The conversation flows around him naturally, including him without making him the uncomfortable center of attention. People ask polite questions about his journey—was the mountain pass very difficult? Did he see any wildlife along the way?—and his impressions of the stronghold—what does he think of their architecture? Has he visited the forges yet?
But notably, no one pries into his personal business or the specific reason for his presence beyond what was revealed inthe audience chamber. There are no pointed questions about his family or why a lord's son would be sent north as tribute. The Drakarri either already know from gossip spreading through the stronghold, or they have the courtesy not to ask. Either way, Evran is grateful.
It's refreshing after a lifetime of court intrigue where every casual question carries hidden meanings, where simple inquiries about your day might be fishing for information about your father's political maneuvering or your siblings' marriage prospects. Here, when someone asks how he slept, they seem to actually care about the answer rather than using it as an opening to some larger agenda.
The food itself is a revelation that makes Evran's earlier hunger seem prophetic. The porridge is rich and filling, sweetened with honey and studded with fruits he doesn't recognize—some dried, some fresh, all of them adding texture and surprising bursts of flavor. The bread is hearty, with a crust that cracks satisfyingly when he breaks it and a soft interior that practically melts on his tongue. It's nothing like the refined white bread served at his father's table, and somehow it's infinitely better.
The cheese is sharp and creamy simultaneously, unlike anything from his father's lands where the cheese tends toward mild and crumbly. The meat is smoky and rich, seasoned with herbs that make each bite interesting.
"We make everything ourselves," explains Aether when she notices his obvious appreciation, his eyes closing briefly at the taste of particularly good bread. "The mountains provide for us, but only if you know how to work with them. Every ingredient here was grown, raised, or hunted by someone in this hall or their family."
The idea that he's eating food prepared by the same people sharing this meal with him, rather than faceless servantsworking in distant kitchens, adds another layer of meaning to the experience. This isn't just sustenance—it's community, connection, shared effort resulting in shared benefit.
As the meal winds down and people begin leaving for their various duties, Leona touches his shoulder gently. "Come," she says. "Time to find you something useful to do. Can't have you sitting idle—that's not the Drakarri way."
They leave the hall together, and Evran finds himself looking back at the warm, bustling scene with something like longing. When had he last shared a meal where laughter was welcome and encouraged? Where conversation flowed freely without fear of saying the wrong thing or revealing too much? The contrast between this and his former life makes his chest ache with loss for something he never had.
"The Warlord believes in earning one's place," Leona explains as they walk through more corridors, these ones clearly leading toward the outer areas of the stronghold. "Noble birth means nothing here if you can't contribute to the community. So we'll start you somewhere you can learn while being useful, where your mistakes won't be catastrophic but your successes will matter."
It's a practical philosophy that makes sense for a people living in harsh conditions where everyone's contribution genuinely matters. No room for dead weight or purely decorative positions.
Leona leads him outside into the morning sunlight that's grown stronger since dawn, the air crisp and clean in a way that makes his lungs feel more alive than they ever have in the lowlands. They pass through a side gate built into the stronghold's outer wall—clearly designed for regular use by workers rather than formal entrances—and emerge onto the mountainside itself.
Here gardens stretch across terraced levels that cascade down the slope like giant steps carved from the mountain itself. Theterraces extend far and wide both up and down the mountain, each level carefully designed and positioned to catch maximum sunlight while being protected from the worst of the mountain winds by clever placement of walls and the natural terrain.
Plants Evran recognizes from his father's fields mingle with others that are completely foreign to him, all of them looking surprisingly healthy and well-tended despite the challenging mountain environment. The organization is impressive—each terrace seems dedicated to specific crops, with irrigation channels carved into the stone to distribute water evenly.
