Not yet.
The door closes behind him with a soft click, and Evran is alone in the corridor with nothing but the taste of blood and the weight of his uncertain future.
Chapter 1
The journey north takes three days on horseback through some of the worst terrain Evran has ever traversed, and each mile feels like a descent into an uncertain fate. The first day passes in a blur of shock and numbness, his body moving mechanically through the motions of riding while his mind remains trapped in that final moment in his father's study—the cold dismissal, the threat veiled as opportunity, the door closing on everything he's ever known.
With each mile and hour that passes, as the familiar landscape of his homeland gives way to wilder, harsher country, Evran's expectations of his fate grow darker and dimmer. The confused and distraught faces of his siblings as they watched him leave are etched into his memory with painful clarity, and no amount of the cold wind upon his face makes them grow any fainter. His father had spun an elaborate web of lies to them about Evran leaving as a diplomatic envoy, dressed up his exile in the trappings of honor and duty. But it's not like his siblings aren't wise to the whims of their father—they've all learned to readbetween the lines of Callum's pronouncements, to understand what isn't being said.
His older brother Nathaniel had clasped his shoulder with a grip that spoke of suppressed emotion, his jaw tight with words he couldn't or wouldn't speak in their father's presence. Willem had turned away entirely, unable or unwilling to watch another sibling sacrificed on the altar of their father's ambitions. But it's Merona who haunts him most—his younger sister, barely sixteen, her eyes bright with unshed tears as she'd gripped his hand.
"When will you return?" she'd asked, her voice small and desperate, and there had been no answer to give her. Her knowing gaze had been too much for him to bear, the understanding in her eyes that this wasn't a diplomatic mission but an exile. He'd pulled her into a fierce embrace, memorizing the feel of her trembling against him, before forcing himself to mount his horse and ride away without looking back.
Now, three days into the journey, the memory of her face is a constant ache in his chest.
Captain Frederick and his men ride in grim silence around him, forming a protective perimeter that feels more like a prison escort than an honor guard. Their tension is palpable as they venture further into what they clearly consider hostile territory, hands never straying far from their weapons, eyes constantly scanning the treeline for threats. There's no telling what the reception will be once they arrive in the mountain clan lands, even if they come bearing tribute to the Warlord of the North. The stories that filter down from these mountains speak of ambushes and raids, of southern travelers who ventured too far north and were never seen again.
Evran is not armed—his father made sure of that before they departed, taking even the small dagger Evran usually carries for eating. The message was clear: he's not going as a warrior oreven as a lord's son with the right to defend himself. He's going as an offering, and offerings don't carry weapons. The men with him are heavily armed, however, and they're obviously expecting to be ambushed at any moment from the way they survey their surroundings with sharp, wary eyes.
The landscape itself seems designed to reinforce their fears and justify their paranoia. Jagged mountain peaks seem to claw at the overcast sky like grasping fingers reaching for something forever out of reach. The wind howls like a wounded animal through narrow passes, carrying with it the scent of pine and stone and something wild that Evran can't name. The forests are so thick they swallow sunlight whole, leaving the road beneath the canopy in perpetual twilight that makes the men even more nervous.
It is a vivid contrast to the open fields and sparse foliage decorating the countryside of his father's lands. His home is bright and spacious, with rolling hills that stretch to the horizon and fields of grain that shimmer gold in the summer sun. There, you can see for miles in every direction, can watch storms approach from far away and track the movement of travelers on the roads. The landscape is tamed, civilized, shaped by generations of farming and settlement into something comfortable and familiar.
Here, the path through the mountains feels claustrophobic and confining—like a prison that someone has decided to call home. The peaks tower overhead, blocking out the sky, and the narrow passes offer no escape should danger present itself. Several times during the second day, rockslides force them to detour, adding hours to their journey. The horses struggle with the steep inclines and treacherous footing, and more than once Evran finds himself dismounting to lead his mare over particularly rough terrain.
The nights are worse than the days. They camp in small clearings barely large enough for their party, huddled around fires that do little to ward off the mountain chill. The men take turns on watch, clearly expecting attack at any moment. Evran lies awake in his bedroll, staring up at unfamiliar constellations through gaps in the forest canopy, and tries not to think about what awaits him at journey's end.
Evran has been told enough stories to imagine what might await him when he arrives, and none of them are comforting. His tutors told him of crude huts built from mud and stone, barely more than animal dens dressed up with thatch roofs. They described warriors painted for battle who prowled between the ramshackle buildings like predators, their weapons stained with the blood of their enemies. He imagined there would be skulls mounted on pikes as warnings to outsiders, bones of slain victims being worn as ornaments by the clansmen, ritual sacrifices performed under the light of the full moon.
