Evran should respect that distance. Should bury these feelings deep and be grateful for what he's been given rather than yearning for more.
But knowing what he should do doesn't make his heart beat any slower or his breath come any easier as he watches Vaike move through forms that are probably second nature after years of practice.
"I know you're there, Evran."
The words cut through the night air, calm and unsurprised, and Evran's heart leaps into his throat. Of course Vaike knows. Warriors don't reach positions of leadership without awareness that borders on the supernatural.
"I'm sorry," Evran says automatically, his voice rough. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I couldn't sleep and I was just walking."
Vaike lowers his sword and turns to face him fully, and even from this distance Evran can see the way the moonlight catches in his gray eyes. "You're not disturbing me. Come here."
It's the same command from a week ago, delivered in the same tone—calm authority that expects to be obeyed. And just like before, Evran finds his feet moving forward before his mind can fully process the decision.
As he gets closer, more details become visible. The rise and fall of Vaike's chest as he breathes heavily from exertion. The way sweat traces paths down his neck and across his collarbone. The slight flush in his cheeks from exercise and the cold air. He looks human and touchable and so far beyond Evran's reach it hurts.
"Couldn't sleep?" Vaike asks as Evran stops a few feet away, maintaining careful distance even though every instinct screams at him to move closer.
"No," Evran admits. "Too much on my mind, I suppose."
Something flickers across Vaike's expression—concern, perhaps, or understanding. "The gathering was overwhelming. I noticed you left early."
Of course he noticed. Vaike notices everything, seems to track Evran's presence even in a crowded room. The knowledge sends warmth through Evran's chest even as it makes the ache worse.
"I needed air," Evran says, which is true if incomplete. "And then I was tired, so I went to my quarters."
He doesn't mention lying awake for hours, doesn't explain the reason for his restlessness. Vaike doesn't need to know about the feelings Evran is struggling to contain.
"How are your injuries?" Vaike asks, and his eyes track over Evran with that same assessing attention that makes him feel simultaneously exposed and seen. "You were dancing earlier—I saw you with Eira. I hope you weren't pushing yourself too hard."
The mention of dancing sends Evran's mind spiraling. Had Vaike been watching him specifically, or just happened to notice in passing? And if he was watching, what had he thought seeing Evran dance with Eira?
"I'm fine," Evran manages. "A bit sore, but nothing concerning. The physician cleared me for activity."
"Good." Vaike hefts his practice sword, testing its weight. "Since you're here and awake anyway... care to spar?"
The invitation catches Evran completely off guard. "I—what?"
"Spar. With me." Vaike's expression is unreadable in the moonlight. "You've been training with Kellin, and you proved you can handle yourself in a real fight. But there's nothing quite like practicing against someone with more experience. It helps identify weaknesses, areas to improve."
Evran's immediate instinct is to refuse. He's nowhere near Vaike's level—the Warlord would demolish him without effort. But something in Vaike's posture, in the way he's watching Evran, makes the invitation feel significant. Like a test, perhaps, or an offering of trust.
"I'd be completely outmatched," Evran says honestly. "You'd destroy me in seconds."
"Probably," Vaike agrees with devastating casualness. "But that's not the point. The point is learning. Understanding how someone with more skill moves and thinks. And besides,"something that might be amusement crosses his face, "I promise to go easy on you."
The challenge is clear in his tone, and despite his better judgment, despite the way his ribs still ache and his heart is still raw from earlier, Evran finds himself nodding. "Alright. But don't blame me when this is embarrassingly one-sided."
"Get a sword," Vaike says, and there's definite amusement in his voice now.
Evran retrieves a practice blade from the weapons rack, his hands surprisingly steady despite the nervous energy thrumming through his veins. When he returns to the center of the training ground, Vaike has moved into a ready position, sword held loosely but with clear competence.
"Basic rules," Vaike says. "This is about learning, not winning. If I see an opening, I'll tell you why it's there and how to correct it. If you manage to surprise me—which would be impressive—I'll tell you what you did right. Questions?"
"No," Evran says, falling into his guard position with Kellin's instructions echoing in his mind. Keep loose, stay balanced, watch your opponent's eyes and center mass rather than their weapon.
"Begin."
Vaike moves first, but slowly—clearly testing Evran's reaction speed and defensive capabilities. Evran manages to parry the first strike, barely, the impact sending vibrations up his arm. Then Vaike is pressing forward with a combination that has Evran backpedaling, struggling to keep his guard up.