A young woman is kneeling beside what looks to be a bed of root vegetables, her hands buried in dark soil. She rises gracefully when she notices them emerge from the stronghold, brushing her hands against the apron tied around her waist. She's perhaps Evran's age or possibly younger—it's hard to tell—with dark brown hair braided back in a practical style that keeps it away from her work. Earth already stains not just her hands but her knees and the hem of her dress, speaking to someone who's been working since dawn.
"Eira," Leona says warmly, clearly fond of this young woman, "this is Evran, the young lord I mentioned yesterday. He'll be working with you for the foreseeable future."
She turns to Evran with a smile that suggests she has confidence in this arrangement. "Eira is in charge of our food production—all of it, from planning what to plant to overseeing the harvest and storage. She'll teach you everything you need to know about mountain agriculture."
The responsibility implied by that description is staggering for someone so young, but Eira doesn't seem overwhelmed by it. She dusts her hands more thoroughly, though the earth is clearly embedded too deeply to remove without proper washing, and steps closer to them. Her face is kind, with a scattering offreckles across her nose and cheeks, but there's a hesitance to her movements that suggests nervousness.
She glances briefly at Evran's face with calm dark eyes that remind him of forest pools, but doesn't seem able to hold eye contact for long before her gaze slides to his shoulder or past him entirely. The behavior is familiar—he's seen it before in servants who've been taught that looking directly at nobles is presumptuous.
"It's nice to meet you," she says to him, her voice soft but steady. "Have you worked in gardens before?"
"I've helped with the harvest at home," Evran admits honestly, grateful he has at least some relevant experience to offer. "And I know basic plant care from helping in my mother's herb garden when I was young. But I've never worked on this scale, and I know nothing of farming in the mountains specifically."
"The scale isn't what matters—the principles are mostly the same," Eira assures him, and he sees her relax slightly at his honest assessment. Perhaps she'd been worried he'd claim expertise he didn't have. "Mountain farming has unique challenges, certainly. The growing season is shorter because of the cold, the soil is different from lowland earth, and the weather can change dramatically in hours. But the basics of caring for plants, understanding what they need, working with rather than against nature—all that remains constant regardless of where you're growing."
She gives him a tentative smile that transforms her face, making her look even younger. "I'll show you everything I know. You seem willing to learn, and that's the most important quality in a gardener."
Leona nods encouragingly, looking pleased with how the introduction is going. "I'll leave you to it then. Eira will take good care of you, and I'll check in later to see how you're managing."
As Leona disappears back through the gate and into the stronghold, Evran finds himself alone with Eira in the morning sunlight and mountain air. The silence stretches for a moment as she fiddles with the ties of her apron, clearly gathering her thoughts about where to begin. Then she gestures to the bed of plants she'd been tending when they arrived.
"Well, these are our turnip plots," she explains, moving back to her earlier position and beckoning him to join her. "Turnips are an integral part of our diet here—probably our most important crop after potatoes. They grow well in our soil and climate, they store through winter without spoiling if kept properly cool, and every part of the plant can be used for something. The roots we eat, obviously, but the greens can be cooked when fresh or dried for winter, and even the scraps go to feed livestock or into compost."
She kneels beside the row and he follows her lead, feeling the dark earth give slightly under his knees. It's rich and dark, completely unlike the heavy clay soil of his father's lands that clings to everything and dries into impenetrable bricks in summer. This soil is loose, almost soft, with a pleasant smell of growth and possibility.
"We're checking for root rot before the weather turns colder," Eira continues, clearly more comfortable now that they're focused on work rather than social pleasantries. "It's a fungal disease that spreads quickly if you're not vigilant. Better to catch it early and remove affected plants before it destroys entire rows."
She holds out a small tool that looks like some sort of modified trowel, its blade curved in a way that seems specifically designed for this purpose. "Here. I'll show you what to look for, and then you can work on the next few rows while I supervise."
Evran takes the tool, feeling its weight and balance in his hand, and watches carefully as Eira demonstrates the technique.Her movements are practiced and efficient, clearly honed by years of experience despite her youth.
