Chapter 9
Aweek passes in a rhythm that's beginning to feel almost comfortable.
Evran continues his work with Eira in the gardens, though the late autumn air grows colder each day and frost glitters on the ground most mornings.
He sits at the high table for breakfast three more times, each occasion slightly less terrifying than the last, though his heart still races whenever Vaike's attention focuses on him.
He learns to weave more complex patterns with Aether and trains with Kellin in the afternoons, his sword work improving steadily.
He's even started sleeping through the night more often, though his dreams are sometimes filled with steel-gray eyes and voices that echo with concern.
This morning dawns clear and cold, the sky a brilliant blue that promises the day will warm once the sun climbs higher.
Evran dresses in layers—the practical mountain clothes that have become familiar now, plus an additional wool vest that Leona brought him a few days ago when she noticed him shivering during morning work.
Eira is already in the gardens when he arrives, her breath visible in the cold air as she examines the last of the herb beds.
They've been working on preparing everything for winter—harvesting the final crops, mulching the beds to protect them from frost, making notes about what grew well and what struggled so they can adjust their planting next spring.
"Good morning," she greets him with her gentle smile, though her cheeks are pink from the cold. "I thought we could work on the far terraces today. They need the most preparation before the first real snow, and it's supposed to be warmer by midday."
The far terraces are the ones furthest from the stronghold walls, carved into the mountainside where they catch the most sunlight.
They're still within sight of the walls, but far enough that the guards patrolling the perimeter feel more distant.
It's peaceful out there, quiet except for the wind and the occasional call of mountain birds.
They gather their tools—baskets for collecting any remaining vegetables, trowels for turning the soil, the bundles of straw and mulch they'll use to protect the beds.
The walk to the far terraces takes about fifteen minutes, following paths worn smooth by years of gardeners making this same journey.
The work is meditative, familiar enough now that Evran's hands know what to do without much conscious thought.
They fall into their usual pattern—working side by side, occasionally talking about nothing important.
Eira tells him about a book she's reading, a history of the clans before they unified under a single Warlord.
He shares a story about something funny that happened during training yesterday when one of Kellin's younger students accidentally threw his sword instead of swinging it.
The sun climbs higher, warming the air just as Eira predicted. Evran sheds his outer vest, grateful for the heat after the morning's chill. They've made good progress on three of the beds when the sound of horses approaching makes them both look up.
Three riders are coming down the mountain path from the north—the direction of the passes that lead to other territories.
They're clearly not Drakarri; their clothes are different, darker, and they lack the tattoos and ornaments that mark clan members.
Travelers passing through, probably, though Evran's never seen any during his time here.
"Should we go back to the stronghold?" he asks Eira quietly, watching the riders approach. Something about their posture, the way they're scanning the area, makes unease prickle along his spine.
"They're just passing through," Eira says, but he can hear uncertainty in her voice. "The guards at the northern gate will have checked them. They're probably just taking the trade road south."
The riders are closer now, close enough that Evran can make out their faces.
All three are men, rough-looking, with the kind of hardened features that speak of difficult lives.
They slow their horses as they approach the terraced gardens, and one of them—a man with a scarred face and greasy dark hair—calls out.
"Well, what do we have here? A garden party?"
His tone is mocking, aggressive in a way that makes Evran's shoulders tense. Beside him, Eira has gone very still, her eyes fixed on the ground.
"We're just working," Evran says, trying to keep his voice calm and neutral. "The trade road continues past the gardens. Safe travels to you."
It's a dismissal, polite but firm, and he hopes they'll take the hint and keep moving. But instead, the scarred man swings down from his horse, his companions following suit. They move with the casual confidence of men who aren't worried about consequences.
"Friendly lot, these mountain folk," the scarred man says to his companions, though his eyes are fixed on Eira in a way that makes Evran's stomach turn. "Pretty, too. Especially that one."
Eira takes a step back, moving closer to Evran. He can see her hands trembling, and can practically feel the fear radiating from her. The protective instinct that flares in his chest is immediate and fierce.
