Page 88 of The War of Four Winters

The final battle would be fought not with curved blades or dueling sands, but with politics and calculated votes. As we approached the towering bronze doors of the Assembly Hall, I touched the water symbols on my forehead for reassurance. I had proven my conviction in House Redrock's dueling circle.

Now I had to hope it would be enough to save the man I loved from his father's judgment.

TheAssemblyHallfellsilent as I was led to the center circle. Guards positioned themselves at each cardinal point, their ceremonial spears striking the marble floor in unison, the sound echoing through the cavernous chamber like a heartbeat. Ancient protocol dictated everything, from the precise number of steps I would take before being forced to kneel to the exact wording of accusations that would follow.

I kept my spine straight despite the pain throbbing through my body, my gaze level as I faced the dais where my father sat. The ceremonial chains binding my wrists felt heavier than they had in the cells below, their symbolic weight increasing with each passing moment. I would not show weakness here, not before the Assembly, not before my father.

Tarathiel looked down from his elevated position with a dispassionate gaze. He wore full formal regalia, his silver hair adorned with threads of gold in his victory braids. His expression revealed nothing, no satisfaction, no regret, certainly no familial connection to the son who stood in chains before him.

"The Assembly of the Twelve Clans is now in session," declared the Herald, his ancient voice carrying to every corner of the chamber. "Gathered to render judgment on Ruith of House Deepfrost, who stands accused of high treason against the Primarchy, conspiracy against the Assembly itself, and crimes against elven sovereignty. As is tradition, representatives of the Twelve Clans will hear evidence, render judgment, and determine appropriate punishment should guilt be established."

My eyes swept the eleven occupied clan seats in the front row. Each representative sat in an ornate seat carved with their house symbols. Some faces were familiar, allies from my rebellion or former opponents across negotiating tables. Others were strangers, representatives I knew only by reputation. The twelfth seat, bearing the haunting symbols of House Duskfell, stood conspicuously empty.

"The accused will kneel before the Assembly," the Herald commanded.

I remained standing, ignoring the murmur of surprise that rippled through the observers' gallery above. Guards shifted uneasily, awaiting instruction from the Primarch. This moment of defiance had been carefully calculated, not enough to justify immediate violence, but sufficient to establish that I did not acknowledge the Assembly's authority over me.

My father's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes hardened. "The accused will show proper respect to the assembled representatives," he stated.

"I am your king," I replied, my voice carrying to every corner of the chamber. "I kneel for no one, nor do I acknowledge this Assembly’s authority to judge me. Only the gods or the people may pass judgement upon a king."

Gasps and murmurs erupted from the observers' gallery. The representatives themselves maintained better composure, though several exchanged glances. I had just issued a direct challenge to the Assembly's legitimacy, and by extension, to my father's rule.

The Herald struck his staff against the floor, restoring order. "The accused will—"

"Allow me to clarify," I interrupted, my voice carrying throughout the chamber without shouting. "I stand before this Assembly not as a supplicant begging mercy, but as a king claiming rightful authority. I completed the sacred hunt. I took the heart of Vargulf himself. I bear the ritual markings and carry the blessing of ancient powers. By the oldest laws of our people, my right to rule stands on firmer ground than any who sit in judgment today."

Silence fell, heavy and sudden. Even the Herald seemed at a loss, his ancient protocol disrupted by this unprecedented claim. Traditional elven society revered the sacred hunt above all rituals, a tradition older than the Assembly itself. By invoking it so directly, I had shifted the terms of engagement from political rebellion to competing claims of sacred legitimacy.

My father recovered before anyone else, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. "The accused attempts to distract from his crimes with irrelevant appeals to outdated customs. The sacred hunt no longer determines leadership. The Assembly alone holds that authority."

"Does it?" I countered, taking one deliberate step forward, chains clinking with the movement. "Then why do you style yourself merely 'Primarch' rather than 'King'? Because you know you have no right to the latter title. You know your rule is illegitimate."

The Assembly erupted into chaos. Representatives turned to each other in heated discussion, some gesturing emphatically while others sat stunned by my open declaration. In the observers' gallery, scribes frantically recorded every word, while minor nobles and officials whispered urgently to their companions.

Through it all, my father remained unnaturally still, watching me with the cold calculation of a predator assessing prey. Only those who knew him well would recognize the subtle signs of rage building beneath his perfect mask, the slight tightening around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

"Order!" The Herald's staff struck the floor. "Order in the Assembly! The accused will remain silent while evidence is presented, or he will be removed from these proceedings."

I inclined my head slightly, the barest acknowledgment of the Herald's authority, and fell silent. I had said what needed saying. The seed was planted, a reminder to the more traditional houses that my claim to leadership rested on foundations older and perhaps more legitimate than my father's political maneuverings.

The Herald struck his staff against the floor, restoring order. "Does any representative wish to speak in defense of the accused?"

A moment of tense silence followed. Speaking in my defense would mean openly opposing Tarathiel, a political risk few were willing to take.

Then Klaus Wolfheart rose from his seat.

The chamber's reaction was immediate and visceral. A collective intake of breath swept through the observers' gallery. Some representatives straightened in their seats, suddenly alert to the unexpected development. Others exchanged subtle glances, already calculating how this might shift the balance of power. The Ivygrass elder leaned close to his Deepfrost counterpart, whispering urgently behind a cupped hand.

But it was my father's reaction that told the true story. For a fraction of a second, genuine surprise flickered across his face before his practiced control reasserted itself. His fingers tightened on the arms of his chair, knuckles whitening briefly before relaxing. Though his expression remained impassive, something dangerous kindled in his eyes as they fixed on Klaus Wolfheart.

"House Wolfheart will speak," Klaus declared.

Klaus moved to the traditional defender's position, opposite Varyk, who had presented the prosecution's case yesterday.

"Honored representatives," he began, "yesterday we heard many accusations against Ruith Starfall. Today I ask you to consider context before judgment. For generations, the northern clans have watched our sons die in endless campaigns against the Yeutlands. We cannot sustain these losses, and yet more blood is demanded. More sons."

Several northern representatives nodded slightly, their own clans having suffered similar losses.

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