounds, but felt blessedly warm after days of exposure. That small mercy was calculated, I knew. Kindness now would make whatever came next more devastating.

Just when I believed I understood the pattern of his cruelty, Father surprised me. As we made camp that night, he ordered me brought to his tent. Guards deposited me roughly on a carpet before the brazier, the first real warmth I'd felt in days.

"Leave us," Father commanded. When the guards hesitated, his eyes hardened. "Now."

We sat in silence as their footsteps receded. The tent's interior was austere—a campaign cot, a folding desk covered with maps and correspondence, a single chair. No luxury, no waste. The only personal item visible was a small silver figurine beside his inkwell: a miniature wolf, head thrown back in eternal howl.

"You recognize it," Father observed, following my gaze.

"It was Mother’s before..." I swallowed. "Before you poisoned her."

His expression didn't change. "Is that what you believe happened?"

"I know what happened. You couldn't risk her rallying support against you. Once you had your heir, she was of no use to you."

Father sighed, reaching for a flask. He poured amber liquid into two cups, sliding one toward me. When I didn't take it, he shrugged. "Suit yourself. The brandy's Savarran. Quite rare these days."

He drank, eyes never leaving mine. "Your mother died of a fever shortly after you were born, Ruith. You know this. I sent my best healers to her, but she refused to admit them. You’ve inherited her stubbornness, you know. But she chose to abandon you and die. Blame her for that, not me." His mouth twisted. "Idealistic nonsense. Death is death, regardless of how poetically one embraces it."

"You expect me to believe she simply... gave up and died?"

Father set down his cup. "I expect nothing from you. Certainly not understanding. But Siriyama made her choice, as you've made yours." He gestured to the tent around us. "As we all must."

I leaned forward, the motion sending fresh waves of pain through my body. The question that had haunted me since childhood rose to my lips before I could stop it.

"Did you ever love me?"

The words hung in the air between us, naked and raw. Father's hand stilled on his cup, surprise briefly displacing his usual calculation. For one unguarded moment, something flickered in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or memory.

His jaw clenched. “Love is a weakness. Not something I could afford anyone if I wanted to survive. I couldn’t love your mother any more than I could’ve loved Isheda. But you… You were mine. There was a time once when I thought…” He raised his eyes to me and paused, his cup halfway to his mouth. Then something passed over his face, a cold transformation, and he looked away. “What does it matter? My hand is forced now. You ensured that when you chose to go to war with me.” Father reached for the flask again, refilling his cup. "Did you ever consider," he asked, studying the amber liquid, "that I might not want to execute my own son?"

I met his gaze but said nothing.

"The Assembly expects a trial. They demand it. The spectacle of the rebel king brought to justice before the twelve clans." His voice held no emotion, as if discussing trade negotiations rather than my execution. "But there are... alternatives."

My wounds throbbed with each heartbeat. "What alternatives?"

"Publicly renounce your claim. Order your supporters to disband. Make a full confession before the Assembly." He set down his cup. "Do this, and I could spare your life."

"To what end?" I asked. "Permanent imprisonment?"

"Service in the north." Father's expression remained impassive. "The northern territories always need fighters against the Yeutish rebels. A life of purpose, if not comfort." He leaned forward. "You'd never set foot in the central kingdoms again, never see your human consort, never return to Calibarra. But you would live."

"You left me no choice when you killed Miya," I said, the words torn from somewhere deep within me. "When you ordered her execution while my child grew inside her."

Father's expression hardened, his eyes cold. "Is that what this rebellion is truly about? A human slave?" He shook his head, genuine bewilderment in his voice. "She was property, Ruith. Nothing more. You could have had a hundred like her."

"She was everything," I countered, rage giving strength to my broken body. "She was kindness in a world of cruelty. Hope in darkness. And you hanged her while she carried my child."

"She was disrupting proper order," Father replied, unmoved. "Your sentiment blinded you then as it blinds you now. Had you remained discreet, kept her as a private amusement rather than flaunting your attachment, she might have lived. The child would have been disposed of quietly, of course, but—"

"Don't," I warned, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Don't speak of them as if they meant nothing."

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