She leads them through more corridors at a pace just short of running, and Evran follows in a daze. This can't be happening. He finally found happiness, finally found where he belongs, and now it's being ripped away. His father's shadow reaching even here, into the mountains, into the one place Evran thought he was safe.
They reach a large chamber where Vaike is indeed in a meeting—Evran can hear voices through the partially open door. Leona doesn't hesitate, pushing it open and interrupting whatever discussion is happening inside.
"Warlord," she says urgently. "There's a situation."
Vaike looks up from where he's studying what appears to be a map with Bran and several other advisors. His expression shifts from mild annoyance at the interruption to sharp concern when he sees Evran's face.
"What's wrong?" He's on his feet immediately, crossing to them. "Evran?"
"There are riders from House Ashworth in the courtyard," Leona reports crisply. "Captain Frederick and a delegation. They're demanding an audience with you, and they're claiming the right to take Evran back south."
Vaike's expression goes carefully blank, but Evran can see the tension that suddenly grips his frame. "On what grounds?"
"They claim there was an agreement," Evran says, his voice shaking. "That you were supposed to establish trade partnerships and alliances, and since you haven't, they want to rescind the—the tribute offer and take me back."
"That's a lie," Vaike says flatly. "There was no such agreement."
"My father has documentation," Evran says, despair welling up in his chest. "You know he does. He would have prepared for this, would have created evidence of whatever narrative he wants to tell. He's claiming this was always a conditional arrangement."
He can see Vaike processing this, see the calculations happening behind those gray eyes. The Warlord is thinking about politics, about the complications of refusing a noble house's legal claim, about what refusing might cost his people.
Evran feels like he's watching his future crumble in real time.
"I need to speak with them," Vaike says finally, his voice carefully controlled. "Bran, send word that we'll meet this delegation in the audience chamber in one hour. I want full council present."
"Vaike—" Evran starts, but the Warlord turns to him and the look on his face stops the words in his throat.
"Trust me," Vaike says quietly, so only Evran can hear. "Whatever happens, trust me."
Then he's moving, issuing orders, becoming the Warlord rather than the man who held Evran through the night. And Evran is left standing there, watching him go, terror clawing at his insides.
The hour that follows is torture. Evran is taken to a side chamber by Leona, who won't let him pace alone but also won't let him leave. Eira stays with him, her presence a comfort even though she looks as worried as he feels.
"He won't let them take you," Eira says, but she sounds like she's trying to convince herself as much as him. "He cares about you. Everyone can see it."
"He cares about his people more," Evran says, and it's not an accusation, just a statement of fact. "As he should. If keeping me here means conflict with a southern noble house, if it means putting the clan at risk..." He trails off, unable to finish the thought.
Too soon, Bran appears at the door. "It's time," he says, his expression grim. "The council is assembled, and the delegation is waiting."
Evran's legs feel like water as he follows Bran through the corridors toward the audience chamber. Every step feels like walking toward his own execution. The familiar passages of the stronghold—his home—suddenly feel like a cage he's being dragged through on the way to somewhere worse.
The doors to the audience chamber loom ahead, already open. Inside, he can see the council assembled—warriors, advisors, clan leaders all gathered to witness whatever is about to happen. At the far end, Vaike sits on his throne, looking every inch the commanding figure who first terrified Evran on his arrival.
And in the center of the chamber, Captain Frederick stands with his delegation, their southern clothes and bearing marking them as outsiders in this mountain stronghold.
Evran's hands are shaking. His breath comes short and shallow. Everything he's built here, everything he's become, hangs in the balance of whatever happens next.
As Bran leads him into the chamber, all eyes turn to him. Frederick looks satisfied. The Drakarri council looks concerned. And Vaike—
Vaike's expression is carefully neutral, revealing nothing of what he's thinking or feeling.
And Evran realizes with crushing certainty that he has no idea what the Warlord will choose. Doesn't know if their nights together, their growing connection, will be enough to outweigh the political reality of refusing a noble house's legal claim.
He's terrified that the answer is no.
The chamber doors close behind him with a sound like thunder, and Evran stands frozen, waiting to learn whether this is the end of everything.
Chapter 18
