One narrow corridor opens unexpectedly into a stone-littered courtyard where children are playing some kind of game that involves a lot of running and shouting. They barely glance at him as he passes, too absorbed in their play to care about an adult observer. Their laughter echoes off the stone walls, pure and uninhibited in a way that makes his chest ache. He can't remember the last time he felt that carefree.
Another passage leads him to an alcove where leatherworkers are tanning hides stretched on wooden frames, the air thick with the sharp smell of the tanning solution. They work with practiced efficiency, scraping and treating the leather while discussing what sounds like an upcoming celebration. One of them—a woman with gray-streaked hair and strong forearms—notices him watching and gives him a friendly nod before returning to her work.
He finds a workshop where a carpenter is teaching two young apprentices how to join wood without nails, the three of them bent over their work with intense concentration. A storage room where someone is taking inventory of preserved foods, counting jars and making notes on a wax tablet. A small chapel-like space with unfamiliar symbols carved into the walls where an elderly man sits in meditation or prayer.
Everywhere he goes, people are working—not with the desperate urgency of those afraid of punishment, but with the steady satisfaction of people who take pride in their contributions. It's a revelation every time he encounters it, this fundamental difference between the Drakarri and his father's household.
Eventually his wandering leads him to a terrace he hasn't visited before, one that opens to the south and catches the afternoon sun. The space is occupied by weavers working at various tasks—some at standing looms creating larger pieces, others sitting with smaller hand looms or doing detailed work with needles and thread. The sound of shuttles passing through threads creates a rhythmic background music, punctuated by occasional conversation and laughter.
Even dressed in his warm woolen tunic and standing directly in the sun's rays, Evran is chilled by the mountain air around him. He can feel it cold and sharp in his lungs with each breath, making him work harder at breathing than he ever has in the lowlands. The temperature has dropped noticeably since morning, and the sun—while bright—seems to provide less warmth than it would in the south.
He doesn't know how he's going to survive the winter here if autumn is already so bracing. Eira had warned him that mornings would soon bring frost, that within a few weeks the first snows would come. The thought is both terrifying and strangely exhilarating. He's never experienced real winter, the kind that blankets everything in white and keeps people huddled inside for months.
If he's still here to see it. If he proves himself worthy of staying.
"Evran!" Someone calls with surprising familiarity, and Evran turns to see Aether among the weavers working on the terrace. She's seated at a large standing loom, her fingers moving withpracticed ease through a complex pattern he can't begin to follow.
She beckons him over like they're old friends rather than someone she met briefly over breakfast just yesterday, and the welcoming enthusiasm of her gesture compels him to obey. There's something infectious about her energy, a warmth that makes him feel genuinely welcome rather than merely tolerated.
He navigates between the various work stations, careful not to disturb anyone's projects or knock over the baskets of materials scattered around the terrace. When he reaches Aether, she gestures to one of several comfortable wooden rocking chairs that are positioned to catch the sun while allowing the weavers to supervise their students.
He's barely settled into the chair—enjoying the slight give of the worn wood and the way it rocks gently when he shifts his weight—when Aether thrusts a half-woven basket into his lap. He stares at it as though she's handed him a wild animal, something that might bite if handled incorrectly, alternating between looking at the basket and looking at her with growing alarm.
"Help me with this one, would you?" she asks with a conspiratorial wink. "I need to get busy on this tapestry I've been neglecting, but I keep getting brought busy work to fix. Someone's basket rim came apart, someone else needs help with a pattern—I'll never finish my real work at this rate."
"I don't know the first thing about basket weaving," Evran tells her, his brow furrowing in genuine distress as he holds the half-finished object gingerly. The willow branches are smooth under his fingers but the pattern of their weaving is a complete mystery to him. "I've never even watched someone do it, much less tried it myself."
Aether waves a hand dismissively, already turning her attention back to her loom. "I'm sure you can figure it out. Youseem like a sharp one. Besides, it's just basket weaving, not siege engineering."
