Captain Frederick urges his horse forward, though his discomfort is evident in the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his hand hovers near his sword hilt. "Captain Frederick of House Ashworth," he calls back, his voice carrying less well than the guard's had. "We bring an offering of peace and alliance from Lord Callum Ashworth."
There is a pause, then the sound of voices conferring above. Evran tries to make out the words, straining his ears to catch the discussion, but the wind carries most of it away before he can decipher anything beyond occasional syllables. He catches what might be laughter, which seems like an odd response, but perhaps he's misheard.
After what feels like an eternity but is probably only a minute or two, the great gates begin to swing inward with a deep, resonant groaning of hinges that must be enormous to move such massive doors. The sound reverberates through Evran'schest, and he realizes his heart is hammering so hard he can feel it in his throat.
"Enter and be welcome," comes the call from above, formal and ritualistic. "But know that you enter under the laws of clan hospitality. Any who break our peace answer to the Warlord himself."
The words carry weight, like an oath or a binding contract. Frederick nods curtly and gestures for his men to follow, though the tension in their group hasn't eased at all. If anything, the warriors seem more nervous now that they're about to enter the stronghold itself, riding into what could very well be a trap.
Evran feels his heart hammering against his ribs as they ride through the gates, passing beneath an archway so thick that their horses' hoofbeats echo for several seconds before they emerge into sunlight again. The walls must be at least twenty feet thick, he realizes, built to withstand siege warfare on a scale he can barely imagine.
The interior of the courtyard steals what little breath he has left.
It's vast—far larger than it appeared from outside—paved with fitted stones that have been worn smooth by countless feet but show no signs of cracking or disrepair. The space is bustling with activity, alive with the sounds and sights of a thriving community. Instead of savage warriors sitting around a crude campfire sharpening weapons with stones, preparing for their next raid, he sees people going about their daily business with the same organization and efficiency of any well-run settlement. Perhaps even more efficiently than his father's keep, where politics and posturing often get in the way of actual work.
Children play near a large fountain carved from what appears to be a single piece of dark stone, their laughter carrying across the courtyard as they chase each other around the basin. The fountain itself is a work of art—carved with the same intricateknotwork as the gates, water flowing from what looks like a carved mountain peak into a pool below. The children are clean, well-fed, dressed in practical but well-made clothing, and they play with the carefree energy of kids who feel completely safe in their environment.
Women tend gardens that somehow thrive in the mountain air despite the harsh conditions, their plots arranged in neat rows between the buildings with a precision that speaks of careful planning and agricultural knowledge. He can see herbs and vegetables he recognizes, but also plants he's never seen before, perhaps species that only grow at this altitude. The gardens are terraced into the mountainside itself, taking advantage of every available space and catching sunlight at different times of day.
Men work at forges and workshops built into the mountainside or constructed as freestanding buildings within the courtyard. The ring of hammers on metal creates a constant rhythm, and Evran can smell the sharp tang of hot iron and coal fires. Through open doorways, he catches glimpses of craftsmen at work—a blacksmith shaping what looks like an intricate sword hilt, a leatherworker tooling patterns into armor, a carpenter fitting joinery so precise it looks like the wood has grown together.
This is craftsmanship on par with anything produced in the southern cities, and in some cases clearly superior. The weapons he can see being worked on look deadly and beautiful in equal measure, the armor both functional and artistic.
The people themselves look nothing like the half-feral barbarians of his imagination, and the disconnect between expectation and reality is so severe that Evran feels slightly dizzy. They are tall and strong, certainly, with the kind of build that comes from living and working in a harsh environment. But their clothing is well-made and dyed in deep hues of gemstone colors—emerald greens, sapphire blues, rich purples and deepcrimsons. The dyes alone would cost a fortune in the south, yet here they seem commonplace.
Their hair is clean and healthy, often braided with small ornaments of bone or metal worked into intricate designs. Many of them bear tattoos on their arms and faces—intricate designs that seem meaningful and purposeful rather than crude markings. The patterns are beautiful, flowing across skin like living art, and Evran realizes they're probably clan markings or personal symbols with cultural significance he doesn't understand.
