The tapestry half-completed in Aether's loom catches his eye properly for the first time as he watches her fingers move with hypnotic precision, working the shuttle through the vertical threads with practiced ease. It appears to be the beginnings of a great elk standing in a snow-covered forest, its antlers rising majestically against what will become a backdrop of mountain peaks. The detail is remarkable even in its unfinished state—individual trees visible in the background, the texture of the elk'sfur suggested through subtle variations in thread color, the way light seems to fall across the snow.
It's clearly the work of a master craftswoman, someone who's spent years—probably decades—perfecting their art.
"That's gorgeous," he tells her honestly, leaning over his basket to get a better look at the emerging scene. "How long have you been working on it?"
"Too long," she tells him with a sharp laugh that carries both frustration and affection. "It was supposed to be done ages ago, but things keep coming up. Other projects with tighter deadlines, apprentices needing help, equipment breaking and needing repairs. The usual chaos of running a workshop." She shakes her head ruefully. "He insists there's no rush, that he's in no hurry and I should take whatever time I need. But I know he's staring up at that bare spot on the wall in his chamber and wondering what's taking me so long."
It could be for anyone—any of the clan leaders or wealthy members who might commission such work. But somehow the way she says 'he' sounds weighted with familiarity and respect, and Evran's curiosity gets the better of him.
"It's for the Warlord then?" he asks, trying to keep his tone casual even as something in his chest tightens at the mention.
Aether nods, reaching up to pull the reed—a long flat piece that packs the threads tight—toward her with a practiced motion. "Unless I finish it and he hates it on sight, which would be a first. Then who knows where it'll end up? Maybe decorating some storage room where no one has to look at it."
She laughs when she sees the surprised, almost scandalized expression on his face at the idea of insulting the Warlord's taste. "I'm only joking, Evran. Vaike has never had a bad word to say about my work, not even when it takes twice as long as intended and I know he's been patient beyond reason. He's always gracious about it, even when I'm sure he's frustrated."
The way she talks about him so casually—using his name without title, discussing him like he's just another member of the Drakarri clan rather than their absolute ruler—makes Vaike sound almost... normal. Like just another man rather than the imposing figure who had sat on that throne and looked at Evran with such cold displeasure.
She sounds like she's known him for a long time, since before he became Warlord perhaps. Maybe she sees a different side of him, the person behind the position. Maybe the clansfolk of the Drakarri get to see aspects of their leader that outsiders who cause offense never glimpse.
Evran leans back in his rocking chair, the wood creaking slightly under his shifting weight, and looks down at the basket in his hands. He's made good progress—several more rows completed, the basket taking proper shape now. Slowly, carefully, he begins weaving the willows through again, focusing on maintaining the pattern.
He keeps his gaze studiously focused on his work when he asks, trying desperately to sound nonchalant despite the way his pulse has picked up. "What is he like? The Warlord?"
"What, Vaike?" Aether's hands don't pause in their work, but he can feel her attention shift to him more fully. Instead of answering his question directly, she fixes him with a knowing look that makes him want to squirm and asks one of her own. "What do you think of him?"
Evran swallows, suddenly very interested in a particularly tricky section of the basket where two strands need to cross. "He's very intense," he says carefully, which feels like the understatement of the century. "Commanding. Every time he looks at me I feel like he's seeing straight through to every weakness I'm trying to hide."
"Mmm, it's those eyes, I think," Aether agrees with a thoughtful nod, still working her loom with steady rhythm."Steel-gray and sharp as winter ice. He looks like a snow leopard spying prey when he's up on that throne looking down at you, doesn't he? All that focused intensity concentrated on whatever's in front of him."
She doesn't look up from her work when she makes a contemplative sound and continues in a different tone, something softer and more serious. "But I've seen those same eyes weighed down by the burden of rule. By the loneliness that consumed his father after his mother passed—Vaike was just a boy then, watching his father fade away from grief while trying to hold the clan together. I've seen him sit up through the night making decisions that will affect hundreds of lives, agonizing over which choice will cause the least harm when there are no good options."
Evran finds himself staring at her now, the basket forgotten in his lap. This isn't what he expected to hear—not this glimpse of vulnerability, of humanity behind the intimidating exterior.
Aether looks over at him and her expression is serious, perhaps even a little stern. "At the end of the day he's just a man, Evran. He bleeds when he's cut, he worries about his people, he mourns when someone dies. He's no different than you or I in the ways that matter most."
Evran wants to protest that statement because he simply can't believe it. There's nothing resembling any man he's ever met in the Warlord he's come face-to-face with. There's definitely nothing that might come even close to being the same as Evran himself—a failure who couldn't even stand up to his own father, who let himself be shipped north like unwanted cargo.
There is a gaping chasm of differences between the two of them, one that he doesn't think he could cross if given all the time and materials in the world. The Warlord is the embodiment of strength and iron will and decisive action. He rules hundreds of people who would die for him without question. He brokeprecedent to allow Evran sanctuary, made a decision that has the whole clan talking because he chose to show mercy.
Meanwhile, Evran couldn't even stand up for himself when his father sent him away. He fled rather than face Lord Galen. He's spent his whole life bending to others' wills, too weak or too afraid to assert his own wants.
How could someone like that be anything like someone like Vaike?
Maybe Aether has seen a softer side of the Warlord that he reserves for people like her—people who have been with him since childhood, who have seen him through losses and triumphs, who have earned his trust through years of loyalty. But Evran is not one of those people. He's barely been here two days. He's an outsider who arrived as an insult, someone whose very presence represented his father's contempt for the Drakarri.
"I can see you don't believe me," Aether says with a knowing smile, reading his skepticism easily in his expression. "You're thinking that I've known him since we were children, so of course I see him differently. That he shows me a side of himself that he'd never show to someone like you."
Evran flushes because that's exactly what he was thinking.
"When I say he's just a man, I mean exactly that," Aether continues, setting down her shuttle to give him her full attention. She reaches out and pats his shoulder firmly, the gesture both comforting and slightly exasperated. "You could walk right up to him and start a conversation. You could go sit with him at dinner tonight—at his table, right beside him if you wanted. You could ask him the stupidest question you can think of, and I promise you not a single person in this stronghold would bat an eye. That's not how we work here."
Evran feels his face pale at the thought, his stomach dropping. "For you, maybe. You've earned that familiarity through yearsof friendship. But I can assure you I've done nothing to endear myself to him. Quite the opposite. The less he sees of me, the better for everyone."
He means it. Every time Vaike looks at him, Evran is reminded of that moment in the audience chamber—the cold fury, the disgust, the way the Warlord had dismissed him from his sight. Why would he want more of that?
Aether shakes her head, her mouth twisting up at one corner in what might be amusement or might be frustration. "You really don't understand how this place works yet, do you? If Vaike didn't want you here, you wouldn't be here. It truly is as simple as that. He doesn't make decisions out of obligation or political pressure—he's the Warlord. His word is absolute. If he's allowed you to stay, it's because he's chosen to allow it."
Evran doesn't think it's that simple at all. He thinks maybe the choice was taken from Vaike the same way it was taken from Evran—that the Warlord was left with the option of sending a man back to certain cruelty or finding a place for him among his people. Vaike may seem severe and uncompromising, but he doesn't seem deliberately cruel. It's obvious from everything Evran's seen that the Warlord cares deeply about justice and doing what's right.
