Chapter 11
Two days of rest have done wonders for Evran's injuries, though he's still sore and moving more carefully than usual. The physician has pronounced him well enough to attend the harvest gathering, though she's warned him against trying to take in multiple strangers in combat again.
Eira had appeared at his door that evening, her eyes bright with excitement and a shy smile on her face.
"You're coming, aren't you?" she'd asked, twisting her hands in the skirt of her dress—a beautiful deep blue that brought out the warmth in her dark eyes. "Everyone's talking about what you did. You're a hero, Evran. You can't miss your own celebration."
The idea of being celebrated makes him deeply uncomfortable, but the hope in Eira's expression had been impossible to refuse.
Besides, Vaike had personally invited him to this gathering over a week ago, back when sitting at the high table for breakfast had felt like the bravest thing he'd ever done.
Skipping it would feel like a rejection of that invitation, and he can't bring himself to risk that.
So he'd dressed in his best clothes—the formal tunic and trousers that Leona had delivered yesterday, made specifically for him by the clan's seamstresses.
The fabric is a rich forest green that somehow makes his brown eyes look warmer, and the cut is distinctly Drakarri in style, fitted through the shoulders and decorated with subtle embroidery at the collar and cuffs.
Looking at himself in the mirror, Evran barely recognizes the person staring back. Two weeks ago he'd been a terrified exile in travel-stained clothes. Now he looks like he belongs here, like he could be one of them.
The thought both thrills and terrifies him.
The gathering is held in the great hall, but it's been transformed from the space he knows.
Tables have been pushed to the sides, creating a large open area in the center.
Lanterns hang from the ceiling, casting warm golden light that flickers and dances.
Musicians are set up on a raised platform—drums, flutes, strings that he doesn't recognize but that create a sound both wild and beautiful.
The hall is already crowded when Evran arrives, people dressed in their finest clothes, talking and laughing with the easy joy of a community celebrating together. The air is rich with the smells of roasted meat, fresh bread, spiced wine, and something sweet that makes his mouth water.
"Evran!" Aether appears from the crowd, resplendent in a deep red dress with her hair elaborately braided. "Look at you! The seamstresses outdid themselves. You look like a proper Drakarri now."
The compliment makes him flush with pleasure. "Thank you. You look beautiful."
"Don't I always?" she says with a wink, then leans in conspiratorially. "Fair warning—everyone wants to talk to you tonight. You're the man of the hour after defending Eira from those travelers. Try not to let it go to your head."
Before he can respond, she's pulled away by her husband, and Evran is left to navigate the crowd on his own.
True to Aether's warning, people keep stopping him—clapping him on the shoulder (carefully, mindful of his injuries), thanking him for protecting one of their own, offering him drinks and food.
It's overwhelming in the best possible way. He's never been the center of positive attention like this, never had people look at him with respect and gratitude rather than disappointment or disdain. Every kind word, every genuine smile, chips away at the lifetime of his father's criticism.
But through it all, Evran finds his attention drawn repeatedly to one specific person.
Vaike stands near the high table, dressed in formal clothes that somehow make him look even more imposing.
Dark trousers and a deep blue tunic with intricate silver embroidery that catches the lantern light.
His hair is pulled back in a more elaborate style than usual, with small silver ornaments woven through the braids.
The silver torc at his throat gleams, and he looks every inch the Warlord—powerful, commanding, beautiful in a way that makes Evran's chest ache.
He's talking with Bran and a few others, his expression relaxed and open in a way Evran rarely sees. As Evran watches, Vaike throws his head back and laughs at something Bran says, the sound carrying across the hall, and something in Evran's chest twists painfully.
He wants... something. To be part of that easy camaraderie. To be the one making Vaike laugh like that. To stand beside him without the weight of uncertainty and unexamined feelings pressing down on his shoulders.
"There you are!" Eira appears at his elbow, slightly breathless and smiling wider than he's ever seen her. "I've been looking for you. Come on—they're starting the dancing soon and you promised you'd dance with me."
"I don't know how to dance," Evran protests, but she's already pulling him toward the open floor where people are beginning to gather.
