"Lord Evran," Frederick says, and the use of his title feels wrong, mocking. "I bring word from your father, Lord Callum Ashworth."
"I'm not a lord anymore," Evran says, and is proud that his voice comes out steady despite the terror coursing through him. "I renounced that claim when I came here."
"Nevertheless," Frederick continues as if Evran hasn't spoken, "your father requests your immediate return to House Ashworth. There are matters that require your presence."
"Requests," Evran repeats, and bitter laughter threatens to escape. "My father doesn't request. He commands."
Something flickers across Frederick's face—discomfort, perhaps, or acknowledgment of the truth in Evran's words. "Your presence is required, my lord. We've been authorized to escort you back."
"No." The word comes out flat, absolute. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
Frederick's expression hardens. "Lord Ashworth was quite clear in his instructions. The Warlord has failed to uphold his end of the arrangement—no trade agreements have been established, no alliances formed. Therefore, Lord Ashworth seeks to rescind his offer of tribute and reclaim what is his."
The clinical way Frederick phrases it—"reclaim what is his"—makes Evran's stomach turn. As if he's property, something that can be given and taken back at will.
"I'm not going back," Evran says more forcefully, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You can't make me."
"The agreement was between your father and the Warlord," Frederick says, and there's genuine regret in his voice now. "If the Warlord agrees to release you from his protection, you must return. Those are the terms of the original arrangement."
"There was no arrangement!" Evran's voice rises despite his efforts to stay calm. "My father sent me here as punishment, not as part of some diplomatic negotiation. The Warlord took me in out of mercy, not obligation!"
"That's not what Lord Ashworth claims," one of the other men says—someone Evran doesn't recognize, with the bearing of a legal advisor. "We have documentation of the agreement, signed by Lord Ashworth himself, detailing the terms of the tributary exchange."
Of course his father would have created false documentation. Of course he would have constructed a narrative that makes Evran's exile look like strategy rather than cruelty. Callum Ashworth is nothing if not thorough in covering his tracks.
Evran's breathing has gone shallow, panic clawing at his throat. They're going to take him back. They're going to drag him away from everything he's built here, everyone he cares about, the life he's finally found. They're going to deliver him to hisfather like a runaway dog, and Callum will make sure he never has the chance to escape again.
"I won't go," Evran says, backing away. "You can't make me. I'm under Drakarri protection—"
"Which can be rescinded if the Warlord chooses," Frederick says, and he does sound genuinely sorry now. "Lord Evran, please. Don't make this harder than it needs to be. Your father is a powerful man. He can make things... difficult for the Drakarri if they refuse to cooperate."
The threat is clear. Return willingly, or Callum will find ways to hurt these people who've given Evran sanctuary. Trade embargoes, perhaps. Political maneuvering with other noble houses. Maybe even encouraging raids or border conflicts. His father has resources and connections that could cause real problems for the clan.
"Evran," Eira says urgently, tugging on his arm. "We need to find the Warlord. Now."
She's right. Vaike needs to know about this immediately, needs to be the one to handle this situation before it escalates further. But fear has Evran frozen in place, unable to move or think clearly.
What if Vaike decides he's not worth the trouble? What if the political pressure is too much, the potential consequences too severe? What if he chooses to hand Evran over to avoid conflict with a southern noble house?
The thought makes Evran feel like he's being torn apart from the inside.
"We require an audience with the Warlord," Frederick is saying to the guards who've approached. "On behalf of Lord Callum Ashworth of the southern territories."
Eira pulls harder on Evran's arm. "Come on," she hisses. "We need to get you inside. Now."
This time Evran's legs cooperate. He turns and runs, Eira beside him, fleeing across the courtyard toward the stronghold entrance. Behind them, he can hear Frederick calling his name, hear the confusion of the guards trying to understand what's happening.
They burst through the doors and into the relative warmth of the interior corridors, both of them breathing hard. Eira doesn't stop moving, pulling Evran through passages he barely registers in his panic.
"Where is he usually at this time of day?" she demands. "The Warlord—where would he be?"
"I don't know," Evran gasps out. "Meetings, maybe? Or the training grounds—"
"The council chambers," a voice says, and they both spin to find Leona standing there, her expression sharp with concern. "What's happened? Why are there southern riders in our courtyard?"
"They've come for me," Evran manages. "My father sent them. They want to take me back."
Leona's face goes hard. "Over my dead body. Come—I'll take you to the Warlord."
