The acknowledgement fills Evran with warmth that has nothing to do with the hot porridge he's eating. He's contributed enough to be recognized, to be included in the clan's celebrations. It's more than he dared hope for when he arrived here terrified and certain he'd be rejected.
The meal continues with easy conversation flowing around him. Bran tells a story about one of his young students making a spectacular mistake during training that had everyone involved laughing about it later. Vaike shares news about trade negotiations with a neighboring clan. Others occasionally join the table for brief discussions before returning to their own seats.
And through it all, Evran sits beside the Warlord feeling gradually more at ease. Not completely comfortable—he's still hyperaware of Vaike's presence beside him, of every time their eyes meet or when Vaike turns to include him in the conversation. But the terror has faded, replaced by something almost like belonging.
Eventually, the meal begins to wind down. People start leaving to attend to their various responsibilities, and Evran realizes with a start that he needs to meet Eira soon.
"I should go," he says, starting to stand. "Eira will be waiting for me at the gardens."
"Of course," Vaike says, and then adds, almost casually, "Thank you for joining us this morning, Evran. It was good to have you at the table."
The words hit Evran with unexpected force. Not just permission to sit there, but active appreciation for his presence. As if having him there was something Vaike actually wanted rather than just tolerated.
"Thank you for... for welcoming me," Evran manages, though his voice comes out rougher than intended. "I'll... I should go."
He practically flees from the table, his composure hanging by a thread. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat, and his hands are shaking as he makes his way out of the great hall and toward the gardens.
The morning air hits him like a shock of cold water, and he stops just outside the hall entrance to lean against the stone wall and catch his breath. What just happened? He sat at the high table. He had a conversation—multiple conversations—with Vaike. And it had been... fine. Better than fine. It had been almost easy after the initial terror wore off.
His hands are still trembling, and he stares at them as if they belong to someone else. His whole body feels strange—buzzing with energy, his stomach fluttering, heat creeping up his neck and face.
It's just the adrenaline, he tells himself firmly. Just the aftereffects of doing something terrifying and having it turn out well. That's all this is. Nothing more.
But as he pushes off the wall and starts walking toward the gardens, he can't quite convince himself that's true. Because theway his heart races when he thinks about Vaike's slight smile, the way his breath catches at the memory of those gray eyes focusing on him—that feels like something more than simple relief.
He doesn't want to think about what it might actually be. Doesn't want to acknowledge the possibility that his feelings toward the Warlord might be developing into something far more complicated and dangerous than simple respect or gratitude.
So he pushes the thoughts aside, buries them deep where he doesn't have to examine them, and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other as he walks toward the gardens.
Eira is already there when he arrives, kneeling beside the herb beds they'd prepared yesterday. She looks up at his approach and her eyes widen slightly.
"Are you alright?" she asks immediately. "You look flushed. Are you feeling ill?"
"I'm fine," Evran says quickly, though he can feel his face is still warm. "I just... walked quickly. Didn't want to keep you waiting."
It's a weak excuse and he knows it, but Eira accepts it with a small nod, though concern still lingers in her expression. They settle into their work routine, and Evran tries desperately to focus on the plants in front of him rather than the way his hands are still shaking slightly.
He doesn't want to think about what any of this means. Doesn't want to examine too closely why sitting next to Vaike felt so significant, or why the memory of the Warlord's smile makes his chest feel tight.
He's just grateful to have been accepted. That's all. The physical reactions are just nerves, just the aftereffects of pushing past his comfort zone.
He keeps telling himself that as they work through the morning, and if his thoughts keep drifting back to steel-gray eyes and a warm voice sayingit was good to have you at the table, well, that doesn't have to mean anything.
It doesn't.
It can't.
Because acknowledging what it might actually mean would be far too dangerous for someone in his precarious position. So he buries it deep and focuses on the work, on earning his place through action rather than dangerous, impossible feelings.
Even if those feelings refuse to stay buried no matter how hard he tries.
Chapter 9
Aweek passes in a rhythm that's beginning to feel almost comfortable. Evran continues his work with Eira in the gardens, though the late autumn air grows colder each day and frost glitters on the ground most mornings. He sits at the high table for breakfast three more times, each occasion slightly less terrifying than the last, though his heart still races whenever Vaike's attention focuses on him. He learns to weave more complex patterns with Aether and trains with Kellin in the afternoons, his sword work improving steadily.
He's even started sleeping through the night more often, though his dreams are sometimes filled with steel-gray eyes and voices that echo with concern.
This morning dawns clear and cold, the sky a brilliant blue that promises the day will warm once the sun climbs higher. Evran dresses in layers—the practical mountain clothes that have become familiar now, plus an additional wool vest that Leona brought him a few days ago when she noticed him shivering during morning work.
