Once he knew what awaited Evran back home, could Vaike really have sent him to face that? The Warlord who was so outraged by the very concept of trading people as tribute wouldn't have been able to return Evran to his father knowing he'd be punished for something that wasn't really his fault.
So maybe Vaike's hand was forced by his own principles, not by any genuine desire to have Evran here.
Not that he can tell Aether any of that. She doesn't know the full story—no one here does except Vaike and perhaps Leona. Better to keep it that way.
"If you're worried about endearing yourself to him, I think proving you're capable is as good a method as any," Aether continues, picking up her shuttle again and returning to her weaving. "And you've only been here two days and you're already helping a great deal. Eira spoke very highly of your work this morning when I saw her at breakfast—said you have gentle hands and good instincts with plants."
The praise makes Evran's chest warm with pride. "I like working with her. It feels... meaningful."
"It is meaningful," Aether agrees. "But if you wanted to do more—to really prove yourself—well, how's your sword arm? You're a little thin, but you don't look weak. You've got good shoulders on you."
"Most of my fighting has been with fists," Evran admits, finishing up the last bit of the basket and securing the willow with a simple knot the way he's seen the pattern suggest. He sits it on the ground beside his chair, oddly proud of the completed object even though he knows it's probably clumsy compared to what an experienced basket weaver could produce. "Bar fights and scuffles when my temper got the better of my judgment. I've had some sword training—basic forms and footwork—but nothing advanced. I'm not opposed to learning, though."
The idea of learning to fight properly, of being able to defend himself and others, holds appeal. Maybe if he'd been better trained, braver, stronger, things would have gone differently with Lord Galen. With his father. Maybe he wouldn't have had to run.
Aether picks up the completed basket and examines his work with careful eyes, turning it over to check the bottom and running her fingers along the rim to test its sturdiness. After a moment of scrutiny that makes Evran hold his breath, she turns a genuine smile on him and gives him another approving pat on the shoulder.
"Not bad for a first attempt," she says warmly. "The tension's a little uneven in places, but the pattern is correct and it'll hold together well enough for daily use. You're a natural at this—bet you could make something really fine with a bit more practice."
The compliment warms him even more than Eira's praise had. Two days here and he's already learning skills that would have been considered beneath him in the south, and people are treating him like those skills matter.
"Go see Kellin in the training grounds," Aether says decisively, setting the basket aside. "If you want to learn proper sword work, he's the one who teaches most of our warriors. He's got patience for beginners and he's good at identifying what someone needs to work on. Tell him I sent you—he won't turn you away."
The sun is getting lower now, the afternoon shadows lengthening across the terrace. Evran realizes he's been sitting here for over an hour, the time passing quickly in comfortable conversation and focused work. Other weavers are starting to pack up their materials, preparing for the evening meal.
"Thank you," he says to Aether, meaning it for more than just the basket-weaving lesson or the advice about training. For the easy acceptance, for the glimpse into Vaike's humanity, for treating him like he belongs here.
"Don't thank me yet," she says with a laugh. "Wait until after Kellin's put you through your paces. Then you might curse my name for the suggestion."
As Evran leaves the terrace and makes his way toward where he thinks the training grounds must be—somewhere on the outer edges of the stronghold where sounds of combat won't disturb people—he finds himself thinking about what Aether said.
Just a man. No different than you or I.
He still doesn't believe it, not really. But maybe, if he proves himself worthy of staying here, if he earns his place among the Drakarri, he might someday understand what she means. Might someday be able to look at the Warlord and see a person rather than an insurmountable force of nature.
For now, though, he'll settle for learning to defend himself and continuing to work hard enough that no one regrets giving him this chance.
Chapter 6
After a week spent in the Drakarri stronghold, Evran is finally feeling comfortable enough in his own skin to develop something resembling a routine. The structure helps quiet some of the anxiety that still wakes him in the middle of the night, that whispers reminders about how precarious his position here truly is.
He spends his mornings and midday meal with Eira, working in the gardens outside the wall and learning more about the medicinal properties of mountain plants. Their conversations during work have become easier, more natural. She tells him about the books she likes to read—mostly histories of the clan and collections of old stories passed down through generations. She confesses her dreams of traveling outside the mountain peaks someday, of seeing the ocean she's only read about in books, though she admits the idea terrifies her as much as it excites her.
In turn, Evran finds himself sharing memories of his siblings, carefully edited stories about growing up in the south. He tells her about Merona's love of music, how she could pick upany instrument and coax beauty from it within days. About Nathaniel's talent with horses, the way animals trusted him instinctively. He leaves out the parts about his father's coldness, the constant pressure, the feeling of never measuring up.
Afternoons are split between two very different activities. Several days a week he sits with Aether on the weaving terrace, his fingers growing more deft with each passing day at manipulating willow and thread. He's found himself surprisingly good at the detailed work, and besides that, he actually enjoys it. There's something meditative about the repetition, the way a basket or piece of cloth takes shape under his hands through patient, incremental effort.
The other afternoons he spends running practice drills with Kellin in the training grounds. The weapons master is patient but demanding, correcting Evran's form with sharp observations and occasionally demonstrating moves with a grace that makes them look deceptively simple. Evran is learning the basics—footwork, guard positions, how to read an opponent's body language for tells about their next move.
Then he cleans up for the evening meal, scrubbing away dirt and sweat before joining the communal dinner. He sits among people he's beginning to know by name now—Aether and her quiet husband Tormund who works in the forges, a young couple expecting their first child, an elderly man who tells stories that make the whole table laugh. The conversations wash over him, warm and inclusive, so different from the tense formality of meals in his father's house.
After dinner, he returns to his chambers to read from the small collection of books Leona has lent him—histories of the clans, practical guides to mountain survival, even a volume of poetry that surprises him with its beauty.
But he doesn't go to sleep—not for hours yet, not the last few nights anyway. Instead, he lies in bed staring at theceiling, watching moonlight creep across the stone walls, until restlessness drives him from the comfortable warmth. He waits until the moon is high and bright in the sky, until he's certain most people have retired for the night, before he leaves his room and heads down the dimly lit hallways that, by this hour, are mostly empty.
There are guards making their rounds—the Drakarri take security seriously even in peacetime—so it's not like he couldn't be stopped if he was doing something outside the boundaries set for him. But no one so much as blinks at seeing him walking through the stronghold in the middle of the night. A guard nodded to him the first time, just a casual acknowledgment of his presence. Since then, they've simply let him pass without comment.
He makes his way out of the keep and picks his way through the moonlit paths around the perimeter to where he knows the training grounds are. The mountain air is cold at night, sharp enough to make his breath visible, but he welcomes the chill. It helps keep him alert, focused on why he's here.