"You should move along," Evran says, and his voice comes out harder than before. "The Drakarri don't take kindly to harassment on their lands."
"The Drakarri," one of the other men—shorter but heavily built—says with a sneer. "We paid their toll at the gate. We're allowed passage. Didn't say anything about not being friendly."
They're moving closer now, spreading out slightly in a way that's clearly strategic. Evran positions himself more firmly between them and Eira, his mind racing. Where are the guards? The patrols should pass by here regularly, but he hasn't seen anyone in over an hour.
"We're being friendly," the scarred man says, and his smile makes Evran's skin crawl. "Just want to chat with the pretty lady. Maybe get to know her better."
"She's not interested," Evran says flatly. His heart is pounding now, adrenaline flooding his system. "Leave. Now."
"Or what?" The third man—tall and thin with a cruel face—laughs. "You going to stop us, boy? Soft hands, pretty face. You're no warrior."
They're right about that. Evran has his basic training from Kellin, but he's never been in a real fight beyond the scuffles of his youth. These are grown men, hardened by whatever lives they've led, and there are three of them.
But he's not going to let them touch Eira.
The scarred man lunges forward suddenly, reaching past Evran for Eira's arm. She cries out, trying to pull away, and something in Evran snaps.
He doesn't think. His body moves on instinct, muscle memory from both old brawls and new training taking over. His fist connects with the scarred man's jaw, snapping his head to the side and making him stumble back with a curse.
"Run!" Evran shouts to Eira. "Get to the stronghold! Get the guards!"
But she's frozen, terror holding her in place, and Evran doesn't have time to do anything else because all three men are coming at him now, their expressions twisted with anger.
The shorter man grabs his arm, trying to pull him off balance, but Evran remembers Kellin's lessons about using an opponent's momentum. He twists, breaking the grip, and drives his elbow back into the man's ribs. The man grunts, loosening his hold enough for Evran to wrench free.
But the tall one is there immediately, landing a punch to Evran's stomach that drives the air from his lungs. Pain explodes through his middle and he doubles over, gasping.
"Thought you'd play hero?" the scarred man snarls, blood dripping from his split lip. "Big mistake, boy."
Through the haze of pain, Evran's training screams at him. He's outnumbered, outmatched. He needs an advantage, needs something—
The dagger. The small blade he keeps in his boot, the one he'd retrieved from his old belongings after arriving here. He'd started carrying it while working in the gardens, thinking of it as a tool for cutting stubborn roots or rope. But it's a weapon, and right now that's what he needs.
He drops, pretending to be more hurt than he is, and his hand finds his boot. The dagger slides free, small but sharp, and as the tall man reaches for him again, Evran surges upward and drives the blade into the man's reaching arm.
The man screams, jerking back, blood welling around the blade. The scarred man swears viciously, but there's new wariness in his eyes now. Evran has proven he's not helpless, that he'll fight back.
"Evran!" Eira's voice breaks through the chaos. She's finally moving, running toward the stronghold, her voice rising in a scream for help.
"Get the guards!" Evran shouts after her, then has to duck as the shorter man swings at his head.
The next few seconds are a blur of motion and pain.
Evran isn't trained for this—isn't prepared for real combat where the goal is to hurt and disable rather than practice forms. But desperation and protective fury drive him forward.
He slashes with the dagger, keeping them at a distance, using footwork Kellin taught him to avoid their grasping hands.
He manages to cut the shorter man across the arm, drawing a howl of pain. But there are still three of them and only one of him, and he's tiring quickly. His lungs burn, his movements growing slower.
The scarred man catches his wrist—the one holding the dagger—and twists brutally. Evran cries out as pain shoots up his arm, but he doesn't drop the blade. Instead, he drives his knee into the man's stomach, breaking the grip.
But that leaves him open to the tall man, who's managed to bind his wounded arm and is back in the fight.
Something hard crashes into the side of Evran's head—a fist or an elbow, he can't tell—and stars explode across his vision.
He staggers, trying to keep his feet, trying to keep the dagger between himself and his attackers.