They pass rooms where children recite lessons in voices that carry clearly down the stone passageways, their young voices confident and engaged rather than droning with boredom. He catches fragments of what sounds like history lessons, mathematical equations, even what might be poetry. The education here seems comprehensive, not limited to noble children but available to all.
The keep is alive with purpose, everyone going about their daily activities with clear intent and satisfaction. It's all so different from the careful formality he's used to at his father's estate, where every interaction is weighted with social hierarchy and political calculation. The vassals who live and work on their land are always kept at a careful distance, never visiting the estate itself, their labor acknowledged only when it fails to meet expectations.
Here, everyone appears to live and work in close quarters, sharing space and resources with an ease that speaks of genuine community rather than mere proximity. The blacksmith's apprentice passes them in the corridor and nods respectfully to Leona while giving Evran a curious but friendly look. A woman herding three small children giggles at something one of them says, her laughter echoing off the stone walls without any concern for propriety.
"Do you know anything about our customs?" Leona asks as they walk, her tone genuinely curious rather than testing. "Surely your tutors must have taught you something of our ways."
Evran considers his answer carefully, then decides honesty is still his best approach with these direct people. "I have never been taught anything constructive about the Drakarri," he admits, attempting his best at diplomacy while still beingtruthful. "Everything I know comes from fear mongering and fabricated tales born of bored scholars who've never set foot north of the borderlands."
He expects offense, or at least disappointment, but Leona just nods with what might be resignation or perhaps understanding. "It's no matter," she assures him, clearly either having expected his lack of knowledge or knowing the ways of southerners well enough to not be surprised by his misinformation. "You'll learn soon enough. The best way to understand a people is to live among them, not to read what their enemies say about them."
The wisdom in her words strikes him. How much of what he knows about the world has been filtered through similar biases and prejudices?
She leads him into the great hall and the sight of it steals his breath even though he's seen impressive spaces already in this stronghold. It's as vast as any chamber he's encountered so far, carved from the same living rock as the audience chamber. But where that space had felt formal and imposing, designed to remind visitors of the Warlord's power, this feels warm and inviting despite its size. The ceiling soars overhead, but the space is broken up by pillars and varying levels that make it feel more intimate than its actual dimensions suggest.
Long tables stretch across the floor with benches worn smooth by generations of use, already filled with people sharing their morning meal. The tables are arranged in a way that encourages community—close enough together that conversations can span multiple groups, but with enough space between them for people to move freely.
It is obvious that mealtimes are a communal event here, more than just the practical necessity of eating. Even though it appears many have already eaten and left—some tables sit empty, dishes cleared away—there are still a good number of people seated and engaged in animated conversation. The mealseems to be less about adhering to a strict schedule and more about gathering when convenient, staying as long as desired.
The hall is raucous with the sound of laughter and conversation, but it's not chaotic or overwhelming. It's the comfortable noise of people who know each other well and genuinely enjoy spending time together. Children's laughter mingles with adult voices discussing everything from crop yields to construction projects. A group near one of the fire pits seems to be engaged in friendly debate about something that has them all gesturing enthusiastically.
Back in the south, meals at his father's estate are formal affairs riddled with etiquette and propriety that keep conversations stilted and mannerisms carefully controlled. Silence is preferred to casual chatter, and children eat in separate rooms until they're old enough to behave with proper decorum. Every word is measured, every gesture calculated, because you never know who might take offense or use a careless statement against you later.
It is obvious from the way people here are serving themselves from communal platters with their bare hands—no servants hovering to portion food—and calling across the hall to each other that they are not governed by the same oppressive proprieties. Indeed, everyone from young children barely old enough to walk to elderly clan members with silver hair are discussing a variety of topics with animated expressions and gestures, their conversations flowing freely without concern for social rank or political implications.
The air is rich with scents that make Evran's stomach clench with sudden, overwhelming hunger. Fresh bread, still warm from the ovens and filling the hall with its yeasty aroma. Roasted meat that smells of herbs and smoke. The cloying sweetness of honey mixed with herbs and something else he can't identify but that makes his mouth water.