"Neither do I really," she admits with a laugh. "But everyone else will be too drunk or too busy with their own dancing to notice if we're terrible."
The music shifts, becoming livelier, and couples begin moving through patterns that Evran doesn't recognize. But Eira takes his hands and pulls him into the flow, and he finds that while he doesn't know the specific steps, the rhythm is easy enough to follow.
They stumble through the first dance laughing, Evran trying to avoid stepping on her feet while she guides him through the basic patterns.
His ribs protest the movement, but not enough to stop him.
The second dance is easier, and by the third he's actually starting to enjoy himself, the music and movement pushing away his anxieties for a few precious moments.
"You're getting good at this!" Eira says as they spin through a turn, her face flushed with joy. "See? I knew you could do it."
"Only because you're a patient teacher," Evran replies, and realizes with a start that he's genuinely happy. When was the last time he felt like this—light, unburdened, surrounded by people who seem to actually like him?
But even in the midst of the dancing and laughter, his awareness keeps tracking back to Vaike.
The Warlord hasn't joined the dancing yet, though several people have approached him—including a beautiful woman with striking red hair who Evran doesn't recognize.
She says something that makes Vaike smile, leaning in close enough that jealousy flares hot and unexpected in Evran's gut.
He has no right to that jealousy. No claim on Vaike's attention or affection.
The Warlord is free to smile at whoever he wants, to dance with whoever approaches him.
The fact that the thought of Vaike dancing with that red-haired woman makes Evran want to leave the hall entirely is a problem he needs to deal with, not something he can blame on anyone else.
"Are you alright?" Eira asks, her smile fading as she notices his distraction. "Do you need to rest? Your ribs—"
"I'm fine," Evran assures her quickly. "Just... a little overwhelmed by everything. It's a lot."
She nods understandingly. "Go get some air if you need to. I'll be fine here—I see some friends I want to talk to anyway."
She squeezes his hand once, warmly, then releases him and disappears into the crowd. Evran stands on the edge of the dance floor feeling adrift, watching couples spin past in a blur of color and movement.
His eyes find Vaike again—can't seem to stop finding Vaike, like he's a lodestone pulling Evran's attention no matter how hard he tries to look away. The Warlord is accepting a drink from someone, nodding at whatever they're saying, and then his gaze sweeps across the room.
Their eyes meet.
It's just a moment, barely a second, but Evran swears he sees something shift in Vaike's expression. Recognition, yes, but something else too—something that makes Evran's breath catch and his heart stutter in his chest.
Then someone blocks his view, and when Evran can see again, Vaike is talking to someone else and the moment is gone. If it was ever really there at all, and not just something Evran's desperate heart imagined.
He needs air. Needs space away from the noise and the crowd and the way his chest feels too tight every time he looks at Vaike. There's a balcony he remembers seeing off the great hall, overlooking the valley below. Hopefully it's empty.
Evran makes his way through the crowd, nodding politely at people who try to catch his attention but not stopping to talk. The doors to the balcony are partially open, letting in the cool night air, and he slips through them gratefully.
The balcony is blessedly empty, and the sudden quiet is almost shocking after the noise of the gathering.
The night air is cold enough to make him shiver slightly, but it's refreshing after the warmth of so many bodies in the hall.
The moon is nearly full, casting silver light across the valley below where the stronghold spreads out in terraced levels, dotted with warm lights from windows and torches.
It's beautiful. All of it—the night, the view, this place that has somehow become home in the span of two weeks.
And somehow that makes everything worse, because he's finally found somewhere he might belong and he's still managing to ruin it by developing impossible feelings for the one person who holds his future in his hands.
"Evran."
He jumps, spinning around to find Vaike stepping through the doorway onto the balcony. The Warlord closes the doors behind him, muffling the sounds of the gathering, and suddenly they're alone in the moonlight with nothing but the mountain wind and Evran's racing heart.
"My lord," Evran manages, though his voice comes out rougher than intended. "I was just—needed some air."
"I noticed you leave," Vaike says, moving closer. "Wanted to make sure you were alright. The physician said you could attend, but I know you're still recovering."