Eira is already in the gardens when he arrives, her breath visible in the cold air as she examines the last of the herb beds. They've been working on preparing everything for winter—harvesting the final crops, mulching the beds to protect them from frost, making notes about what grew well and what struggled so they can adjust their planting next spring.
"Good morning," she greets him with her gentle smile, though her cheeks are pink from the cold. "I thought we could work on the far terraces today. They need the most preparation before the first real snow, and it's supposed to be warmer by midday."
The far terraces are the ones furthest from the stronghold walls, carved into the mountainside where they catch the most sunlight. They're still within sight of the walls, but far enough that the guards patrolling the perimeter feel more distant. It's peaceful out there, quiet except for the wind and the occasional call of mountain birds.
They gather their tools—baskets for collecting any remaining vegetables, trowels for turning the soil, the bundles of straw and mulch they'll use to protect the beds. The walk to the far terraces takes about fifteen minutes, following paths worn smooth by years of gardeners making this same journey.
The work is meditative, familiar enough now that Evran's hands know what to do without much conscious thought. They fall into their usual pattern—working side by side, occasionally talking about nothing important. Eira tells him about a book she's reading, a history of the clans before they unified under a single Warlord. He shares a story about something funny that happened during training yesterday when one of Kellin's younger students accidentally threw his sword instead of swinging it.
The sun climbs higher, warming the air just as Eira predicted. Evran sheds his outer vest, grateful for the heat after the morning's chill. They've made good progress on three of the bedswhen the sound of horses approaching makes them both look up.
Three riders are coming down the mountain path from the north—the direction of the passes that lead to other territories. They're clearly not Drakarri; their clothes are different, darker, and they lack the tattoos and ornaments that mark clan members. Travelers passing through, probably, though Evran's never seen any during his time here.
"Should we go back to the stronghold?" he asks Eira quietly, watching the riders approach. Something about their posture, the way they're scanning the area, makes unease prickle along his spine.
"They're just passing through," Eira says, but he can hear uncertainty in her voice. "The guards at the northern gate will have checked them. They're probably just taking the trade road south."
The riders are closer now, close enough that Evran can make out their faces. All three are men, rough-looking, with the kind of hardened features that speak of difficult lives. They slow their horses as they approach the terraced gardens, and one of them—a man with a scarred face and greasy dark hair—calls out.
"Well, what do we have here? A garden party?"
His tone is mocking, aggressive in a way that makes Evran's shoulders tense. Beside him, Eira has gone very still, her eyes fixed on the ground.
"We're just working," Evran says, trying to keep his voice calm and neutral. "The trade road continues past the gardens. Safe travels to you."
It's a dismissal, polite but firm, and he hopes they'll take the hint and keep moving. But instead, the scarred man swings down from his horse, his companions following suit. They move with the casual confidence of men who aren't worried about consequences.
"Friendly lot, these mountain folk," the scarred man says to his companions, though his eyes are fixed on Eira in a way that makes Evran's stomach turn. "Pretty, too. Especially that one."
Eira takes a step back, moving closer to Evran. He can see her hands trembling, and can practically feel the fear radiating from her. The protective instinct that flares in his chest is immediate and fierce.
"You should move along," Evran says, and his voice comes out harder than before. "The Drakarri don't take kindly to harassment on their lands."
"The Drakarri," one of the other men—shorter but heavily built—says with a sneer. "We paid their toll at the gate. We're allowed passage. Didn't say anything about not being friendly."
They're moving closer now, spreading out slightly in a way that's clearly strategic. Evran positions himself more firmly between them and Eira, his mind racing. Where are the guards? The patrols should pass by here regularly, but he hasn't seen anyone in over an hour.
"We're being friendly," the scarred man says, and his smile makes Evran's skin crawl. "Just want to chat with the pretty lady. Maybe get to know her better."
"She's not interested," Evran says flatly. His heart is pounding now, adrenaline flooding his system. "Leave. Now."
"Or what?" The third man—tall and thin with a cruel face—laughs. "You going to stop us, boy? Soft hands, pretty face. You're no warrior."
They're right about that. Evran has his basic training from Kellin, but he's never been in a real fight beyond the scuffles of his youth. These are grown men, hardened by whatever lives they've led, and there are three of them.
But he's not going to let them touch Eira.
The scarred man lunges forward suddenly, reaching past Evran for Eira's arm. She cries out, trying to pull away, and something in Evran snaps.
He doesn't think. His body moves on instinct, muscle memory from both old brawls and new training taking over. His fist connects with the scarred man's jaw, snapping his head to the side and making him stumble back with a curse.
"Run!" Evran shouts to Eira. "Get to the stronghold! Get the guards!"
But she's frozen, terror holding her in place, and Evran doesn't have time to do anything else because all three men are coming at him now, their expressions twisted with anger.
The shorter man grabs his arm, trying to pull him off balance, but Evran remembers Kellin's lessons about using an opponent's momentum. He twists, breaking the grip, and drives his elbow back into the man's ribs. The man grunts, loosening his hold enough for Evran to wrench free.
But the tall one is there immediately, landing a punch to Evran's stomach that drives the air from his lungs. Pain explodes through his middle and he doubles over, gasping.
