"I will not look upon the evidence of such barbarism," the warlord continues, and the word hits Evran like a slap. Barbarism. From the man his own people call a barbarian, from the supposed savage of the mountain clans. The irony would be laughable if it weren't so utterly damning. "Leona!"
A woman steps forward from the watching crowd, and Evran's vision is blurring too much to make out many details. She's perhaps forty years old, with brown hair braided with bone ornaments in the Drakarri style and keen dark eyes that fix on Evran with something that might be pity. She wears practical clothing—leather and wool in rich colors, with silver fastenings.
Vaike turns to her, his jaw set in a hard line. "Take him to the guest quarters. See that he's fed and cared for." The words should be comforting, but they're delivered with cold formality that strips away any warmth. "I want time to consider what message to send back to House Ashworth about their... gift."
The way he says the last word makes it clear exactly what he thinks of such gifts. The sarcasm drips from every syllable,making Evran want to sink through the floor and disappear entirely.
Leona nods crisply. "As you command, Warlord."
She approaches Evran, her expression not unkind but carefully neutral, professional. "Come," she says quietly, and there's gentleness in her voice that makes Evran's throat tight with unshed tears he refuses to let fall. He won't give these people the satisfaction of seeing him break, won't prove their assessment of him as weak and useless. "This way."
Evran follows her from the chamber in a haze of humiliation and growing terror, his legs moving mechanically while his mind struggles to process what just happened. Behind them, the murmurs are rising to a dull roar as the assembled Drakarri discuss what they've just witnessed, their voices blending into a cacophony of disbelief and judgment.
He catches fragments as they walk toward the great doors—words like "shameful" and "unnatural" and "what manner of people"—but he's grateful when the great doors close behind them with a heavy boom, cutting off the sound and leaving him in relative quiet.
This rejection feels almost as brutal as the one his father had given him, perhaps worse in some ways. Even in disgrace, sent away as punishment to the mountain clans, Evran has been found wanting by these supposed savages. Even the Warlord of the North, purported to be a barbarian who pillages villages and raids settlements without mercy, could only look at him in disgust—not for his actions or failures, but simply for the fact of his existence as a traded commodity.
What is left for him in this situation? Where will he go when there is no one who wants him, when even exile has rejected him?
Leona leads him through corridors he doesn't remember from his journey with Bran, her pace unhurried but purposeful. Shedoesn't speak, and Evran is glad for the silence because he's not sure he could form coherent words right now anyway. His mind is spinning, cycling through the disaster of the audience chamber and trying to understand what comes next.
The corridors seem to blur together—more carved stone, more oil lamps casting dancing shadows, more evidence of a sophisticated society that has just looked at him and found him wanting. They pass other Drakarri who stop to stare, clearly having heard already about what happened in the audience chamber. Word travels fast in close communities like this.
The guest quarters, when they finally reach them after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, are far more comfortable than Evran expects or feels he deserves. There's a sitting room with a fire already crackling merrily in the hearth, casting warm light and heat into the space. A bedchamber lies beyond, and through the open door he can see a bed that looks soft and inviting, piled with furs and wool blankets. A window shows the valley spreading out below in the afternoon light, the view spectacular and peaceful.
It's beautiful, comfortable, and feels completely wrong. This should be a cell, a cage, something that matches his prisoner status. Instead it's nicer than his own room back home, and the disconnect makes everything feel more surreal.
"The evening meal will be brought to you," Leona says, finally breaking her silence. Her voice is professional but not unkind, the tone of someone carrying out orders rather than making personal judgments. "There are clothes in the wardrobe that should fit well enough. Is there anything else you require?"
Evran stares at her, trying to read her expression and understand her role in all this. Is she a guard, here to keep him contained? A servant, here to see to his needs? Someone assigned to watch over him until Vaike decides his fate? Herface gives nothing away—she's too practiced at maintaining composure.
"What will he do with me?" he asks, and hates how young and lost he sounds. Like a child rather than a man of twenty two years. But he can't help it—the fear has stripped away all his careful composure, leaving only raw vulnerability.
Something shifts in Leona's face—a flicker of what might be compassion breaking through her professional mask. Her expression softens slightly, and for a moment she looks almost maternal. "Try to rest, young lord," she says gently. "We'll know the Warlord's mind tomorrow. He needs time to... process what he's learned today."
But that's not really what Evran needs to know, not the question that's lodging itself in his chest and refusing to budge. The underlying fear in his mind, the one that threatens to consume him entirely if he lets it, demands to be voiced.
"Will he..." Evran swallows hard, his throat tight with terror. "Will he send me back?"
Leona's expression grows troubled, and that reaction tells him everything he needs to know even before she speaks. She hasn't considered that possibility, but now that he's raised it, she can see it's a very real option. Perhaps the most likely one.
"I don't know," she says honestly, and Evran appreciates the truth even as it terrifies him. "Such a thing has never happened before. No one has ever..." She trails off, shaking her head as if trying to process something incomprehensible. "We don't trade in people. The very concept is... foreign to us. The Warlord will need to consider carefully how to respond to something this unprecedented."
"Rest now," she continues after a moment, moving toward the door. "You'll need your strength for whatever comes."
She leaves him alone then, the door closing with a soft click that somehow sounds final, like the closing of a tomb. Evranstands in the middle of the comfortable room, surrounded by warmth and luxury that feels like mockery, and feels more afraid than he has since leaving home.
More afraid, perhaps, than he's ever been in his life.
He moves to the window, drawn by some instinct to look out at the world beyond these walls. The view is breathtaking—the valley spread out below, mountains rising in the distance, forests and rivers catching the afternoon light. It's beautiful in a wild, untamed way that the carefully cultivated landscapes of his homeland never achieved.
But all he can think about is being sent back there, to the south, to his father's creative cruelty.
Evran sinks into a chair by the fire, his legs finally giving out as the adrenaline that's been sustaining him drains away. He buries his face in his hands, pressing his palms against his eyes until he sees spots of light, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to overwhelm him.
He's always known his father is cold, calculating, willing to sacrifice his children's happiness for political gain. But seeing it reflected in the shocked outrage of strangers—people who are supposed to be barbarians, who his tutors claimed were barely civilized—drives home just how far outside the bounds of normal human decency Callum Ashworth has gone.
The Drakarri are horrified by what his father has done. These warriors and craftspeople and scholars who supposedly live by violence and know nothing of proper civilization are appalled by the southern custom of trading children like commodities. What does that say about his home? About the society that raised him?