Evran had scarcely eaten on the trip from his homeland to the stronghold, his appetite suppressed by anxiety and fear. The evening meal offered to him last night had sat untouched—he'd been too overwhelmed to even consider eating. So the fact that he finds himself starving in the face of such aromatic smells and sights is not surprising. He knows he's lost weight this season, hunger often losing out to the feeling of insurmountable dread he weathered every time his father looked at him with that calculating expression.
But maybe those days are over. Maybe here, in this warm hall full of people who seem to value simple pleasures like good food and good company, he can finally eat without his stomach churning with anxiety.
"We eat together, for the most part," Leona explains, leading him toward one of the long tables with space available. Her voice carries pride as she describes their customs. "There are no strict times to adhere to, so you'll see some people come early and some people come late depending on their work schedules. We're here at one of the busier times, but it's not always like this. Some prefer to eat before dawn, others after sunset. The kitchens are always working to accommodate everyone."
Evran finds his eye wandering unbidden to the high table at the head of the hall where he can see Vaike seated. Even expecting to feel nervous, he's unprepared for the jolt that goes through him at the sight of the warlord. But even at Vaike's table, elevated slightly above the others to mark his position but not so much as to separate him entirely, the atmosphere is relaxed rather than formal.
Vaike is deep in conversation with a grey-haired man with an elaborately braided beard that reaches nearly to his chest, gesturing with a piece of bread as he makes some point that has the older man nodding thoughtfully. His fur-trimmed cloak is gone—probably too warm for indoor dining—and he sits withone leg crossed over the other in a casual posture that seems at odds with his position. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing more of those winding tattoos that spiral up his forearms in patterns Evran wishes he could see more clearly.
Even relaxed among his people, without ornaments or weaponry visible, Vaike stands out. He has a presence that draws the eye, a natural charisma that would make him notable even in a crowd of hundreds. Evran doesn't think the Warlord could ever look ordinary, no matter how dense the crowd he was in or how casual his attire.
"Here," Leona says, breaking his distraction and guiding him to a spot at one of the lower tables where a small gap in the benches offers space. "Sit wherever there's room. Food is shared—take whatever you like, leave what you don't want. No one will judge your choices."
The concept of shared food isn't entirely foreign to Evran—he's heard of communal meals in some contexts—but it's something he's never personally experienced. At home, servants bring individual portions to each person, carefully measured and artfully presented on fine plates. The amount you receive is determined by your rank at the table, and taking more or asking for different food would be seen as gauche.
Here, large platters sit along the tables with casual abundance—fresh bread still warm from the ovens, some loaves already torn into pieces by eager hands. Bowls of what looks like porridge studded with nuts and dried fruit sit steaming, their contents thick and inviting. Thick slabs of cheese in various shades from white to deep yellow rest on wooden boards. Strips of meat that smell wonderfully of smoke and herbs are piled on plates, probably preserved from earlier hunts.
The people around him nod politely as he sits, but don't stare or whisper as he half-expects. There's curiosity in some eyes—he's clearly new and different—but it's friendly interest ratherthan suspicion or judgment. A woman across from him with blonde hair braided with small silver beads passes him a bowl of porridge with a kind smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
"You're the young lord from the south," she says conversationally, stating fact rather than asking for confirmation. "I'm Aether. I run the looms."
"Evran," he replies, accepting the bowl with genuine gratitude. The porridge is still hot, steam rising from its surface. "Thank you."
"How's the mountain air treating you?" asks a man to his left, elderly with silver threading liberally through his dark beard. His eyes are sharp and intelligent despite his age, taking in Evran's appearance with what seems like friendly assessment. "Takes some getting used to, I imagine, after the thick air of the lowlands."
"It's... cleaner than I'm used to," Evran says honestly, and earns chuckles from several people within earshot.
"Cleaner than the lowlands, you mean," Aether says with good humor, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Wait until winter truly sets in. The air will be so cold and clear it'll steal the breath from your lungs on your first breath each morning."
Evran only hopes he's still here to experience winter. That Vaike doesn't change his mind about this unprecedented acceptance of an outsider. That he proves himself worthy enough to earn a permanent place among these people.