She gets busy threading her loom with what looks like new colors—deep blues and whites that must be for the sky and snow in her landscape. The process appears incredibly complicated to Evran's untrained eye, involving multiple shuttles and careful counting of threads. He watches for a moment, completely lost by the complexity, then decides to focus on his own much simpler task.
For the longest time he just sits there holding the basket, turning it over in his hands and trying to understand the structure. He feels the familiar flush of incompetence creeping up the back of his neck—that hot embarrassment of being given a task he doesn't know how to complete. But no one is paying any attention to him now that the initial greeting is done. The other weavers are absorbed in their own work, and Aether has fallen into a focused rhythm at her loom.
No one is hovering over him, waiting to criticize or mock his failures. No one is tapping their foot impatiently while he figures things out. The pressure he's so used to feeling—perform perfectly or face consequences—is simply absent here.
The realization lets him breathe a little easier. He examines the basket more carefully, running his fingers along the existing weave to understand how it's constructed. Eventually he releases a steadying breath and starts to follow the patterns that are already established, tracing each strand with his fingertips to understand its path.
It looks to him as though the strands of willow are interwoven together in a manner not entirely unlike braiding hair—an act he's been doing for Merona since she was small and came to him with tangles their nursemaid couldn't manage. The over-under pattern repeats with mathematical precision, each strand following the same rule as it winds around the basket's frame.
He follows the patterns with his fingers carefully, tracing each strand as it goes over one piece and under the next, in and out in a rhythm that starts to make sense. After several minutes of this examination, he thinks he's figured out where the next piece should go. The half-finished willow strand is already attached, just waiting to be woven through its neighbors.
His fingers are clumsy compared to the ladies knitting and weaving on more complicated tasks around the terrace—their hands moving with the unconscious grace that comes from years of practice. His movements are halting, uncertain, having to think through each step. But slowly, carefully, he manages to work the willow through the existing weave, following the pattern he's identified.
It's oddly satisfying when he completes a full circuit around the basket and the pattern holds, the new row sitting snugly against the previous ones without gaps or awkward bunching. He allows himself a small smile at the accomplishment, then begins the next row with slightly more confidence.
He's so absorbed in the work—in maintaining the over-under pattern and keeping the tension even—that he doesn't notice Aether watching him until he completes another full circle and looks up to find her regarding him with an unmistakably smug expression.
"I think maybe you're pulling our leg about being noble born," she says with a knowing glance that makes him flush. She's pulled her loom closer to where he's sitting, angling it so she can see him while she works without straining her neck. "You seem to be finding your place here just fine. Heard you've been working the land with Eira, and now look at you—picked up basket weaving like you've been doing it for years."
Evran looks down at his hands, at the dirt that still stubbornly clings beneath his fingernails despite his vigorous scrubbing. Even though he'd used the short bristle brush Eira had givenhim and scraped until his fingers were raw and pink, there's still earth underneath his nails that seems like a permanent resident now. He tries not to feel self-conscious about it as he continues working the willow strands around the basket.
"I've been working with Eira," he confirms, though Aether probably already guessed as much if she's heard the gossip. "She's very patient with me. More patient than I probably deserve, given how little I knew when I started."
"You seem like a quick study," Aether observes, her fingers never stopping their complex dance through the loom's threads. "The girls who work the terraces on the other side of the stronghold have had each other for company all season, working in teams. But Eira's been managing her section alone since spring—it's a lot of ground for one person to cover. I'm sure she's happy to have your help, even if you're still learning."
Eira does seem to enjoy his company, their conversations flowing easily during their work. But it's hard to say for certain when it's been such a short time. He hopes things continue to stay so comfortable between them—he can't imagine conflict growing with someone as even-tempered as Eira seems to be, and he's never been one to start fights or create unnecessary friction.
Still, he's learned the hard way that his presence can be unwelcome even when he tries his best. Best not to assume anything.
