Chapter 4 #2
She leads him into the great hall and the sight of it steals his breath even though he's seen impressive spaces already in this stronghold.
It's as vast as any chamber he's encountered so far, carved from the same living rock as the audience chamber.
But where that space had felt formal and imposing, designed to remind visitors of the Warlord's power, this feels warm and inviting despite its size.
The ceiling soars overhead, but the space is broken up by pillars and varying levels that make it feel more intimate than its actual dimensions suggest.
Long tables stretch across the floor with benches worn smooth by generations of use, already filled with people sharing their morning meal.
The tables are arranged in a way that encourages community—close enough together that conversations can span multiple groups, but with enough space between them for people to move freely.
It is obvious that mealtimes are a communal event here, more than just the practical necessity of eating.
Even though it appears many have already eaten and left—some tables sit empty, dishes cleared away—there are still a good number of people seated and engaged in animated conversation.
The meal seems to be less about adhering to a strict schedule and more about gathering when convenient, staying as long as desired.
The hall is raucous with the sound of laughter and conversation, but it's not chaotic or overwhelming.
It's the comfortable noise of people who know each other well and genuinely enjoy spending time together.
Children's laughter mingles with adult voices discussing everything from crop yields to construction projects.
A group near one of the fire pits seems to be engaged in friendly debate about something that has them all gesturing enthusiastically.
Back in the south, meals at his father's estate are formal affairs riddled with etiquette and propriety that keep conversations stilted and mannerisms carefully controlled.
Silence is preferred to casual chatter, and children eat in separate rooms until they're old enough to behave with proper decorum.
Every word is measured, every gesture calculated, because you never know who might take offense or use a careless statement against you later.
It is obvious from the way people here are serving themselves from communal platters with their bare hands—no servants hovering to portion food—and calling across the hall to each other that they are not governed by the same oppressive proprieties.
Indeed, everyone from young children barely old enough to walk to elderly clan members with silver hair are discussing a variety of topics with animated expressions and gestures, their conversations flowing freely without concern for social rank or political implications.
The air is rich with scents that make Evran's stomach clench with sudden, overwhelming hunger.
Fresh bread, still warm from the ovens and filling the hall with its yeasty aroma.
Roasted meat that smells of herbs and smoke.
The cloying sweetness of honey mixed with herbs and something else he can't identify but that makes his mouth water.
Evran had scarcely eaten on the trip from his homeland to the stronghold, his appetite suppressed by anxiety and fear.
The evening meal offered to him last night had sat untouched—he'd been too overwhelmed to even consider eating.
So the fact that he finds himself starving in the face of such aromatic smells and sights is not surprising.
He knows he's lost weight this season, hunger often losing out to the feeling of insurmountable dread he weathered every time his father looked at him with that calculating expression.
But maybe those days are over. Maybe here, in this warm hall full of people who seem to value simple pleasures like good food and good company, he can finally eat without his stomach churning with anxiety.
"We eat together, for the most part," Leona explains, leading him toward one of the long tables with space available.
Her voice carries pride as she describes their customs. "There are no strict times to adhere to, so you'll see some people come early and some people come late depending on their work schedules.
We're here at one of the busier times, but it's not always like this.
Some prefer to eat before dawn, others after sunset.
The kitchens are always working to accommodate everyone. "
Evran finds his eye wandering unbidden to the high table at the head of the hall where he can see Vaike seated.
Even expecting to feel nervous, he's unprepared for the jolt that goes through him at the sight of the warlord.
But even at Vaike's table, elevated slightly above the others to mark his position but not so much as to separate him entirely, the atmosphere is relaxed rather than formal.
Vaike is deep in conversation with a grey-haired man with an elaborately braided beard that reaches nearly to his chest, gesturing with a piece of bread as he makes some point that has the older man nodding thoughtfully.
His fur-trimmed cloak is gone—probably too warm for indoor dining—and he sits with one leg crossed over the other in a casual posture that seems at odds with his position.
His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing more of those winding tattoos that spiral up his forearms in patterns Evran wishes he could see more clearly.
Even relaxed among his people, without ornaments or weaponry visible, Vaike stands out.
He has a presence that draws the eye, a natural charisma that would make him notable even in a crowd of hundreds.
Evran doesn't think the Warlord could ever look ordinary, no matter how dense the crowd he was in or how casual his attire.
"Here," Leona says, breaking his distraction and guiding him to a spot at one of the lower tables where a small gap in the benches offers space. "Sit wherever there's room. Food is shared—take whatever you like, leave what you don't want. No one will judge your choices."
The concept of shared food isn't entirely foreign to Evran—he's heard of communal meals in some contexts—but it's something he's never personally experienced.
At home, servants bring individual portions to each person, carefully measured and artfully presented on fine plates.
The amount you receive is determined by your rank at the table, and taking more or asking for different food would be seen as gauche.
Here, large platters sit along the tables with casual abundance—fresh bread still warm from the ovens, some loaves already torn into pieces by eager hands.
Bowls of what looks like porridge studded with nuts and dried fruit sit steaming, their contents thick and inviting.
Thick slabs of cheese in various shades from white to deep yellow rest on wooden boards.
Strips of meat that smell wonderfully of smoke and herbs are piled on plates, probably preserved from earlier hunts.
The people around him nod politely as he sits, but don't stare or whisper as he half-expects.
There's curiosity in some eyes—he's clearly new and different—but it's friendly interest rather than suspicion or judgment.
A woman across from him with blonde hair braided with small silver beads passes him a bowl of porridge with a kind smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
"You're the young lord from the south," she says conversationally, stating fact rather than asking for confirmation. "I'm Aether. I run the looms."
"Evran," he replies, accepting the bowl with genuine gratitude. The porridge is still hot, steam rising from its surface. "Thank you."
"How's the mountain air treating you?" asks a man to his left, elderly with silver threading liberally through his dark beard.
His eyes are sharp and intelligent despite his age, taking in Evran's appearance with what seems like friendly assessment.
"Takes some getting used to, I imagine, after the thick air of the lowlands. "
"It's... cleaner than I'm used to," Evran says honestly, and earns chuckles from several people within earshot.
"Cleaner than the lowlands, you mean," Aether says with good humor, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Wait until winter truly sets in. The air will be so cold and clear it'll steal the breath from your lungs on your first breath each morning."
Evran only hopes he's still here to experience winter. That Vaike doesn't change his mind about this unprecedented acceptance of an outsider. That he proves himself worthy enough to earn a permanent place among these people.
The conversation flows around him naturally, including him without making him the uncomfortable center of attention.
People ask polite questions about his journey—was the mountain pass very difficult?
Did he see any wildlife along the way?—and his impressions of the stronghold—what does he think of their architecture? Has he visited the forges yet?
But notably, no one pries into his personal business or the specific reason for his presence beyond what was revealed in the audience chamber.
There are no pointed questions about his family or why a lord's son would be sent north as tribute.
The Drakarri either already know from gossip spreading through the stronghold, or they have the courtesy not to ask. Either way, Evran is grateful.
It's refreshing after a lifetime of court intrigue where every casual question carries hidden meanings, where simple inquiries about your day might be fishing for information about your father's political maneuvering or your siblings' marriage prospects.
Here, when someone asks how he slept, they seem to actually care about the answer rather than using it as an opening to some larger agenda.