Evran sucks in a breath of cold mountain air that burns his lungs and crosses to where the practice weapons are racked. He selects one of middling weight and length, something close to what he's been working with during Kellin's lessons. The wooden grip is smooth and worn from countless hands, and the balanced weight of it is becoming familiar in a way it never was during his limited training back home.
Without being able to think of anything he can do to prolong the inevitable, without any excuse to delay, he walks back to where Vaike is standing in the center of the training ground. The moonlight casts long shadows across the packed earth, and Evran's hands are trembling slightly as he grips his sword.
"Show me your guard stance," Vaike says, his tone neutral but assessing.
Evran falls into the position Kellin has drilled into him—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent for mobility, sword angled across his body in a defensive position. He tries to remember everything: weight distributed evenly, shoulders relaxed but ready, eyes focused on his opponent rather than on the weapon.
Vaike circles him slowly, those calculating eyes missing nothing. Evran can feel the scrutiny like a physical touch, every tiny flaw in his form surely being catalogued and judged.
"Your left shoulder is too high," Vaike observes, moving to stand directly in front of him. "You're tensing up. Tension makes you slow. Drop it."
Evran consciously lowers his shoulder, trying to relax muscles that want to stay locked tight with anxiety.
"Better," Vaike acknowledges. "Now show me your basic attack sequence. Start slow—I want to see your form, not your speed."
This is what Evran has been practicing for hours over the past week, drilling the movements until they're etched into muscle memory. He moves through the sequence Kellin taught him: high guard to downward strike, recover to middle guard, horizontal slash, step and thrust, return to guard position.
His movements are more fluid than they would have been a week ago, the transitions smoother. All those hours of solitary practice have accomplished something, at least. But under Vaike's watchful gaze, every tiny mistake feels magnified. A slight hesitation between positions. A moment where his balance isn't quite perfect. A thrust that's fractionally off-target.
"Again," Vaike commands when he completes the sequence. "Faster this time."
Evran repeats the pattern, pushing his tired muscles to move with more speed while maintaining control. Then again, and again, until his arms are burning and sweat is starting to dampen his shirt despite the cold air. He moves forward, intending for his boots to slide against the ground and lead him into the next attack, but he’s exhausted–his movements clumsy–and the tip of his boot catches on the ground. He stumbles forward, sword clattering to the ground, and it’s only the sudden strong arm around his waist that stops his momentum towards the dirt.
Evran’s breath catches in his throat, hands clutching at skin that feels warm and foreign underneath his fingers, and it’s onlythe arm around him that’s keeping him on his feet. His heart is hammering in his chest with exertion and adrenaline, his head dizzy with exhaustion and proximity.
“Enough,” Vaike says, voice so close it feels like a low rumble in Evran’s chest. He helps Evran get his feet back underneath him, arm sliding across his body to rest his hand at his elbow, steadying him and not letting go. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. You’re exhausted.”
Even with the hand on his elbow, Evran can feel himself sway slightly when he tries to stand up on his own. Maybe the shadows growing under his eyes and the fatigue in his limbs should have concerned him more than they did. He inhales deeply, trying to clear his head. He can smell oak wood and smoke, like the Warlord has lingered for too long near a fire, and it makes him feel lightheaded.
“I can do this,” Evran insists around the doubt swarming through his head. He thinks if he pushes through the unease, through the exhaustion, he can come out on the other side. He just needs a minute to catch his breath, to get his feet right, and he'll be good to go. The spots dancing at the edge of his vision will go away–they always have before.
“Not tonight you can't.”
A strong hand curves firmly around his shoulder and then he's being turned and guided away from the training dummies and his dropped sword. Vaike being so close to him makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, like showing his back to a vicious animal, but he's not saying anything about how Evran has failed and disappointed him only a week into his stay. Instead he's a warm, steadying presence hovering over him, leading him across stone walkways and down a path he's never been.
"You're working full days in the gardens, spending time with the weavers, training with Kellin in the afternoons, and thencoming out here for hours more." It's not a question. Despite how hard he's been trying to avoid the Warlord noticing him, Vaike has seen everything regardless. "That's not sustainable. You'll injure yourself, or worse.”
Evran feels a surge of disappointment rush through him. He's pushed as hard as he's been able in order to prove himself to this man and, instead of showing him he's capable, he's all but collapsed at his feet. Anyone could have found him at the training grounds and watched him fall apart, but it had to be the one person who doesn't need the reminder that Evran is a burden on his shoulders.
He can feel the weight of his circumstances bearing down upon him like a living entity, but Vaike’s voice isn’t condescending and he doesn’t sound like he’s reprimanding him. It almost sounds like he’s concerned, like he’s worried, and the feeling of someone being concerned for his welfare is so foreign he almost stumbles again when he realizes that’s what this is. The hands on him don’t let him go though, and he remains upright and heading towards the keep.
The pathway leads to a door that Vaike opens and guides him through, into a dark hallway that's unfamiliar and cold, and Evran swallows his nerves and goes without resistance. In the back of his mind he can't help but worry about where the Warlord is taking him, about whether he's about to be punished for some transgression, but that voice is quieter than normal. Vaike’s hands on him are gentle, his movements unhurried, and Evran feels inexplicably safe in his presence in a way that feels wild and foreign.
He's never met anyone who made him feel so many conflicting things at once.
They head down the hallway and out through another door. Evran realizes with a start that they're now in the hallway outside the guest quarters, with the door to his room only a fewfeet away. Was that the Warlord’s own personal shortcut then? Should he pretend he didn't see it?
Vaike leads him to the door to Evran’s room and, once it appears that Evran is capable of standing on his own two feet, removes his hands and takes a step away from him. Evran resists the urge to follow, to lean into the retreating hands.
“I'm not your father, Evran,” Vaike tells him, his voice powerful in the quiet of the corridor. “And I don't measure your worth by whether you destroy yourself trying to be perfect.”
Evran’s breath catches in his throat. He stares back at the Warlord, as though seeing him for the first time.
“Get some rest,” Vaike says, already turning to leave.
"Wait," Evran calls out before he can stop himself.
Vaike pauses mid-step, his broad shoulders tensing slightly. He doesn't turn around immediately, and for a moment Evran thinks he might simply continue walking, leaving him alone with words he can't take back and questions he doesn't know how to voice.
