Chapter 8 #2
Evran expects to be dismissed or ignored while they discuss clan business, but Vaike makes no move to exclude him from the conversation.
Marda launches into a detailed explanation of supply concerns—something about winter stores being distributed to the outlying posts and concerns about whether they have enough preserved food to last if the passes become blocked early.
He listens quietly, not contributing since he has nothing useful to add, but fascinated by the glimpse into how the stronghold is actually run.
It's not the grand political maneuvering of his father's court, but practical logistics—making sure people have what they need to survive and do their jobs.
Vaike asks pointed questions, suggesting solutions and asking Marda's opinion on different approaches.
He treats her input with respect, clearly valuing her expertise.
When they reach a decision about redistributing certain supplies, he thanks her genuinely before she nods and returns to her own table.
"It never ends," Vaike says, but his tone is more rueful than complaining. "If it's not supply issues, it's border disputes. If it's not border disputes, it's equipment repairs. Running a clan is about ten percent dramatic decisions and ninety percent boring logistics."
"Sounds exhausting," Evran ventures, then immediately worries he's been too familiar.
But Vaike just smiles slightly. "It is. But it's what I was trained for, and what I chose to take on when my father passed. Someone has to do it."
The casual acknowledgment of his father's death—stated without dramatics but with a thread of old grief—makes Evran see the Warlord in a new light. He's been carrying the weight of an entire clan's wellbeing since... how long?
Before Evran can dwell on it, another person approaches the table—this time a young warrior with a bandaged arm who needs to report on patrol routes. Then a woman with questions about planned construction before winter. Then someone else with a minor dispute that needs arbitration.
Evran watches as Vaike handles each interruption with patience and focus, giving each person his full attention and making decisions that balance practical concerns with fairness.
Between interruptions, he returns to the breakfast conversation easily, asking Bran about training schedules and confirming plans for some kind of gathering next week.
"Will you be there?" Vaike asks Evran suddenly, and it takes him a moment to realize the Warlord is asking about the gathering. "It's nothing formal—just a celebration for the successful harvest. Food, music, probably too much drinking. Everyone's welcome."
"I... yes, I'd like that," Evran manages, though his heart is suddenly beating faster again at the casual invitation. At being included so naturally in clan activities.
"Good." Vaike's smile is brief but genuine. "You've earned a celebration as much as anyone. You put in the work during harvest time."
The acknowledgement fills Evran with warmth that has nothing to do with the hot porridge he's eating. He's contributed enough to be recognized, to be included in the clan's celebrations. It's more than he dared hope for when he arrived here terrified and certain he'd be rejected.
The meal continues with easy conversation flowing around him.
Bran tells a story about one of his young students making a spectacular mistake during training that had everyone involved laughing about it later.
Vaike shares news about trade negotiations with a neighboring clan.
Others occasionally join the table for brief discussions before returning to their own seats.
And through it all, Evran sits beside the Warlord feeling gradually more at ease.
Not completely comfortable—he's still hyperaware of Vaike's presence beside him, of every time their eyes meet or when Vaike turns to include him in the conversation.
But the terror has faded, replaced by something almost like belonging.
Eventually, the meal begins to wind down. People start leaving to attend to their various responsibilities, and Evran realizes with a start that he needs to meet Eira soon.
"I should go," he says, starting to stand. "Eira will be waiting for me at the gardens."
"Of course," Vaike says, and then adds, almost casually, "Thank you for joining us this morning, Evran. It was good to have you at the table."
The words hit Evran with unexpected force. Not just permission to sit there, but active appreciation for his presence. As if having him there was something Vaike actually wanted rather than just tolerated.
"Thank you for... for welcoming me," Evran manages, though his voice comes out rougher than intended. "I'll... I should go."
He practically flees from the table, his composure hanging by a thread. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat, and his hands are shaking as he makes his way out of the great hall and toward the gardens.
The morning air hits him like a shock of cold water, and he stops just outside the hall entrance to lean against the stone wall and catch his breath.
What just happened? He sat at the high table.
He had a conversation—multiple conversations—with Vaike.
And it had been... fine. Better than fine.
It had been almost easy after the initial terror wore off.
His hands are still trembling, and he stares at them as if they belong to someone else. His whole body feels strange—buzzing with energy, his stomach fluttering, heat creeping up his neck and face.
It's just the adrenaline, he tells himself firmly. Just the aftereffects of doing something terrifying and having it turn out well. That's all this is. Nothing more.
But as he pushes off the wall and starts walking toward the gardens, he can't quite convince himself that's true.
Because the way his heart races when he thinks about Vaike's slight smile, the way his breath catches at the memory of those gray eyes focusing on him—that feels like something more than simple relief.
He doesn't want to think about what it might actually be. Doesn't want to acknowledge the possibility that his feelings toward the Warlord might be developing into something far more complicated and dangerous than simple respect or gratitude.
So he pushes the thoughts aside, buries them deep where he doesn't have to examine them, and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other as he walks toward the gardens.
Eira is already there when he arrives, kneeling beside the herb beds they'd prepared yesterday. She looks up at his approach and her eyes widen slightly.
"Are you alright?" she asks immediately. "You look flushed. Are you feeling ill?"
"I'm fine," Evran says quickly, though he can feel his face is still warm. "I just... walked quickly. Didn't want to keep you waiting."
It's a weak excuse and he knows it, but Eira accepts it with a small nod, though concern still lingers in her expression. They settle into their work routine, and Evran tries desperately to focus on the plants in front of him rather than the way his hands are still shaking slightly.
He doesn't want to think about what any of this means. Doesn't want to examine too closely why sitting next to Vaike felt so significant, or why the memory of the Warlord's smile makes his chest feel tight.
He's just grateful to have been accepted. That's all. The physical reactions are just nerves, just the aftereffects of pushing past his comfort zone.
He keeps telling himself that as they work through the morning, and if his thoughts keep drifting back to steel-gray eyes and a warm voice saying it was good to have you at the table, well, that doesn't have to mean anything.
It doesn't.
It can't.
Because acknowledging what it might actually mean would be far too dangerous for someone in his precarious position. So he buries it deep and focuses on the work, on earning his place through action rather than dangerous, impossible feelings.
Even if those feelings refuse to stay buried no matter how hard he tries.