The question catches Evran completely off guard. He finds himself studying Bran's face, looking for some hint of mockery or trap, some sign that this is a test designed to make him reveal his prejudices so they can be held against him. But he finds only genuine curiosity and what might even be amusement.
The directness is refreshing, in a way. No games, no political maneuvering, just a straightforward question expecting a straightforward answer.
"I am coming to find I know nothing," Evran admits, then decides honesty might serve him better than diplomacy at this point. What does he have to lose? "My people say you are barbarians. Raiders who live by violence and know nothing of civilization."
He braces himself for anger, for offense, but instead Bran laughs—a rich, genuine sound that echoes off the stone walls around them and draws smiles from passing clan members who must know their second-in-command well enough to enjoy his humor.
"Barbarians, are we?" Bran says, still chuckling. "And what do you think now that you've seen our 'barbarian' ways?"
Evran looks around them as they walk, really seeing the stronghold for the first time without the filter of his preconceptions. They are passing what appears to be a library—an actual library, not just a lord's private collection but a public space with windows glowing with the warm light of oil lamps and the shapes of people bent over books and scrolls. Through the windows, he can see shelves lined with volumes, tables where people study, even what looks like someone teaching a small class.
Beyond that, a workshop where he can see the intricate metalwork being fitted to what looks like both weapons and jewelry, the craftsman working with tools and techniques that Evran recognizes from his father's smithy but applied with what appears to be superior skill. The pieces are beautiful—functional art that would fetch high prices in southern markets.
"Your stronghold is more sophisticated than anything in my father's lands," Evran admits slowly, each word feeling like a betrayal of everything he's been taught but also like a relief to finally speak the truth. "I've never seen such a community built in such a harsh place. My people would falter and perish given the same circumstances, but you've built an organized society within impenetrable walls."
And it's true. His father's keep is impressive by southern standards, but it's built in fertile lowlands where life is comparatively easy. This—building a thriving civilization into the bones of a mountain, making abundance from scarcity—this requires a level of skill and determination that suddenly seems far more impressive than anything the south has achieved.
"Are you disappointed to not find the crude hovels and savage fighters of the stories?" Bran asks, and there's something playful in his tone, but also something more serious underneath—perhaps a desire to understand how the south really sees them.
Evran huffs out a surprised laugh, the sound escaping before he can stop it. "No. No, I'm not disappointed."
And that's perhaps the understatement of his life. His relief at finding civilized society among the Drakarri people is bone deep, visceral, like a reprieve from a death sentence he didn't realize he'd been carrying. He had been expecting to be shackled to a post in a village made of mud and sticks, treated like livestock or property, living in filth and squalor until he died or went mad. Instead, an entire fortress of prosperity and efficiency awaitshim, with people who seem to value learning and art as much as martial prowess.
Even if his future here is servitude—and he's still not sure what exactly his role will be—the relief he feels at what he's found in the mountains settles his nerves somewhat. He still doesn't know what their Warlord has planned for him, what form his service will take, what price he'll have to pay for sanctuary. But it doesn't appear as though they are the sort of people to make him suffer for entertainment. There's too much order here, too much civilization, for casual cruelty to be the norm.
That realization, more than anything, allows him to take his first full breath since leaving his father's study three days ago.
They are climbing now, following stone steps that have been carved directly into the mountain face with such precision that each riser is exactly the same height, each tread perfectly level. The craftsmanship is extraordinary—no crumbling edges, no uneven surfaces that might cause a stumble. These steps have probably been here for generations and will last generations more.
Around them, the stronghold reveals more of its secrets and its genius. Gardens are terraced into the mountainside where they can catch the most sunlight, each level carefully positioned to maximize growing time and protected from the harsh mountain winds by clever placement of walls and buildings. Workshops are built into natural caves where the mountain itself provides shelter and maintains consistent temperatures ideal for various crafts. Living areas seem to flow organically from the rock as if they have grown there rather than been constructed, windows positioned to catch light and views while remaining defensible.
Everything speaks of people who understand their environment intimately, who work with the mountain rather than against it, who have accumulated knowledge over generations and applied it with impressive results.
They have reached a landing now, a wide area carved from the mountain that offers a spectacular view of the valley below. Evran can see for miles in every direction—rolling hills that give way to distant forests, rivers that catch the afternoon sun like ribbons of molten silver, and far in the distance, barely visible in the haze, the lowlands where his former home lies. From this vantage point, the south looks small and distant, already feeling like something from another life.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Bran says, moving to stand beside him at the stone railing that's been carved with the same intricate knotwork that decorates everything here. "The mountain provides for us, protects us, allows us a vantage point to observe potential enemies approaching from any direction. It's why we build our homes into its bones rather than simply upon its surface. We become part of something greater than ourselves."
There is great pride in his voice as he observes his homeland, a deep connection that goes beyond simple patriotism. Evran finds himself envying that sense of belonging, that certainty of place and purpose. He's never felt his place anywhere, not when he's always had someone standing over him ready to find fault, ready to remind him that as a third son he's ultimately expendable.
Here, even in his uncertainty and fear, he can feel the pull of belonging to something larger than political maneuvering and family ambition.
"The Warlord will want to hear your words personally," Bran continues, turning away from the view with what seems like reluctance. "But first, you should understand something of our ways. We value strength, yes, but not only the strength of sword and shield. Strength of purpose. Strength of conviction. The courage to stand by one's principles even when it costs dearly."
The words hit closer to home for Evran than he thinks Bran probably realizes, striking directly at the core of why he's here.He's given up everything to stand by his principles, refusing to compromise his integrity even when it cost him his home, his family, his entire future. And it's led him to this mountaintop with these fierce people who might understand that choice better than his own father ever did.
He wonders how much Bran might have guessed about the circumstances of his arrival. Is the man's insight merely general wisdom, or has he already pieced together that this isn't a standard diplomatic mission?
"Come," Bran says, beginning to move again, leading them toward a massive doorway carved directly into the mountain face. "The audience chamber is just ahead. Warlord Vaike will have heard of your arrival by now, and he is not a man who appreciates being kept waiting."
The name sends a chill down Evran's spine. Warlord Vaike. The man who rules these people, who commands their absolute loyalty, who will decide Evran's fate with a word. Everything he's seen so far suggests these people are far more civilized than the stories claim, but that doesn't mean their leader will be merciful to a southern exile offered as tribute.
As they approach what can only be the heart of the stronghold, moving through corridors that grow more elaborate and formal, Evran feels his pulse quicken with each step. Whatever comes next will determine his fate among these people—whether he will find a place here, whether he'll be valued or simply tolerated, or whether his father has simply traded one form of exile for another, one that just happens to have better architecture.
The corridor ahead seems to stretch into shadow despite the oil lamps burning in regular intervals along the walls, and somewhere beyond those shadows waits the man who will decide his future. Evran takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and follows Bran forward into the unknown.
He's come too far to turn back now. All he can do is face whatever comes with as much courage as he can muster, and hope that the strength of conviction Bran spoke of will be enough to earn him a place among these mountain people.
Even if he has no idea what that place might be.
