Chapter 13
The call goes out three days after the gathering: all hands needed for the final harvest before the first major snowfall.
The weather has been unpredictable lately, warm days giving way to nights cold enough for frost, and the clan's most experienced weather-readers predict that within the week, winter will arrive in earnest.
So everyone who can work turns out to help bring in the last of the crops from the outer terraces—the ones furthest from the stronghold walls where late-season vegetables have been growing in the extended sunlight.
It's an all-hands effort, the kind of communal work that defines life in the mountains.
Even those whose primary roles are elsewhere pitch in, because when winter comes, survival depends on having enough food stored away.
Evran arrives at the terraces in the early morning to find them already bustling with activity.
Dozens of people move through the rows with practiced efficiency, harvesting the remaining root vegetables, bundling the last herbs, pulling up plants that won't survive the coming freeze.
The air is filled with voices calling to each other, the sound of tools in earth, the rustle of vegetation being gathered.
Eira finds him quickly, pressing a basket into his hands and pointing him toward a section of turnips that need harvesting.
"Work quickly but carefully," she tells him with a smile that's less shy than it was three weeks ago.
"We need to get everything in before the weather turns. The clouds to the north look heavy."
He settles into the familiar rhythm of the work, the movements his hands have learned through repetition.
Dig carefully around the turnip, check for signs of rot or damage, pull free and place in the basket.
It's meditative in its way, requiring enough attention that his mind can't wander too much but not so much that he can't enjoy the crisp morning air and the sense of working alongside others toward a common goal.
But then he sees him.
Vaike is three rows over, working alongside Bran and a handful of warriors who've clearly been pulled from other duties.
The Warlord has stripped down to a simple work shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and there's already dirt on his hands and a smudge across his cheekbone.
He's working with the same focused efficiency he brings to everything, his movements economical and precise as he harvests vegetables and passes them to the person managing the collection baskets.
The sight makes something in Evran's chest twist painfully.
He'd expected Vaike to supervise, perhaps, or coordinate the effort from a distance the way his father would have done.
But here he is, working in the dirt alongside everyone else, his hands as dirty as any common laborer's, treating this work with the same seriousness he'd bring to matters of state or combat.
It's so fundamentally different from anything Evran knew in the south that it takes his breath away.
His father would have died before working in the fields—would have seen it as beneath him, as something that diminished his authority.
But Vaike's authority doesn't seem to rely on maintaining distance.
If anything, working beside his people seems to strengthen rather than weaken his position.
Evran tries to focus on his own work, but his attention keeps drifting back to Vaike despite his best efforts.
The way the morning sun catches on his dark hair.
The flex of his forearms as he pulls up particularly stubborn vegetables.
The slight smile that crosses his face when Bran says something that makes him laugh, the sound carrying across the rows.
It's pathetic, this helpless fascination. Evran knows it, recognizes his own foolishness, but can't seem to stop watching. Every movement Vaike makes seems significant, worth studying, worth memorizing against the time when Evran will have to find a way to bury these feelings completely.
The longing that rises in his chest is so intense it borders on physical pain.
He wants to be the one working at Vaike's side, wants to be included in whatever conversation is making Bran grin so widely.
Wants to have the right to reach over and brush that smudge of dirt off Vaike's face, to touch him casually the way he's seen clan members do with each other.
But he doesn't have that right. Doesn't have any claim on Vaike's attention beyond what the Warlord chooses to give him.
The late-night training sessions, the careful distance maintained even in moments of proximity—all of it speaks to boundaries Evran doesn't fully understand but knows he's not meant to cross.
"You're staring."
Evran jumps, nearly dropping his basket, and finds Eira watching him with knowing eyes. Heat floods his face.
"I wasn't—I'm just—" He stops, unable to come up with a convincing lie.
"It's alright," she says quietly, glancing around to make sure no one else is close enough to overhear. "I understand. He's... he draws the eye."
That's an understatement that borders on laughable, but Evran appreciates her discretion. "I'm being ridiculous," he mutters, returning his attention to the turnips with deliberate focus. "Ignore me."
"For what it's worth," Eira says, her voice so soft he has to strain to hear it, "I don't think you're as alone in those feelings as you might believe."
Before he can process that statement or ask what she means, she's moved on to another row, leaving him with confusion added to the tangle of emotions already churning in his chest.
The work continues through the morning, the sun climbing higher and warming the air despite the underlying chill.
More sections are cleared, more baskets filled and carried back to the stronghold's storage areas.
The organized chaos of dozens of people working together has its own beauty, its own rhythm that Evran is beginning to understand as part of what makes this community function.
By midday, someone calls for a break. Water is distributed—cold from the mountain springs—and people sink down wherever there's space, catching their breath and easing sore muscles.
Evran finds a spot near the edge of the terrace, grateful for the rest. His hands are dirty, his back aches pleasantly from the labor, and despite his earlier distraction, he's managed to contribute meaningfully to the effort.
He's just taking a long drink of water when a shadow falls across him. He looks up to find Vaike standing there, his own cup in hand, looking down at Evran with an expression that might be amusement.
"Mind if I join you?" the Warlord asks, and Evran's heart immediately kicks into a faster rhythm.
"Of course not," Evran manages, shifting to make space though there's plenty of room.
Vaike settles beside him with a slight groan that suggests even he isn't immune to the physical demands of harvest work.
Up close, Evran can see more details—the way his hair has come partially loose from its tie, a few strands falling forward across his forehead.
The sheen of sweat on his skin despite the cool air.
The dirt under his fingernails and smudged across his palms.
"Good harvest this year," Vaike observes, taking a drink from his cup. "One of the best we've had in recent memory. The weather cooperated better than usual, and we made good decisions about crop rotation and planting times."
"Eira deserves the credit for that," Evran says. "She's brilliant at understanding what the land needs."
"She is," Vaike agrees. "But she's also told me—multiple times—how much your help has meant this season. Said you have excellent instincts for the work and that you've taken genuine interest in learning rather than just going through the motions."
The praise makes Evran flush with pleasure, heat creeping up his neck despite the cool air. "I enjoy it. There's something satisfying about seeing plants grow because of your care, about knowing the work you do directly helps keep people fed."
"That's exactly the attitude that makes you valuable here," Vaike says, and there's warmth in his voice that makes Evran's chest feel tight.
"You understand that all work has dignity, that contributing to the community's wellbeing matters regardless of what form that contribution takes.
Your father clearly never taught you that. "
"No," Evran agrees quietly. "He very much did not."
They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, both watching the activity around them as people rest and refresh themselves.
Evran is hyperaware of Vaike's presence beside him—the warmth radiating from his body, the slight rise and fall of his breathing, the way their shoulders are close enough that Evran could close the distance with barely any movement.
He finds his gaze drawn to Vaike's hands where they rest on his knees—strong hands, scarred from years of training and combat, currently stained with earth from the morning's work.
There's something compelling about seeing those hands that can wield a sword with such deadly precision also gentle enough to carefully harvest vegetables without damaging them.
Evran's eyes trace up from Vaike's hands to his forearms, exposed by the rolled sleeves of his work shirt.
The muscles there are defined, speaking of the strength it takes to use weapons and tools with equal facility.
The tattoos that spiral across Vaike's skin continue past where fabric hides them, and Evran finds himself wondering—not for the first time—how far those intricate patterns extend, what stories they tell, what it would feel like to trace them with his fingers.