The easy banter between them helps Evran relax fractionally. This is what Aether meant—they're not standing on ceremony up here, not treating every interaction like a formal court function. They're just... people, sharing a meal and conversation.
Evran realizes he hasn't actually gotten any food yet and starts to rise to collect some, but Vaike gestures to the platters already on the high table. "Help yourself. We keep food up here so we don't have to keep getting up."
Of course they do. It makes perfect sense for efficiency, though the southern part of Evran's brain that was raised on rigid etiquette wants to insist that serving yourself at the lord's table isinappropriate. But he swallows that instinct and reaches for the bread, his hand only shaking slightly.
"How are the gardens treating you?" Vaike asks as Evran serves himself. The question is casual, the tone genuinely interested rather than making polite conversation. "Eira mentioned you've been a great help with the late harvest."
The fact that Vaike has spoken to Eira about him—has apparently asked after his work—sends a flutter through Evran's chest that he firmly ignores.
"It's going well," Evran says, grateful for a topic he can discuss without stumbling over his words. "We finished with the last of the root vegetables yesterday and started preparing the beds for winter. Eira says if we get the compost mixed in properly now, the soil will be even better come spring."
"She's taught you about crop rotation then?" There's approval in Vaike's voice.
"Yes, and about companion planting—which herbs grow well together, which ones inhibit each other. It's fascinating, actually. There's so much more to it than I realized." Evran finds himself relaxing as he talks about the work, the subject familiar and safe. "Back home, I just assumed plants either grew or they didn't. I never thought about the soil composition or the way different plants affect each other."
"Most people don't," Vaike observes. "That's what makes Eira so valuable. She understands the interconnected nature of it all. The way everything in the garden—in the mountain—is part of a larger system."
"She's an excellent teacher," Evran says, and means it deeply. "Patient, but she doesn't coddle me. If I make a mistake, she explains why it's wrong and how to fix it."
"That's the Drakarri way," Bran interjects, joining the conversation. "We don't believe in letting people fail without understanding, but we also don't pretend mistakes aren'tmistakes. How's the combat training going? Kellin mentioned you've got good instincts."
The question makes Evran flush with pride despite his efforts to remain composed. "I'm learning. There's a lot I don't know, but I'm working on the basics. Footwork, guard positions, reading opponents."
"He's been practicing on his own at night," Vaike adds, and there's something in his tone that Evran can't quite read. Not disapproval, but maybe concern still lingering from their last conversation. "Though we've agreed to more sustainable training schedules."
"Good," Bran says firmly. "We don't need our people running themselves into the ground. A tired warrior is a dead warrior, and dead men don't contribute much to the clan."
The bluntness of the statement would be shocking in the south, but here it lands as simple truth. Evran is beginning to understand that the Drakarri value practical wisdom over polite euphemism.
Their conversation is interrupted by a woman approaching the table—middle-aged, with graying hair and the confident bearing of someone comfortable with authority. She nods respectfully to Vaike before speaking.
"Warlord, I need to discuss the supply situation for the western watchtowers. We're running lower on—" She pauses, noticing Evran. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting?"
"Not at all, Marda," Vaike gestures for her to continue. "Evran is just joining us for breakfast. What's the situation?"
Evran expects to be dismissed or ignored while they discuss clan business, but Vaike makes no move to exclude him from the conversation. Marda launches into a detailed explanation of supply concerns—something about winter stores being distributed to the outlying posts and concerns about whetherthey have enough preserved food to last if the passes become blocked early.
He listens quietly, not contributing since he has nothing useful to add, but fascinated by the glimpse into how the stronghold is actually run. It's not the grand political maneuvering of his father's court, but practical logistics—making sure people have what they need to survive and do their jobs.
Vaike asks pointed questions, suggesting solutions and asking Marda's opinion on different approaches. He treats her input with respect, clearly valuing her expertise. When they reach a decision about redistributing certain supplies, he thanks her genuinely before she nods and returns to her own table.
"It never ends," Vaike says, but his tone is more rueful than complaining. "If it's not supply issues, it's border disputes. If it's not border disputes, it's equipment repairs. Running a clan is about ten percent dramatic decisions and ninety percent boring logistics."
"Sounds exhausting," Evran ventures, then immediately worries he's been too familiar.
But Vaike just smiles slightly. "It is. But it's what I was trained for, and what I chose to take on when my father passed. Someone has to do it."
The casual acknowledgment of his father's death—stated without dramatics but with a thread of old grief—makes Evran see the Warlord in a new light. He's been carrying the weight of an entire clan's wellbeing since... how long?
Before Evran can dwell on it, another person approaches the table—this time a young warrior with a bandaged arm who needs to report on patrol routes. Then a woman with questions about planned construction before winter. Then someone else with a minor dispute that needs arbitration.
Evran watches as Vaike handles each interruption with patience and focus, giving each person his full attention andmaking decisions that balance practical concerns with fairness. Between interruptions, he returns to the breakfast conversation easily, asking Bran about training schedules and confirming plans for some kind of gathering next week.
"Will you be there?" Vaike asks Evran suddenly, and it takes him a moment to realize the Warlord is asking about the gathering. "It's nothing formal—just a celebration for the successful harvest. Food, music, probably too much drinking. Everyone's welcome."
"I... yes, I'd like that," Evran manages, though his heart is suddenly beating faster again at the casual invitation. At being included so naturally in clan activities.
"Good." Vaike's smile is brief but genuine. "You've earned a celebration as much as anyone. You put in the work during harvest time."
