"And Torsten?"
"Torsten would not be freely given the title. The Drakkari council would resist, they'd never accept an outsider, let alone one who's been circling for years, waiting to swoop in." Bran's jaw tightens. "But without Vaike to answer the challenge, and no one next in line, there is no one to challenge Torsten's claim. If he played his cards right, if he had supporters within the clans, or enough influence from his uncle in Windfar, he could take the title purely by being the only challenger."
The words settle into the room, heavy and slow.
Evran thinks about Torsten's easy confidence, his practiced smile, the way he moved through the stronghold as though he already owned it. Someone who does not fight for what he wants because he does not have to, who surrounds himself with people who will fight for him, who will climb through windows with poisoned blades and do the dirty work while Torsten sits in the great hall and smiles.
"These are pointed questions," Bran says, and his voice has gone quiet, intent. "Evran. What do you know?"
Evran meets his eyes. "Torsten approached me on my first day here. At the fountain, when I was alone. He asked questions about Vaike's rule, pointed questions, about morale and dissent and the council's loyalty. He said Vaike's rule could end without warning, the way his father's did." He pauses, letting the weight of it settle. "He said sometimes it's not a challenger who steps in, but an opportunist who is there at the right time."
Bran's expression darkens.
"And he was candid about it," Evran continues. "Brazen, even. He said it with the calm certainty of discussing an eventuality." He swallows. "Something about him reminds me of the political machinations of the south, of men at court who smile to your face while poisoning your cup. It leaves me deeply uneasy."
Bran is watching him with an intensity that would be unsettling from anyone else. From Bran, it is simply the full weight of his attention, serious, thorough, stripped of the warmth that usually tempers it.
"I'll keep an eye on Torsten," Bran says. "I'll have Leona do the same. Between the two of us, we can track his movements within the stronghold and see who he's meeting with."
"But that's not enough."
Bran pauses.
"Is it?" Evran presses. "Watching him won't stop him. It won't give us proof. He can move carefully, he can distance himself from the act, and all we'll have is suspicion."
Bran's mouth sets in a firm line. He knows Evran is right, and the knowledge sits between them, unwelcome and unavoidable.
A long silence stretches through the room.
"What are you thinking, lad?" Bran asks.
The question is quiet, deliberate, giving Evran the space to say what he has already decided, knowing he will not like the answer.
Evran swallows. His heart beats fast, driven by the adrenaline of committing to something that cannot be taken back once it has been spoken aloud. He laces his fingers together on the table and looks at the scarred wood.
"Torsten has shown an interest in me."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Bran does not move. His hands are still around his cup, his eyes still on Evran's face, but something in him has gone very, very still, having heard something he was afraid of hearing.
"Does Vaike know?" he asks, and his voice is careful in a way it almost never is.
"He knows Torsten questioned me at the fountain. He doesn't know." Evran falters, and the memory surfaces unbidden, fingers on his braid, the words pretty bird spoken in a voice that turned Evran's stomach, the appraising look that stripped him to his bones. "He doesn't know the extent of it."
"And you're afraid of what might happen if he did."
"I'm afraid of what will happen." Evran's voice tightens. "Vaike will react. Publicly, violently, in a way that plays directly into Torsten's hands. If Vaike attacks him at the summit, if he even threatens him, it gives Torsten legitimacy. It makes Vaike look unstable, aggressive, unfit to rule. It turns the other clans against us." He shakes his head. "The turmoil it would cause is exactly what Torsten wants."
Bran lets out a slow breath through his nose. His grip on the cup has tightened, knuckles white, and for a long moment neither of them speaks.
Then Bran says, "You're thinking about using that to your advantage."
Spoken with the recognition of having been at war long enough to know what a strategic mind looks like, even when it belongs to a soft-spoken southerner with dirt under his fingernails and a marriage braid in his hair.
"I might be able to get information out of him," Evran says. The words come out level, calm, as though he has rehearsed them, which he has not. They are forming themselves as he speaks, solidifying from the formless mass of fear and determination that has been churning in his gut since last night. "Something that could unveil his plans. Show his conspiracy to kill Vaike. If I could find proof, real, undeniable proof, and bring it before the other clans."
"Then they would rally behind the Drakkari," Bran finishes.
