Page 80 of The War of Four Winters

"I'll prepare the official documentation for your appointments," Katyr decided. "The seals must be flawless to withstand scrutiny."

Seagrave nodded approvingly. "I'll dispatch messengers to our forces. They should be prepared to move at dawn if the Assembly vote goes against us."

As our impromptu council broke into purposeful activity, I felt a surge of something I had almost forgotten during our desperate journey. Hope. Real tangible hope. We were no longer alone in our fight to save Ruith. An entire coalition moved in concert now, each piece contributing to the larger strategy.

Before we could separate to our tasks, Katyr caught my arm, drawing me slightly aside. "One more thing, Elindir. The boys made something for you and Ruith." He reached into his robe and withdrew a small object wrapped in a soft cloth. "Leif insisted I bring it. Said it would protect you both."

He placed the bundle in my palm. Unwrapping it carefully, I found a small carved wolf, its head thrown back in an eternal howl. The craftsmanship was simple but surprisingly effective for a child's work, especially given the limited tools available to them.

"Torsten helped."

My throat tightened as I traced the small figure's outline. These boys, who had endured slavery, who had witnessed cruelty beyond imagination, had somehow preserved enough hope to create this gift. To believe we would return to them.

I carefully tucked the carving into the inner pocket of my borrowed robes, close to my heart. "We'll bring Ruith home to them. Whatever it takes."

Katyr nodded, no doubt in his eyes. "Whatever it takes."

As we separated to our tasks, I caught a glimpse of Niro and Katyr by the hearth, their foreheads touching in an intimate gesture, hands clasped between them as they savored a moment of reunion. Across the room, Aryn stood with Daraith, their shoulders barely touching, a subtle connection that spoke volumes about the private bond they shared.

These were the people Ruith had gathered around him. Not through conquest or coercion, but through vision and shared purpose. People who had found connection and purpose that transcended blood, tradition, even nature itself.

Outside, D'thallanar had fallen into the hushed anticipation that precedes execution days. The city held its breath, waiting to witness the spectacle of a fallen prince facing his father's judgment. But beneath that surface, counter currents moved in darkness. Messages passed between allies, troops positioned themselves beyond the walls, and in the Craiggybottom compound, a resistance took shape.

As Aryn and I slipped into the night, the small wolf carving pressed against my heart, I knew tomorrow would forever change the fate of both our peoples. One way or another, the world would be remade. Either through Ruith's sacrifice or his salvation.

I would not permit the former. Not while I lived.

Thedarknessbeforedawnfelt thicker than usual, as if even time itself hesitated to bring the morning that might end my life. My cell remained unchanged: cold stone beneath me, damp walls that sweated moisture, iron bars that separated me from freedom, but something had shifted in the air since Elindir's visit. Hope had crept in where only resignation had existed before.

I traced the phantom sensation of his touch across my lips. Hours had passed since Klaus had smuggled him into my cell, but I could still taste him, still feel the desperate pressure of his mouth against mine. The memory sustained me through the endless night as I counted heartbeats, each one a small victory against my father's intended judgment.

Sleep eluded me entirely. My body ached from untreated wounds, but my mind raced with possibilities. Elindir claimed that allies moved in darkness, that the Assembly votes might not fall as Tarathiel expected. I wanted to believe him. Yet decades of experience had taught me that my father rarely miscalculated. He would have secured the necessary support through whatever means required. Bribes, blackmail, perhaps even assassination if a representative proved particularly stubborn.

Still, something about Elindir's confidence had kindled a dangerous flame within me. Not simply a desire to live, though that burned fierce enough, but a renewed conviction in the cause that had brought us here. The future we envisioned. The world we fought to build.

The phantom pain in my ribs, always present, seemed less insistent now. A familiar ache rather than the sharp torment of previous days. I pressed against it, feeling the raised scar tissue through my thin prison garments. A permanent reminder of what I had sacrificed for love. What I would sacrifice again if given the choice.

Images of Leif and Torsten intruded on my thoughts. Their solemn faces as they practiced in Calibarra's training yard. Their laughter across the breakfast table. The way they had looked at me, not with the fear owed to a king or a master, but with the cautious trust children reserve for those they allow into their hearts. I had promised to protect them, to give them the childhood neither Elindir nor I had experienced. To build a world where collars would never again mark their necks.

Would Taelyn care for them if I died here? Would Katyr ensure they grew up knowing their own worth? I believed they would. The family I had chosen, the bonds we had forged beyond blood, would endure even if I did not.

A sound from the corridor drew me from my thoughts. Boots against stone, multiple guards approaching with purpose rather than the casual patrol of night watchmen. Keys jangled, iron scraped against iron as the lock turned in my cell door.

"Up," commanded a guard I recognized from previous days. "The Primarch requires the prisoner's preparation."

I rose slowly, body protesting each movement. Four guards entered the cell while two more remained watchful in the corridor. More than I would have expected for a weakened prisoner, but my father had always been cautious.

"Where are we going?" I asked, voice rough from thirst and silence.

"Preparation chambers. You will be made presentable before the Assembly."

I knew what that meant. A final dignity before public humiliation. The symbolism would not be lost on those who witnessed my judgment. The fallen prince, cleaned and dressed properly before receiving his sentence, as if good appearance could somehow negate the crimes he stood accused of committing.

They bound my hands before leading me from the cell, the now familiar weight of ceremonial chains settling against my wrists. The corridors beneath the Assembly Hall stretched endlessly, ancient stone absorbing the sound of our passage. Other cells stood empty as we passed, a reminder that the Assembly rarely imprisoned enemies. Execution or exile were the preferred methods of handling political opponents. My continued confinement remained unusual, a special consideration from father to son.

We ascended through levels of increasing ornamentation. Simple stone gave way to carved panels depicting historical events, then to corridors adorned with tapestries and gilded woodwork. The preparation chambers occupied the level just below the Assembly Hall itself, a series of rooms designed for official purification before particularly significant proceedings.

"Strip him," ordered a senior guard once we entered the largest chamber.

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