"Tomorrow we'll start you on the herb gardens if you're willing," Eira says, rising and brushing dirt from her knees with hands that will probably never be entirely clean. "Those are trickier—the plants are much more delicate than these root vegetables, and you have to know which ones can grow together and which ones will choke each other out. But I think you'll get it with some practice. You were a great help today, Evran. I think we're going to work well together."
The compliment makes him flush with pleasure. When was the last time someone praised his work without qualification or hidden agenda?
They rinse the worst of the dirt off their hands in a nearby basin—though Evran suspects it will take serious scrubbing to get his nails clean—and walk back into the stronghold together for the midday meal. They fall into step behind a blacksmith and his apprentice who are also heading toward the great hall, the four of them part of a general migration as the working morning gives way to a meal break.
It's a little later than Evran expects when they finally reach the great hall—closer to afternoon than midday—and there aren't nearly as many people as there had been at breakfast. The busiest meal time has passed, leaving only those whose work schedules put them on different hours. The atmosphere is more relaxed, conversations quieter without the breakfast crowd's boisterous energy.
Despite the apprehension Evran feels whenever he thinks about the warlord—and he's trying very hard not to think about him—he can't help but look to the high table to see if Vaike is there. The seat the warlord had occupied that morning is vacant now, although a few people still sit around the table engaged in quiet conversation while they eat their meal. Advisors, probably, or perhaps family members given the informal nature of their interaction.
Evran is surprised by the twinge of disappointment he feels when he sees Vaike is absent. It makes no sense—the warlord's presence inspires trepidation and unease in him like a growing storm he knows is coming but can't avoid. By all rights, he should be relieved not to be under that penetrating gray stare, not to have to worry about his every action being observed and evaluated.
He should do his best to share as little of the other man's space as he can while he earns his place here, stay out of sight and out of mind. The last thing he wants is to remind Vaike of hispresence and have the warlord reevaluate his generous offer to let him stay.
And yet, he looks for him all the same, like a child who's burned his hand in the fire but keeps reaching out for more, unable to resist the draw of something dangerous.
He sits with Eira at a mostly empty table near the far wall, the wood worn smooth by countless meals and scrubbed clean between uses. He helps himself to more freshly baked bread—slightly different from breakfast, perhaps from a different baker or a different recipe—and dried meats that have been seasoned with herbs he can't identify. It's still early enough in the season that there are fresh fruits and berries in abundance, varieties he's never seen in the south displayed in generous portions.
Despite most of the food being completely foreign to him—the fruits strange in shape and color, the seasonings unfamiliar on his tongue—Evran piles it on his plate with the resolution that he will enjoy it regardless. No more starving himself because anxiety has killed his appetite. No more picking at food because his father's disapproval makes everything taste like ash.
They eat in companionable silence for a long while, both of them tired from the morning's work and content to simply rest and refuel. Evran wonders why Eira is choosing to sit with him when there are probably friends or family she could dine with, people she's known for years rather than a stranger she just met. But he's grateful for the company all the same. Maybe she realizes that without her, he would sit alone and uncertain, unsure of where he's welcome.
After some time passes and they've both eaten their fill, Eira finally seems to give in to the curiosity that's probably been building since Leona introduced them. She says, not looking up from her plate where she's pushing around some berries, "The Warlord doesn't usually accept outsiders into the clan. It's... unprecedented, actually."
Evran glances at her, uncertain how to respond to that. "You said your parents came here."
She nods, still focused on her plate. "We had family already here to vouch for us, to guarantee our worth and speak to our character. My mother's sister married into the clan years before we arrived. But you don't have anyone like that." Her eyes flicker up to his face briefly, that same quick glance that doesn't quite hold. "It's just... it's never been done before, accepting someone with no connections, no guarantees. People are talking about it."
Evran doesn't know what to say to that revelation. He had known when Vaike offered him a place here that it was a generous offer he'd done nothing to deserve, a mercy he hadn't earned. But he hadn't realized it was something that simply wasn't done, a break from tradition so significant that it's causing discussion throughout the stronghold.
The idea that Vaike would make such an exception for him—would allow him into these walls when no other outsider has been invited to stay without family connections—is simultaneously overwhelming and terrifying. It means the warlord sees something in him worth the risk, worth breaking precedent. But it also means the scrutiny on him will be even more intense, every mistake magnified by the unprecedented nature of his acceptance.
No wonder Vaike had told him in such certain terms that he would have to prove himself worthy of staying. He's not just earning his own place—he's justifying the warlord's decision to break with tradition, validating a choice that apparently has the whole clan talking.
Eira continues along the natural path of questioning and asks the thing Evran dreads most, the question he can't properly answer. "Why did you want to leave home? It must have been something serious, to travel so far and request sanctuary among strangers."
The truth sticks cloyingly in Evran's throat, like a cluster of honeysuckle he can't swallow around or force out. He can't tell her why he's really here—can't explain that he didn't request sanctuary but was sent as punishment, that his own father traded him like livestock, that he's here because he refused to prostitute himself for political gain.
He can't tell her any more than he can explain what he left behind or what awaits him if he fails here and gets sent back. Even if he could find the words to explain himself, she doesn't need to know that people like his father exist in the world. She doesn't need that darkness touching her life.
So instead he coughs to clear his throat of the obstruction, breaking off another chunk of bread to give his hands something to do. "I wasn't welcome there," he says finally, settling on the simplest truth he can offer.
It's not the whole truth, not even close. But it's all he can give her right now.
Eira seems to sense there's more to the story, but to her credit, she doesn't push. She just nods with understanding beyond her years and changes the subject to something lighter—asking if he's ever seen snow in the south, preparing him for what mountain winters are truly like.
And Evran is grateful for her kindness, for her willingness to accept what he can give without demanding more. In this, as in so many things already, the Drakarri prove themselves far more humane than the supposedly civilized people of the south.
He only hopes he can prove himself worthy of their generosity before they realize just how broken the person they've accepted into their clan truly is.
Chapter 5
The next day follows a similar rhythm to the first—waking to unfamiliar sounds that are already becoming comfortable, dressing in clothes that still feel foreign but right, breaking his fast in the great hall where people greet him by name now rather than just as "the southern lord." The meal is warm and filling, and Evran finds himself actually hungry rather than forcing food down past anxiety.
After spending his morning in the gardens outside the walls with Eira—today working on the herb plots she'd promised, learning to identify mountain fever-bane and pain-root and a dozen other medicinal plants by their leaves and scent—Evran decides to see how far his freedom on the grounds actually extends. No one has explicitly told him where he can or cannot go, and he's curious about the parts of the stronghold he hasn't yet seen.
Besides, sitting idle makes him nervous. It gives him too much time to think about his precarious position here, to worry about whether Vaike might change his mind, to replay that disastrousscene in the audience chamber over and over. Better to keep moving, keep learning, keep proving himself useful.
He wanders corridors and hallways with growing confidence, no longer afraid of getting hopelessly lost. The stronghold's layout is starting to make sense to him—the way certain architectural features mark different sections, how the quality of carving indicates whether a passage leads to important chambers or service areas. He ventures through back alleys and side passageways that seem designed for workers moving supplies rather than formal visitors.
