Page 81 of The War of Four Winters

The ceremonial cleansing began with unnecessary roughness. Guards cut away my prison garments rather than unshackling me to allow for dignity. I stood naked before them, refusing to show discomfort despite the chilled air against my skin and the pulsing pain of half-healed wounds. My father had calculated this humiliation, knowing that warriors who had once followed me now witnessed my vulnerability.

A female healer entered, her expression professionally neutral as she assessed my condition. "These wounds require treatment before presentation," she announced, addressing the senior guard rather than acknowledging me directly.

He inclined his head slightly. "The Primarch wishes him presentable, not comfortable."

"Some of these injuries will be visible, even in formal attire," she countered evenly. "The Assembly will notice."

Something unspoken passed between them. The Primarch wanted me humiliated but not pitiable. Nothing that might engender sympathy from those who would judge me.

"Proceed with the necessary treatment," the guard conceded.

The healer worked efficiently, cleaning wounds and applying salves that numbed and sealed damaged flesh. Her hands were impersonal, clinical in their assessment of injuries, both recent and older. She paused only briefly at the ritual scar beneath my ribs, her fingers tracing its perfect circular pattern with professional curiosity before continuing her work.

"This is necromantic in origin," she observed, her tone academic rather than accusatory.

I remained silent, offering neither confirmation nor denial. The scar spoke for itself.

When she finished, servants brought heated water that steamed in the chill air. They washed me with ritualistic thoroughness, each scrubbing motion deliberate and symbolic. Washing away not just physical dirt but spiritual contamination. Preparing the accused for judgment.

I closed my eyes as they washed my hair, feeling the weight of water against my scalp. The sensation transported me briefly to Calibarra, to the bathing chamber I had shared with Elindir before his departure for Homeshore. I could almost feel his hands working oil through my hair, the comfortable intimacy we had found despite our complicated beginning.

"His braids require proper arrangement," one servant murmured to another.

"No," the senior guard countermanded. "The Primarch's instructions were specific. No victory braids, no symbols of status."

Another calculated insult. My hair, normally kept in the seven traditional braids marking my victories in battle and diplomatic arena, would hang loose like an untested youth's. Another visual reminder that my father intended to strip me of everything I had earned before the Assembly.

After the washing came formal attire laid out with ceremonial care. Not my own clothing with Starfall colors, but formal garments bearing House Deepfrost insignia. My father's house. His symbols of authority, not the plum blossom tree I had chosen to represent my reign.

The tunic bore silver embroidery signifying royalty, but with subtle modifications that marked me as a subject rather than sovereign. To the untrained eye, it appeared as clothing befitting a prince. To those versed in Assembly protocol, it screamed submission.

As servants secured the final fastenings, the senior guard approached with a small wooden box. The sight of it sent ice through my veins. I knew what it contained.

"The Primarch requests the ceremonial submission symbol be placed."

From the box, he withdrew a slender band of silver set with a single blue stone. Not a mark of authority, but a symbol of formal submission. Last worn by political prisoners of royal blood during the Succession Wars centuries ago. Its placement would communicate to the Assembly that I accepted my father's ultimate authority, that I recognized the illegitimacy of my own claim to leadership.

"I will not wear it," I stated calmly, meeting the guard's gaze directly.

Uncertainty flickered in his eyes. My father's instructions had likely not accounted for refusal at this stage. "The Primarch insists—"

"I am still Ruith Starfall until the Assembly rules otherwise," I said, keeping my voice level but firm. "I will not enter that chamber wearing symbols of submission before judgment has been rendered."

The guard hesitated, clearly torn between my father's orders and the protocol breach that forcing the symbol would represent. Before he could decide, a new figure entered the preparation chamber.

"That won’t be necessary."

My father stood in the doorway, silver hair immaculate, victory braids woven with threads of gold catching the morning light that filtered through high windows. His ceremonial robes of state transformed him into something more symbol than elf, power made flesh and draped in tradition.

The guards immediately bowed, fists pressed to hearts in formal salute. "Primarch," they acknowledged in unison.

"Leave us," he commanded without inflection. The guards hesitated for just a heartbeat, uncertain whether to abandon their post. Tarathiel did not raise his voice or repeat himself. He simply fixed his gaze on the senior guard, who immediately straightened.

"At once, Primarch."

They filed out silently, the senior guard returning the silver band to its box before withdrawing. The door closed with soft finality, leaving me alone with the father who intended to end my life before the day concluded.

Tarathiel studied me with clinical detachment, walking a slow circle around my bound body. His gaze inventoried every detail of my appearance with the same dispassionate assessment he might give a piece of property or a tactical map. There was nothing paternal in his scrutiny, only the cold evaluation of a strategist considering how best to utilize an asset.

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