He opens his mouth, then closes it again. The silence that follows is painful, and he can see confusion beginning to creep into some of the watching faces. Why isn't the southern lordling presenting his tribute? Why is he just standing there?
"I..." he starts, then stops, the words jamming in his throat like stones.
Vaike's expression shifts slightly, the amusement fading into something more focused, more alert. Those steel-gray eyes narrow fractionally, and Evran can practically see the man's mind working, trying to understand what's happening here.
"The offering, young Ashworth," the warlord repeats, and his tone is still patient but there's an edge underneath now that suggests his patience isn't unlimited. This is a man accustomed to being obeyed, to having his commands followed immediately. "What does your father send to seal our potential alliance?"
Evran swallows hard, tasting fear and something that might be shame or anger or both. He wants to rage at his father for putting him in this position, for making him the instrument of his own humiliation. He wants to run, to flee this chamber and these people and never look back. But there's nowhere to go, no escape from this moment.
Better to speak the truth than to be caught in deception before these people who seem to value directness above all else. At leasthonesty might buy him some small measure of respect, even if everything else about this situation is a disaster.
"I am," he says quietly, the words barely audible even to himself.
The vastness of the chamber seems to swallow his voice entirely, and for a moment Evran thinks maybe no one heard him. Maybe he can just disappear, fade into the background and cease to exist. But then he sees the confusion spreading across faces, people leaning forward to hear better, and he knows he has to repeat it.
He raises his voice, forcing the words out louder this time, each syllable feeling like it's being dragged from his throat. "I am the offering, my lord. My father sends... sends me."
The silence that follows is deafening, absolute, so complete that Evran swears he can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears like war drums. He can feel the weight of dozens of stares fixing on him with new understanding, shock rippling through the assembled crowd like a stone dropped in still water. Somewhere in the watching crowd, someone draws in a sharp breath that echoes in the sudden stillness. Someone else makes a sound that might be a strangled curse.
Vaike goes very still. The change is subtle but unmistakable—like the moment before a storm breaks, when the air itself holds its breath and every creature knows to seek shelter. One moment he's a man sitting on a throne, the next he's something far more dangerous, all that casual grace transforming into coiled tension.
"You," the warlord says slowly, and his voice has gone cold as mountain stone, cold as winter wind howling through empty passes, "are the offering."
It's not a question, but Evran nods anyway, unable to trust his voice to remain steady. His throat feels tight, his chest constricted, and he's not entirely sure he can breathe properly.
"Your father," Vaike continues, and now each word falls like a hammer blow, measured and deliberate and heavy with disbelief, "sends his own son. His own flesh and blood. A child of his house. As tribute."
The disbelief in the warlord's voice is matched by the stirring around the chamber, a rising tide of murmurs and exclamations. Evran can hear voices raised in what sounds like outrage or confusion, people turning to each other to confirm they heard correctly, to process this impossible revelation. The words being thrown around—"inconceivable," "barbaric," "what kind of father"—cut into him like knives, each one a confirmation of his worst fears about his own worthlessness.
But his attention remains fixed entirely on the man before him, whose gray eyes have gone flat and dangerous in a way that makes Evran's survival instincts scream warnings. This is a predator, and Evran has just revealed himself as prey.
"This is..." Vaike rises from his throne with fluid grace that somehow makes the movement more threatening, and Evran instinctively takes a step back, his body reacting before his mind can stop it. The warlord is even taller standing than he appeared seated—easily half a head taller than Evran, with shoulders that seem to fill the space around him. The firelight catches on the silver at his throat and ears, making him look almost otherworldly. "This is an insult."
The word lands like a strike, and Evran feels his chest constrict even further. An insult. Not just unwanted, not just inappropriate, but actively offensive.
"My lord, I—" Evran starts, desperate to explain, to somehow make this better, but Vaike cuts him off with a sharp gesture.
"You think so little of the Drakarri," the warlord continues, his voice rising and carrying to every corner of the chamber with perfect clarity, "that you offer us a person as tribute? As if wewere slave traders to be bought with human flesh? As if we deal in people like livestock?"
Each question is an accusation, and Evran can hear the genuine anger building beneath the words. This isn't just about protocol or diplomatic propriety—Vaike is truly offended by the very concept of what's been done here.
"No!" The word bursts from Evran before he can stop it, before he can think about whether contradicting a warlord in his own hall is a wise decision. "No, that's not— I don't think— I never meant—"
But his desperate protests are drowned out as Vaike's voice overrides them, filled with a righteous fury that makes Evran's blood run cold.
"What manner of father," the warlord demands, and now he's not just speaking to Evran but to the entire assembly, to the concept itself, "trades away his own child like livestock? What manner of man sends his son to strangers in foreign lands and calls it diplomacy? What kind of parent treats their own flesh and blood as a commodity to be given away when it suits their political ambitions?"
The questions aren't really directed at Evran—they seem to be addressed to the chamber at large, to the assembled Drakarri who are murmuring their agreement and shock, to the very concept of such an action. But Evran feels them like daggers anyway, each word confirming what he's known deep down since his father pronounced his sentence in that cold study three days ago.
He's worthless. Expendable. A disappointment so profound that even exile among supposed barbarians seems like a fitting punishment.
The murmurs around the chamber are growing louder now, warriors and advisors discussing this revelation withexpressions ranging from shock to disgust to what might even be pity.
"My lord," Bran says carefully, and Evran is grateful for the interruption even though the warrior's voice carries its own note of disturbed disbelief. Bran looks shaken, his earlier friendliness replaced with confusion and what might be anger on Evran's behalf. "Perhaps we should—"
"Get him out of my sight," Vaike snaps, turning away as if Evran's very presence offends him on some fundamental level, as if looking at him is physically painful.
Evran flinches back as though struck, the dismissal in the warlord's voice absolute and devastating. It's almost worse than his father's cold calculation—at least Callum had looked at him while pronouncing his sentence. Vaike won't even do him that courtesy.
