"Evran," Eira's soft voice breaks through his spiraling thoughts. "You're bundling the same herbs over and over. That one's been tied for five minutes."
He looks down at his hands in surprise, finding that he has indeed been absently working the string around an already-secured bundle. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I don't know where my head is today."
Eira takes the bundle from him gently and sets it aside. "Is something bothering you? Did something happen?"
The genuine concern in her dark eyes makes him want to confide in her, but what would he even say? That he's developed some kind of inappropriate fascination with the man who holds his entire future in his hands? That he can't stop thinking about strong hands and steel-gray eyes and a voice that managed to be both commanding and kind?
"I'm just adjusting," he says instead, which isn't entirely false. "There's a lot to learn here, a lot of new things to process. Sometimes it catches up with me."
Eira nods slowly, accepting the explanation even if she clearly knows there's more to it. "You work very hard," she observes. "Sometimes too hard, I think. It's okay to take breaks, to let yourself rest."
She sounds like Vaike, Evran realizes with a start. That same concern about him pushing too hard, that same reminder that he doesn't have to destroy himself to prove his worth. Is it really that obvious? Can everyone see how desperately he's trying to earn his place here?
"I know," he says quietly. "I'm working on that."
They continue their work in comfortable silence for a while, and Evran tries his best to focus on the task at hand. But his mind keeps drifting—to this morning's glimpse of Vaike laughing at the high table, to last night's encounter in the moonlight, to the impossible question of what any of it means.
By midday, when they break for the meal, Eira is watching him with poorly concealed worry. "You should rest this afternoon," she suggests as they wash the dirt from their hands. "You look exhausted, and you've been making mistakes you don't usually make. No one will think less of you for taking time to recover."
Evran wants to protest, but the truth is he is tired—not physically, for once, but mentally. His thoughts are going in circles, chasing questions he can't answer and fears he can't quite name.
"Maybe you're right," he concedes, and the relief on Eira's face makes him feel guilty for worrying her.
As they walk back toward the stronghold for the midday meal, Evran finds himself scanning the paths and courtyards almost unconsciously, looking for a familiar figure. He tells himself he's not hoping to run into Vaike, that he's not disappointed when he doesn't see him, but he knows he's lying to himself.
The great hall is less crowded at midday, and Evran is both relieved and disappointed to see that the high table is empty—Vaike must be dealing with his responsibilities elsewhere. He sits with Eira and tries to focus on the conversation happening around them, but his attention keeps fragmenting.
What is Vaike doing right now? Is he in meetings with his advisors? Training with his warriors? Does he ever think about their encounter last night, or was it just one of dozens of small interactions that make up his day as a leader?
And why does Evran care so much?
"You're doing it again," Eira says softly, and Evran realizes he's been staring at the empty high table without really seeing it.
"Sorry," he mutters, forcing his attention back to his food.
But it's no use. His mind is elsewhere, caught in a loop of confusion and longing and fear that he doesn't know how to break free from. All he knows is that something has shifted afterlast night's conversation, something that's left him hyperaware of Vaike's existence in a way that's both thrilling and terrifying.
And he has absolutely no idea what to do about it.
That evening, Evran skips dinner entirely. He tells himself it's because he's tired and not hungry, that he needs the rest Vaike ordered him to get. But the truth—the truth he barely wants to acknowledge—is that he's afraid. Afraid of seeing Vaike across the hall and not knowing how to act. Afraid of making a fool of himself by staring too obviously. Afraid of the way his heart races at the thought of those steel-gray eyes finding his.
He stays in his chambers, trying to read but finding the words blur together meaninglessly. His mind keeps wandering back to the same questions, the same impossible tangle of feelings he doesn't know how to process.
When did the man who terrified him start to fascinate him instead? When did fear transform into this complicated mixture of intimidation and attraction that leaves him feeling off-balance?
And what in all the hells is he supposed to do about it?
The moon rises outside his window, bright and full, and Evran finds himself standing at the glass, looking out at the stronghold bathed in silver light. Somewhere out there, Vaike is probably going about his evening—meeting with advisors, or training, or perhaps just trying to find a moment of peace in the demanding role of leadership.
Does he ever feel lonely, Evran wonders? Does he ever wish for something beyond duty and responsibility?
The questions follow him to bed, where he lies awake despite his exhaustion, staring at shadows on the ceiling and trying to understand what's happening to him. All he knows is that something has changed, shifted in a way that can't be undone.
And whether that change will lead to something wonderful or something terrible, he has no way of knowing.
All he can do is try to survive it—and hope that whatever he's feeling doesn't show too clearly on his face the next time he has to look Vaike in the eyes and pretend his entire world hasn't tilted on its axis.
Chapter 8
