Evran stands at the entrance to the great hall the next morning, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard he's certain everyone within ten feet can hear it. The familiar sounds of breakfast wash over him—conversation and laughter, the clatter of dishes, the scrape of benches against stone—but they all seem distant, muffled by the rushing of blood in his ears.
He slept poorly again last night, but not from exhaustion or midnight training sessions. Instead, he'd lain awake wrestling with Aether's words and his own cowardice.Sometimes the thing you want most is on the other side of the risk you're most afraid to take.
He doesn't even know what he wants, exactly. Just... something. To not feel like such a coward. To prove to himself that he can have a simple conversation with the man who rules this place without dissolving into a mess of anxiety. To understand why the thought of Vaike makes his chest feel tight and his thoughts scatter like startled birds.
The high table is visible from here. Vaike is already seated, talking with Bran about something that has the second-in-command gesturing animatedly. There are a few empty seats at the table—there usually are, since it's large enough to accommodate the Warlord's inner circle but not all of them eat at the same time.
Evran could sit at his usual spot with the rest of the clan members. It would be safe, familiar, expected. No one would think anything of it.
Or he could walk up to that table, claim one of those empty seats, and see what happens.
His feet are rooted to the floor, every instinct screaming at him to take the safe option. Who does he think he is, presuming to sit at the Warlord's table? What if Vaike is annoyed by the intrusion? What if the others think he's overstepping, trying to claim status he hasn't earned?
You could just go talk to him. I promise you no one would bat an eye.
Aether's voice echoes in his memory, warm with certainty. She believes it. She wouldn't have said it if she didn't think it was true.
And Vaike himself had shown concern, had taken time out of his own training to give Evran advice. Had spoken to him like a person rather than an inconvenient problem to be managed. That has to mean something, doesn't it?
Before he can talk himself out of it, before fear can freeze him in place again, Evran forces his feet to move. One step, then another, each one requiring conscious effort as he walks past the lower tables toward the raised platform where the high table sits.
His hands are trembling. He clenches them into fists at his sides, trying to hide the visible evidence of his nerves. People will see him walking up there. They'll wonder what he's doing. They'll judge whether he belongs.
But no one stops him. No one even seems to pay particular attention as he approaches the high table, climbing the twoshallow steps that elevate it above the rest of the hall. Bran glances up as he approaches, offering a friendly nod before returning to his conversation with Vaike.
There's an empty seat two places down from the Warlord, with Bran between them. Safe, Evran thinks. A reasonable choice that puts him at the table without presuming too much.
But Aether's words ring in his ears again.You could sit right beside him if you wanted. Not a single person would bat an eye.
The seat directly to Vaike's left is empty.
Evran's courage nearly fails him. This is too much, too bold, too presumptuous. But he's already here, already committed to this path. If he sits two seats away now, it'll look like he's afraid to sit closer—which he is, but he doesn't want it to be so obvious.
His legs feel like they're made of water as he moves to that empty seat and pulls out the chair. The sound seems unnaturally loud to his ears, and he's certain everyone is staring at him even though when he glances around, most people are focused on their own meals and conversations.
Vaike turns his head at the movement, those steel-gray eyes finding Evran with sharp attention. For a moment—a horrible, endless moment—Evran is certain he's made a terrible mistake. That Vaike will ask him what he thinks he's doing, or worse, simply give him a look that makes it clear he doesn't belong here.
But instead, something shifts in the Warlord's expression. Not displeasure, but something that might almost be pleased surprise.
"Evran," Vaike says, and his voice carries warmth that Evran wasn't expecting. "Good morning. I trust you slept better last night?"
The question is clearly a reference to their conversation in the training grounds, and the fact that Vaike is acknowledging it so casually—not treating it as some shameful secret—helps ease some of Evran's anxiety.
"I did, my lord. Thank you." Evran sits carefully, trying not to appear as nervous as he feels. "Your advice was... helpful."
"Good." Vaike turns more fully toward him, giving Evran his attention in a way that makes his mouth go dry. "And please, when we're at meals like this, just Vaike is fine. All this 'my lord' business gets tedious outside of formal settings."
The casual invitation to use his name feels significant, though Evran isn't sure he'll actually be able to do it. Just thinking about addressing the Warlord by name makes his throat want to close up.
"I'll... try," he manages, and something that might be amusement flickers across Vaike's face.
"A diplomatic answer. Bran, did you hear that? The young lord is learning politics."
Bran laughs, leaning forward to catch Evran's eye. "Don't let him bully you into informality if it makes you uncomfortable. He likes to pretend he's just another warrior at the table, but we all know better."
"I am just another warrior," Vaike protests with mock offense. "Just one who happens to make the final decisions."
"A small detail," Bran agrees solemnly, then winks at Evran.
