He moves toward the door, and Evran watches him go, unable to look away. Just before he leaves, Vaike pauses and glances back.
"I'm proud of you," he says quietly. "I thought you should know that."
Then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and Evran is alone with his racing heart and the echoes of words he never thought he'd hear.
I'm proud of you.
The words replay in his mind over and over, each repetition sending warmth flooding through his chest. Vaike is proud of him. The Warlord—this man who commands warriors and rules a clan with absolute authority—is proud of what Evran did today.
His hands are shaking again, but not from pain or fear this time. He presses one palm against his chest where his heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might break through his ribs. The beating won't calm, won't slow, and he doesn't know if it's the praise, or the concern in Vaike's voice, or the way the Warlord had touched his bandage so carefully, or all of it together.
He tells himself it's just the natural response to finally receiving the approval he's been desperately seeking. That anyone would react this way to being told they've done well after a lifetime of being told they're not enough. That the flutter in his stomach and the warmth in his chest and the way he can't stop thinking about steel-gray eyes are just normal reactions to kindness from someone in authority.
But even as he tells himself these things, some part of him knows he's lying. Knows that what he feels goes beyond simple gratitude or relief at being accepted. Knows that the reason his heart won't calm has less to do with praise and more to do with the man who gave it.
He closes his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions that threaten to overwhelm him. But all he can see behind his eyelids is Vaike's face, the concern and pride mixed together in an expression that seemed almost... tender.
No. He can't think like that. Can't let himself imagine that Vaike's care means anything more than a leader's concern for someone under his protection. That would be dangerous, foolish, a recipe for disappointment and heartbreak.
But his heart keeps racing anyway, ignoring all his rational arguments, responding to something his mind isn't ready to acknowledge.
Someone brings food eventually—a bowl of hearty soup that he manages to eat despite his shaking hands, and bread soft enough that he doesn't have to chew much with his sore jaw. The physician comes as promised, checking his wounds and giving him more of the bitter tea that will help him sleep.
But even as the medication pulls him toward rest, even as exhaustion from the day's events weighs down his limbs, his last conscious thought is of Vaike's voice sayingI'm proud of you, and the way those words had made him feel more valued than anything in his entire life.
His heart is still racing as sleep finally claims him, and in his dreams, steel-gray eyes look at him with warmth that he's too afraid to hope for in waking hours.
Chapter 11
Two days of rest have done wonders for Evran's injuries, though he's still sore and moving more carefully than usual. The physician has pronounced him well enough to attend the harvest gathering, though she's warned him against trying to take in multiple strangers in combat again.
Eira had appeared at his door that evening, her eyes bright with excitement and a shy smile on her face.
"You're coming, aren't you?" she'd asked, twisting her hands in the skirt of her dress—a beautiful deep blue that brought out the warmth in her dark eyes. "Everyone's talking about what you did. You're a hero, Evran. You can't miss your own celebration."
The idea of being celebrated makes him deeply uncomfortable, but the hope in Eira's expression had been impossible to refuse. Besides, Vaike had personally invited him to this gathering over a week ago, back when sitting at the high table for breakfast had felt like the bravest thing he'd ever done. Skipping it would feel like a rejection of that invitation, and he can't bring himself to risk that.
So he'd dressed in his best clothes—the formal tunic and trousers that Leona had delivered yesterday, made specifically for him by the clan's seamstresses. The fabric is a rich forest green that somehow makes his brown eyes look warmer, and the cut is distinctly Drakarri in style, fitted through the shoulders and decorated with subtle embroidery at the collar and cuffs.
Looking at himself in the mirror, Evran barely recognizes the person staring back. Two weeks ago he'd been a terrified exile in travel-stained clothes. Now he looks like he belongs here, like he could be one of them.
The thought both thrills and terrifies him.
The gathering is held in the great hall, but it's been transformed from the space he knows. Tables have been pushed to the sides, creating a large open area in the center. Lanterns hang from the ceiling, casting warm golden light that flickers and dances. Musicians are set up on a raised platform—drums, flutes, strings that he doesn't recognize but that create a sound both wild and beautiful.
The hall is already crowded when Evran arrives, people dressed in their finest clothes, talking and laughing with the easy joy of a community celebrating together. The air is rich with the smells of roasted meat, fresh bread, spiced wine, and something sweet that makes his mouth water.
"Evran!" Aether appears from the crowd, resplendent in a deep red dress with her hair elaborately braided. "Look at you! The seamstresses outdid themselves. You look like a proper Drakarri now."
The compliment makes him flush with pleasure. "Thank you. You look beautiful."
"Don't I always?" she says with a wink, then leans in conspiratorially. "Fair warning—everyone wants to talk to you tonight. You're the man of the hour after defending Eira from those travelers. Try not to let it go to your head."
Before he can respond, she's pulled away by her husband, and Evran is left to navigate the crowd on his own. True to Aether's warning, people keep stopping him—clapping him on the shoulder (carefully, mindful of his injuries), thanking him for protecting one of their own, offering him drinks and food.
It's overwhelming in the best possible way. He's never been the center of positive attention like this, never had people look at him with respect and gratitude rather than disappointment or disdain. Every kind word, every genuine smile, chips away at the lifetime of his father's criticism.
But through it all, Evran finds his attention drawn repeatedly to one specific person.
