In desperation, the Winter-mage slams his blade against mine, trapping it against a tree trunk as he lets go with one hand. He expects me to pull my katana back and a look of triumph sweeps across his face as an icy storm begins forming in his free hand. But instead of pulling back, I let go of Master with my left hand as I whisper, “Revertere.” A leather bound hilt slaps my palm and I slide Apprentice through a gap between the armor plates and into his belly.

How many times have I seen the same look of horrified surprise upon a young man’s face? Phantom ice crystals in his hair melt away and vanish as the winter storm he holds in his hand is blown apart by the wind, his steel katana falling from his grasp as I release my grip upon Apprentice and he drops to his knees. 

The short sword is holding his life with her magic as she savors the victory, and the Young Lord knows this, for he places both hands upon the hilt in a vain hope the sword will spare his life. He looks up at me with the pleading eyes of a child. But the time for mercy ended the moment he called upon the Daemo. I lightly touch his neck with Master’s black blade, then slowly raise the sword.

Movement to my left and I pivot, the katana in an attack position held directly over my head as the old healer runs over, the Ogra-Ki limping after him. “Wait,” the old man calls out, his wispy yellow beard blowing to one side then the other as he stops a few arm-lengths away. “Before you take his life, the proper ritual must be observed.”

“What ritual?” The lady knight strides over, in one hand holding her katana, its guard a rose petal over the hilt like the Young Lord’s, while her other hand grips Blood-archer by his hair. His hands are bound in front of him with leather cord and his head is bowed in shame. “Regardless of what he was to our clan, he is now a bandit,” the tip of her blade motioning towards the white haired young man as she snarls, “The best he deserves is a fast death.”

I’m in silent agreement with her but the old man shakes his head. “In another age he surely would have been a loyal vassal to the emperor, and an example for other knights to follow.” The Summer-mage speaks with an accent of someone with noble blood, not just a minor clan but one with ties to the imperial city itself. “His father listened to bad counsel, rebelled, and when his rebellion failed and he was beheaded, the son fled with his father’s Daemo adviser.”

At my feet the Young Lord grimly chuckles. “He did, and listened to Tarko’s bad counsel as well.”

“Like father, like son,” I say as I lower Master until he’s point down with his tip touching the earth.

“In life… and in death,” the last heir of the Rose-petal says, wincing in pain before looking up at the old healer. “Grandfather,” using the honorific for an elderly gentleman, “what my kinswoman says is the truth: I deserve…” He winces in pain again and gasps, “no ritual.”

The expression on the old man’s face softens. “Your spirit needs a chance to compose itself before you move on. It is true you have much to atone for, but if I thought you beyond redemption I would not have stayed your executioner’s hand.” The old man turns to me. “Will you grant the Young Lord the courtesy?”

“We’ll need wine.”

The old man gives me a sly look as he reaches into a pocket of his robes, pulling out a small leather flask and a small wooden cup with writing on it. “I will need to heat it to the proper temperature. Would you like water while you wait? Tinados-Ki-Ogra has the water-skin I gave him.”

I nod, and the Ogra-Ki reaches behind him and pulls out a large leather skin that looks normal in his hands and wordlessly hands it to me. I give him a slight bow, rest Master against me, and use both hands to drink. Fighting is thirsty work, even on the cusp of winter, and the stale, leather tasting water is a blessing as it washes down my throat. The Young Lord gives me his pleading look again but I shake my head. “If you put water in your gullet it’ll just make you sick. Come, let’s both do as Grandfather says and prepare ourselves.” I hand the skin back to the Ogra-Ki and kneel in front of the white haired young man, the butt of my short sword sticking out from the Young Lord’s belly almost touching my armor as I lay the blade of my katana upon my thighs.

I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose. “I can smell it,” the Young Lord says and I open my eyes. His are closed and as I watch he inhales sharply through his nostrils, his eyes opening as his gaze meets mine. “The King’s Laurel you mentioned, I can smell its sweetness.”

“There is a story behind the King’s Laurel plant,” the Summer-mage says sadly as he hands me the cup, now filled with steaming wine. “However, stories take time to tell.”

I recognize the script on the wooden cup as that of the imperial court, but set aside the mystery of what it’s doing with a healer on the road and keep my mind focused as I savor the warm wine, its sweetness tempered with the bitter tang of strong spirits as it slides down my throat. I hand the cup back to the old healer as words form in my mind and I turn towards the Young Lord. “Winter’s ice on rose petals… made brittle by the false spring.”

The Young Lord’s hands are shaking, so the old man holds the cup to his lips and lets him drink. The Young Lord bows his head in silent thanks and turns his gaze upon me. “Shadow wind shakes off ice… petals fall to the hungry earth.” I rise to my feet and his eyes follow my movements. “I was a good man once.”

There’s a gap between the front and back of his leather armor harness, and I place Master’s tip at the proper place on his bare skin. “Your ancestors will remember.” He nods in acknowledgement.

Then gasps as I slide the katana deep inside him, words bubbling up with the bloody froth forming at his lips as he whispers, “Cold… I feel... cold.” Ice crystals form in his hair, not phantom but real, as his flesh turns white as snow.

It becomes snow. I leave my katana where it is as his body softly crumbles away, his skull turning to ice as the white powder of his flesh is caressed by the wind and carried off into the skeletal trees.