And now Evran is trapped here, the unwitting symbol of his father's cruelty and the south's casual inhumanity, waiting for a decision that could mean being sent back in disgrace to face whatever punishment his father devises for this latest failure.
The fire crackles warmly in the hearth, filling the room with heat and dancing light, but Evran has never felt so cold. The warmth can't reach the ice that's settled in his chest, the terror that's locked his lungs in a grip that makes breathing difficult.
Tomorrow, Vaike will decide his fate. Tomorrow, he'll learn whether he gets to stay in this beautiful, strange place where even the supposed savages have more humanity than his own father. Or whether he'll be sent back to face Callum's fury, to endure whatever creative punishment awaits a son who has failed so completely that even barbarians reject him.
As darkness begins to fall outside his window and the fires of the stronghold start to glow like stars scattered across the mountainside, Evran sits alone with his fear and tries to find some reason to hope.
But hope, like everything else good in his life, seems to have abandoned him entirely.
Chapter 3
Evran jerks awake at the sound of knocking, his heart immediately hammering against his ribs. For a moment he's completely disoriented by his surroundings—the room is too bright, the bed too comfortable, the air too clean. The stone walls are unfamiliar, carved with patterns he doesn't recognize, and sunlight streams through a window that faces the wrong direction. It takes a second for the memory of his journey north to come crashing back to him.
He's in the Drakarri stronghold, in a guest room, after a disastrous meeting with the warlord who he insulted by his very presence. The memory of yesterday's humiliation washes over him fresh—the shocked silence when he'd revealed himself as the offering, the disgust in Vaike's voice, the way the assembled warriors had murmured in outrage at the very concept of trading people for favor.
The night had been restless, filled with dreams of his father's cold fury and half-remembered nightmares about what punishments might await a son who had failed so spectacularly.Every time he'd dozed, he'd jerked awake again, heart racing, as if his body refused to let him find peace even in sleep.
The knocking comes again, firm but not demanding, and Evran runs a hand through his short hair as he pulls himself out of bed. His legs feel unsteady beneath him, whether from exhaustion or fear he's not certain. The stone floor is cold on his bare feet as he crosses the room towards the heavy wooden door, and he has to pause for a moment to gather himself before reaching for the iron handle.
He pulls it open, expecting Leona or one of the guards coming to fetch him for whatever fate the warlord has decided upon, and is taken completely aback to find Warlord Vaike standing there at the entrance to his room.
Evran's breath catches in his throat and he takes an involuntary step backward. The warlord is even more imposing in the morning light than he had been on his throne—taller, broader, with an aura of controlled power that seems to fill the doorway entirely. His steel-gray eyes are unreadable, his expression carefully neutral, but there's something about his presence that sets every one of Evran's nerves on edge.
Evran is wearing only the loose shirt and trousers that were provided for sleeping, and he feels exposed, vulnerable under that penetrating stare. The fabric is thin, offering little protection against either the mountain chill or the weight of the warlord's attention. He's acutely aware of how disheveled he must look, how young and unprepared, standing before this man who commands hardened warriors and rules an entire clan.
"My lord," Evran manages to say, his voice rougher than he'd like from sleep and anxiety. He drops into what he hopes is an appropriate bow, though his trembling legs make the gesture clumsy. His mind is racing through the possible reasons the Warlord himself might have come to his room instead of sending someone in his stead.
Has he come to claim him as his despite his disgust at the offering? The thought flashes through his mind unbidden and he has to steel himself against the urge to flee. There's nowhere to run anyway—he's trapped in a mountain stronghold surrounded by people who owe their loyalty to the man standing before him.
He curls his trembling hands into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms, and forces himself to stay put and meet whatever comes with what little dignity he can muster.
"Sit," Vaike says, stepping into the room without invitation. His voice is neutral but carries the weight of command, the tone of a man accustomed to being obeyed without question. "We need to talk."
The words send a chill down Evran's spine, but he nods and moves to the armchair by the fireplace. The leather is soft beneath him, clearly well-made, but he can't bring himself to relax into it. Instead he perches on the edge, back straight, hands clasped tightly in his lap to hide their shaking.
Vaike moves across the room to the window with that fluid grace Evran had noticed yesterday, looking out at the valley below rather than at Evran directly. The warlord's profile is sharp against the morning light—strong jaw, aquiline nose, eyes that seem to miss nothing even when they're not focused on their target. His dark hair is pulled back simply, revealing the intricate tattoos that spiral down his neck and disappear beneath his clothing.
Somehow this indirect attention makes everything worse. Evran can't read the warlord's expression, can't guess what decision has been reached about his fate. The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken implications, until Evran's nerves feel ready to snap.
"I've spent the night considering your... situation," Vaike says finally, his voice carefully controlled. "And I've decided to return you to your father.”
The words hit Evran like a fist to the chest, driving the air from his lungs and making his vision blur at the edges. For a moment he can't process what he's heard—surely he's misunderstood, surely the warlord hasn't just pronounced the one sentence that's worse than death.
Back to his father. Back to face Callum's fury when he learns that even the barbarian warlord has rejected his worthless son. Back to whatever creative punishment his father will devise for a son who has failed him so completely, who has managed to disgrace the family name even in exile.
Evran can see it now—his father's cold, calculating rage, the way Callum's eyes will narrow as he considers what ultimate humiliation would be fitting for a son who couldn't even succeed at being useful as tribute. The beating will be just the beginning. There will be worse, more lasting consequences, punishments designed to break his spirit entirely.
"You'll leave this morning," Vaike continues, still not looking at him, as if Evran's fate is too insignificant to warrant direct attention. "I'll provide an escort to see you safely to the border. Captain Frederick and his men departed yesterday, but I can spare warriors to ensure you reach familiar territory."
Evran's throat closes up entirely. He can barely breathe, much less speak. The room seems to spin around him as the full implications crash over him like a wave. This offering was supposed to be his atonement for shaming his family—if Callum has to devise a new punishment for Evran being returned unwanted by the mountain clans, it will be more severe than anything that might have awaited him here.
His father's voice echoes in his memory:If you cannot aid this family willingly, then perhaps the choice should be taken from you.What choice will be taken from him now? What form will his father's creative cruelty take when faced with a son who has failed even at this?
"I cannot..." he starts, then stops. The words stick in his throat, tangled up with fear and desperate hope. He cannot let this be the end of it. Surely there is something he can do to prove his worth to this man, some way to convince him that exile to certain doom isn't necessary.
But what could he possibly offer? He has no skills these mountain people would value, no knowledge they need, no strength they couldn't find in a dozen other places. He's exactly what his father called him—useless, weak, a burden rather than an asset.
Still, he has to try. The alternative is unthinkable.