What strikes him most is how content they all seem. In his father's keep, the servants and common folk move with the wariness of people who know their position is precarious, who understand that a lord's displeasure can mean dismissal or worse. Here, people work with confidence, laugh freely, call out to each other with easy familiarity. It's the difference between people who are owned and people who belong.
"Welcome to our lands, southerners."
Evran turns to find a man approaching their group, and if he'd seen this warrior in the stories, he might have believed the legends. The stranger is perhaps in his mid-thirties, tall and broad-shouldered with the build of a man who's spent his life training for combat. His auburn hair is braided back from a face marked by intricate tattoos that spiral across his left cheek and down his neck in patterns that seem to tell a story. He wears leather armor studded with metal, clearly functional but also decorated with the same attention to artistry Evran has noticed everywhere in the stronghold. His shoulders are adorned with a set of layered steel pauldrons that catch the light beautifully, and a deep green cloak trails behind him like a shadow.
He strikes an imposing figure—exactly the sort of warrior Evran had been taught to fear. But there is a gentleness to hiseyes, a warmth in his expression that puts Evran instantly at ease. Or as at ease as he can be, given the circumstances.
"I am Bran," the man continues, his accent carrying the same rolling quality as the guard's voice but with an added note of authority that suggests high rank. His eyes are a startling green, unusual and striking, and they fix on Evran with curious interest that feels more welcoming than threatening. "Second to Warlord Vaike. You are from House Ashworth?"
The directness of the address catches Evran off guard. In the south, there would be layers of formality before getting to introductions, especially between someone of Bran's apparent rank and a group of foreign visitors. But here, it seems, they value direct communication.
"I am Evran Ashworth," Evran says, and he's proud that his voice comes out level despite the anxiety churning in his gut. He straightens his spine and meets Bran's gaze directly, refusing to show the fear that threatens to overwhelm him. He has already decided that, if this is his fate, he will weather it with all the strength he can muster. He won't give his father the satisfaction of breaking easily. "Third son of Lord Callum."
"Well met, Evran," Bran says, and there's genuine warmth in the greeting that surprises him. The warrior's brow furrows slightly, and he glances between Evran and Captain Frederick with an expression that might be confusion. He turns to Frederick, who is looking increasingly uncomfortable with each passing moment, clearly eager to discharge his duty and be gone from this place. "Your men may rest and refresh themselves before the return journey. There are quarters prepared for southern guests. But the young lord comes with me."
Frederick nods quickly, almost too quickly, clearly eager to be done with his duty and out of this foreign stronghold. He barely glances at Evran as he dismounts, already turning his attention to seeing his men settled and probably calculating how quicklythey can complete their rest and begin the journey home. The dismissal is complete and absolute.
Evran feels a sharp pang of abandonment as he watches the captain turn away. These men have been his last connection to home, the final thread tying him to everything familiar. Now they can't wait to be rid of him, to wash their hands of their uncomfortable duty and return to the comfortable certainty of the south. In a few hours, they'll be gone, and he'll be truly alone among strangers in a foreign land.
The finality of it settles over him like a weight.
"Come," Bran says, gesturing for Evran to follow with a motion that's invitation rather than command. "The Warlord will want to meet you, but first I would show you something of our home. It will help you learn more about the people you seek to broker peace with."
The phrasing is interesting—you seek to broker peace with—as if Bran believes Evran is here on a genuine diplomatic mission rather than as an exile dressed up in diplomatic clothing. Evran wonders if he should correct that assumption or let it stand for now.
Evran dismounts, his legs slightly unsteady after three days of hard riding, and hands his horse's reins to a boy who appears at his elbow as if summoned. The child cannot be more than twelve, with dark hair and the same elaborate tattoos on his arms, but he moves with the confidence and competence of someone twice his age. He nods his head in acknowledgement of Evran as he takes the reins, not with subservience but with simple courtesy between equals, and leads the horse away toward what must be the stables with practiced ease.
Even the children here carry themselves differently, Evran realizes. With more dignity, more certainty of their place and value.
"Tell me," Bran says as they begin walking deeper into the stronghold, his tone conversational and genuinely curious, "what do you know of the Drakarri?"