The stories passed around the southlands paint the Drakarri as little more than animals who happen to walk upright—savage creatures who know nothing of art or culture or civilization, who live by violence and take what they need through raids and warfare. They're the boogeyman that southern mothers use to frighten their children into obedience:Be good, or the mountain clans will steal you away in the night.
By the third morning, as they break camp and begin the final leg of their journey, Evran has convinced himself that he's riding toward some combination of all these nightmares. His imagination has conjured elaborate scenarios, each worse than the last, until he's nearly sick with dread and anticipation.
The reality that comes into view on the afternoon of the third day, as they round a final bend and the valley opens before them, strikes him completely speechless.
The Drakarri stronghold rises from the mountainside as though it were carved by the gods rather than built by mortal hands. Massive stone walls follow the natural contours of the peaks with such precision that it's impossible to tell where the mountain ends and the construction begins. The fortress seems to grow organically from the very bones of the mountain itself, as if the rock had simply decided to reshape itself into towers and battlements and soaring walls.
The scale of it steals his breath. It's not a crude settlement huddled in some sheltered valley, but an enormous fortress complex that sprawls across multiple levels of the mountainside. Watchtowers stand sentinel at strategic points along the walls, their dark banners snapping in the mountain wind, and grand beacons burn in braziers that can probably be seen for miles. The craftsmanship is extraordinary—every stone perfectly fitted, every line deliberate and strong, every architectural choice speaking of sophisticated engineering and generational planning.
This is not the crude barbarian encampment he has expected, but architecture of such skill and beauty it would rival anything in the southern kingdoms. In fact, Evran realizes with growing astonishment, it surpasses most of what he's seen in the south. His father's keep, which he's always thought impressive, suddenly seems small and plain by comparison.
"Seven hells," mutters one of Frederick's men, giving voice to what they're all thinking.
Evran swallows thickly and tightens his grip on the reins of his horse, his palms suddenly slick with sweat. This changes everything. People who build fortresses like this aren't the mindless savages of southern legend. They're organized, sophisticated, and clearly possess resources and knowledge that have been deliberately underestimated by his people.
The question that forms in his mind is disturbing: if they're this advanced, this powerful, why do the southern kingdoms persist in calling them barbarians? And more importantly—what does that say about what his father has sent him into?
As they approach the main gates, winding down a road that's been cut directly into the mountainside with impressive precision, Evran can see figures moving along the battlements taking notice of their arrival. They're guards, certainly—he can make out the glint of weapons and armor—but they don't seem to be behaving with hostility or alarm. There's no sudden rush of warriors to the walls, no horns calling the stronghold to arms. Instead, the guards watch their approach with what appears to be casual vigilance, the same way sentries at his father's keep might watch travelers on the road.
Their armor catches the afternoon light as they move, and Evran realizes it's not the crude leather and iron scraps he'd imagined. It's well-forged steel, probably better quality than what his father's guards wear, the metal polished to a shine that speaks of pride and proper maintenance. Even from this distance, he can see that the guards move with the disciplined precision of trained soldiers rather than the chaotic energy of raiders.
The gates themselves are enormous things that dwarf even the impressive entrance to his father's keep. They're made of oak that must have been centuries old when it was felled, bound with iron bands that have been worked with intricate designs. The wood is carved with elaborate knotwork in winding patterns that seem to tell stories—Evran can make out what might be battles, or hunts, or perhaps legends passed down through generations. The craftsmanship required for such work speaks of artisans with time and resources to dedicate to beauty as well as function.
As their small party draws near, close enough that Evran can make out individual faces on the walls above, a horn soundssomewhere high in the watchtowers. He flinches instinctively, expecting a harsh war cry that will signal attack, but instead it's a musical note that echoes off the surrounding peaks like a greeting. The sound is almost beautiful, carrying across the valley with surprising clarity, and it's unlike anything he's heard in the south.
"Hail, southerners," calls a voice from the walls above, and Evran is struck by how clear the words are despite the distance. The accent is far different from what he's used to—harder consonants, a rolling quality to the vowels that makes the common tongue sound almost like a different language—but the words are perfectly understandable and, more surprisingly, unthreatening. "State your business."
There's no hostility in the greeting, no immediate suspicion or aggression. Just a straightforward request for information, as if southern parties show up at their gates regularly enough to warrant established protocol.
