The revelation seems to rip the fight out of her. She sags against the stone wall, her face crumpling as the last of her desperate hopes crumble into dust. Whatever promises Redmoon had made, whatever future they'd painted for her in exchange for her treachery, none of it matters now that they're beyond the reach of earthly concerns.
"And even if they lived," I continue, each word carefully measured, "Wintermaw does not tolerate traitors. We never have. Honor isn't negotiable, Sareen. Loyalty isn't something you discard when it becomes inconvenient."
She begins to weep then—not the pretty tears of manipulation I remember from our youth, but the raw, ugly sobs of someone finally confronting the magnitude of their mistakes. The sound echoes off stone walls, creating a hollow chorus that speaks to emptiness beyond redemption.
"Please," she whispers when the tears finally subside enough to permit speech. "Nelrish, please. We grew up together. We trained together. You were my first—" She stops, perhaps realizing that invoking intimate memories will only deepen my disgust at her betrayal.
"Which makes your treachery all the more unforgivable." I turn away from the cell, my decision crystallized beyond any possibility of reversal. "Korrash, bring her."
The snow has intensified during our conversation, painting the settlement in shades of white that might have been beautiful under different circumstances. Now it simply provides a stark backdrop for the justice that must be dispensed—clean and cold and final as winter itself.
The clan has begun to gather in the central courtyard, their faces grave with the understanding that today marks more than simple punishment. Word of Sareen's betrayal has spread through the settlement like infection, carried on whispered conversations and meaningful glances. They've come not just to witness justice, but to reaffirm the bonds that hold us together against forces that would tear us apart.
I scan the assembled faces, noting the mix of anger and sorrow that characterizes a community confronting internal betrayal. These people trusted Sareen, accepted her as one of their own, welcomed her into their homes and shared theirtables with her. Her treachery has wounded more than just me—it's violated the fundamental assumption of safety that allows close-knit communities to function.
But my attention settles on a small cluster near the front of the gathering, where familiar figures stand beneath the shelter of an ancient pine whose branches catch and hold the falling snow. Mara's blonde hair emerges from beneath her hood like captured sunlight, and Eira's small form is pressed close against her mother's side, dark eyes taking in everything with the kind of intense focus that speaks to her empathic abilities processing more than simple visual information.
Vaenna stands beside them, her iron-gray braids threaded with colored ribbons that mark her status within the clan hierarchy. Her presence beside my family—and the casual way she's positioned herself as protector and guide—speaks to acceptance that goes beyond mere tolerance. She's claimed them as worthy of her personal attention, which carries weight among the women of the clan.
Korrash emerges from the holding area with Sareen stumbling between two guards, her wrists bound with rough hemp that's already chafed her skin raw. The crowd parts to allow their passage, creating a pathway that leads inexorably toward the raised platform where clan justice has been dispensed for generations.
She looks smaller somehow in the open air, diminished by exposure to the judgment of people who once considered her family. The defiance that sustained her in the cell has crumbled beneath the weight of collective disapproval, leaving only the hollow shell of someone who's finally understood the true cost of her choices.
I step onto the platform, my boots finding familiar purchase on wood worn smooth by decades of use. The assembled clanfalls silent, their attention focused with the kind of intensity that transforms individual voices into unified judgment.
"A week ago," I begin, my voice carrying across the courtyard with the authority of absolute leadership, "I was poisoned by someone I trusted. Someone who shared our fires, ate at our tables, trained with our warriors. Someone who called herself friend while feeding our secrets to our enemies."
The crowd's murmur speaks to anger barely held in check. These are people who understand betrayal in visceral terms—who know that survival depends on the absolute reliability of those around you.
"Sareen of Wintermaw chose treachery over honor," I continue, each word falling into the snow-muffled silence like stones dropped into still water. "She allied herself with Redmoon raiders, shared intelligence about our defenses, and attempted to murder your chieftain to clear the path for invasion."
Sareen's legs give out entirely, forcing her guards to hold her upright as she faces the collective judgment of people who once accepted her as sister. The sound that emerges from her throat speaks to despair beyond the reach of words.
"The penalty for treason has not changed since our ancestors first carved law from necessity," I tell the gathered clan. "Death. Swift and final, so that others may remember the price of betrayal."
I draw my blade—the same steel that ended Rokkan's ambitions and scattered his followers to ash. The weapon catches what little light filters through the snow clouds, its edge honed to razor sharpness for this final duty.
Sareen's eyes find mine across the small distance that separates us, and for a moment I see echoes of the girl who once raced me through summer forests and shared her rations when hunt yields ran thin. But that girl died when she chosepersonal ambition over clan loyalty. What remains is simply the consequence of choices that cannot be undone.
"Any last words?" I ask, though protocol rather than hope motivates the question.
She opens her mouth as though to speak, then closes it without sound. Perhaps she's finally realized that no words can bridge the chasm her actions have created, that some betrayals cut too deep for explanation or excuse.
The blade moves with practiced efficiency, delivering justice with the kind of clinical precision that speaks to necessity rather than cruelty. Her body crumples to the platform, blood seeping into wood that's witnessed similar scenes for generations uncounted.
The clan disperses gradually, their voices subdued as they return to daily routines that carry renewed significance in the wake of demonstrated consequences. Justice has been served, the message delivered with unmistakable clarity. Wintermaw protects its own, but treason earns only death.
I clean my blade with methodical care before approaching the small group that's waited near the ancient pine. Mara's expression holds no judgment, no shock at the violence she's witnessed. Her green eyes reflect understanding that this harsh necessity serves purposes beyond simple revenge—that sometimes mercy becomes cruelty when it allows threats to fester and spread.
But it's Eira's reaction that surprises me most. She watches my approach with calm attention, her gold-tinged eyes bright with something that might be relief rather than fear. When I'm close enough, she reaches out with one small hand to touch my chest, her empathic abilities flowing outward like warm water.
The sensation carries comfort I didn't realize I needed—her innocent magic washing away the bitter taste of necessaryviolence, replacing it with the clean certainty that justice has been properly served.
"I'm glad the woman from your hurt-dreams can't hurt you anymore," she says, her young voice carrying wisdom that seems far too mature for her years. "She made you sad when you were sick. Now she can't make anyone sad."
Her simple summation of complex emotions makes something tight finally relax in my chest. Through her gift, she witnessed Sareen's betrayal during those fever-clouded hours when poison nearly claimed my life. She understands exactly what that woman represented—not just personal threat, but the destruction of trust that allows communities to function.
"No one can hurt any of us anymore," I tell her, lifting her small form into my arms where she settles with the kind of absolute trust that children reserve for those they consider family. "We're safe now. All of us."
