Page 82 of The War of Four Winters

"Adequate," he pronounced, completing his circuit to stand before me. His voice carried no more emotion than if he were discussing the weather. "Though still unworthy of the bloodline you've betrayed."

I met his gaze steadily. "I've betrayed nothing. It is you who abandoned the values Mother died defending."

Not a muscle moved in his face at the mention of my mother. If I had hoped to provoke some reaction, I failed completely. "Your mother's idealism was a weakness I tolerated because it served other purposes." He spoke of his dead wife with the same tone he might use to discuss a trade agreement. "A weakness you unfortunately inherited."

"Her strength," I corrected. "Her vision for a better world."

"Her vision accomplished nothing except hastening her death," he replied evenly. "As yours will do to you unless you finally recognize reality."

He turned to glance out the window at the Assembly Hall's grand dome visible against the lightening sky. The gesture was economical, measured. Dawn approached, bringing with it the hour of judgment. When he spoke again, his voice remained precisely modulated, revealing nothing of his inner thoughts.

"Your execution would be inefficient and wasteful."

The cold practicality made me wary. My father never acted without calculating every potential advantage. "The Assembly will render judgment according to evidence presented. Or has the outcome already been decided in private?"

He turned back to me. No anger, no frustration, just the same impassive mask. "The political reality is that six clans will vote for your execution, four against, with two potentially vacillating. I control the outcome, as I have controlled every meaningful vote in the Assembly for the past thirty years." He stated this not as a boast but as a simple fact. "But dead princes have limited utility."

Understanding dawned. This private meeting, the careful preparation, the timing just before dawn… My father wanted something from me. Something that required negotiation rather than simple command.

"What are you offering?"

His eyes held mine, not searching for weakness but calculating value. "Exile to the northern territories rather than public execution. Hard labor in the mines for ten years, after which you might be permitted to serve in the border patrols. Your life would be spared." He delivered these terms with the same dispassion he might use to dictate trade tariffs. "The memory of your rebellion would fade, but you would maintain potential future usefulness."

I studied him, the father who had trained me since childhood to look beyond surface offers to the underlying motivations. "And what would this arrangement cost me?"

"A full confession before the Assembly. Public renunciation of your claim to leadership. An order for your forces to stand down and disperse." He delivered each requirement without emphasis, then added with the same neutral tone, "And formal repudiation of your relationship with the human consort."

There it was. The true purpose behind this unexpected offer. My father needed me to disavow Elindir publicly, to declare our union a mistake, a political error, perhaps even treason against elven kind. He needed to erase the example we had set, the possibility we represented for a different future between our peoples.

"You want me to renounce Elindir?" I stated, making certain there could be no misunderstanding.

"Your attachment to the human compromises your judgment," he replied, as if stating an obvious truth rather than an opinion. "It undermines stability and appropriate hierarchy. Correct this error publicly, and you may live."

I almost laughed at the fundamental misunderstanding revealed in those words. My father, for all his political acumen, had never grasped the truth of what Elindir meant to me. What we had built together.

"You still don't understand, do you?" I asked quietly.

"I understand that sentiment is a luxury no ruler can afford." His tone remained measured, his expression unchanged. "The human served a purpose. That purpose is now ended. This should be a simple calculation."

I thought of Elindir in my cell just hours ago, the desperation in his kiss, the fierce determination in his eyes as he promised that I wasn't alone in this fight. My father couldn't be more wrong, but I saw no benefit in correcting his misconception.

"Mother would be disappointed," I said instead. "To see what you've become."

My father might as well have been carved from ice for all the emotion he showed. "Siriyama is dead. Her opinions, like her idealism, are irrelevant to current considerations. Only results matter."

"I've already died once," I replied calmly. "For love. For purpose. For something larger than myself." My hand moved instinctively to the scar beneath my ribs. "I'm not afraid to do so again, if necessary."

Not even this declaration provoked a visible reaction. If there was any disappointment or frustration behind his perfect mask, it remained hidden. "Then you choose death for yourself and all who follow you. An inefficient outcome, but one I have planned for, nonetheless."

The morning light strengthened, filtering through high windows to cast long shadows across the preparation chamber. My father's expression remained utterly unchanged, as if he were merely concluding a minor administrative matter rather than condemning his own son to death.

"The consequences of your choice are as follows," he stated. "The Assembly will vote for execution. Commander Varyk will carry out the sentence before sunset. Your followers will be systematically eliminated, starting with those of the highest rank and working methodically downward. Your human consort will be captured and returned to his brother or eliminated during the attempt. All records of your rebellion will be expunged from official documentation within six months."

I met his gaze steadily. "Or perhaps your calculation is flawed. Perhaps you've miscounted your supporters in the Assembly. Perhaps the votes will fall differently than you expect."

Something minute shifted in his posture, almost imperceptible. Not uncertainty, but a slight recalibration, like a master chess player noting an unexpected but ultimately inconsequential move.

"The Assembly convenes at mid-morning," he said, turning toward the door with the same measured movements. "Should you reconsider before the final vote, signal the guards. The proceedings can be temporarily suspended."

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