He finds him.
Torsten is on the Windfar platform, seated near the back, a cup in his hand, watching the fights with an expression of casual disinterest that places him above the proceedings. He is absent from the competition entirely, absent from the staging, absent from the rings, content to watch from the back row of someone else's platform. The observation confirms something Evran has suspected since the ale room: Torsten is not afighter. He sends others to fight for him, hires hands and blades and intermediaries while he sits at a comfortable distance and watches the results. The realization sharpens the contempt Evran feels for him into something precise and useful.
"Torsten isn't competing," Evran says.
Vaike's eyes do not move from the ring, but Evran feels the slight shift in his attention, the alertness that surfaces whenever Torsten's name is mentioned.
"No," Vaike says.
"What is his role in the Windfar clan? If he's not Warlord, not warrior, not council member." Evran keeps his voice neutral, conversational. "Why is he even here?"
Vaike takes a breath, the controlled kind, the kind that precedes information he does not particularly enjoy sharing.
"His uncle," Vaike says. "Merrik. He's second-in-command of the Windfar clan, Ragna's right hand. He has influence, and he's been using it on Torsten's behalf for years." He pauses. "Merrik has been pushing for the Windfar Warlord to name Torsten as heir. He very nearly succeeded."
"What stopped him?"
"Ragna married. Her wife gave birth to triplets six months ago." The corner of Vaike's mouth twitches, something dry and humorless. "Three healthy children eliminated the need for an outside heir. Torsten's path to the Windfar seat vanished overnight."
Evran processes this. He thinks about Torsten in the ale room, the easy confidence with which he discussed taking the Drakkari stronghold, the casual assumption that he was entitled to what he had not earned. A man who spent years positioning himself for one throne and, when that door closed, immediately began looking for another. The pattern reveals something fundamental about Torsten's character: he does not want a specific throne because he believes in the people it governs or the land itprotects. He wants a throne, any throne, because he wants power, and the form power takes matters less to him than possessing it.
"It makes sense, then," Evran says slowly. "Why he's eyeing your title. If the one he thought he was going to get has been taken from him."
Vaike huffs a sound that is almost a laugh but carries no warmth. "Torsten always goes for whatever he thinks is easiest prey. Once it was Windfar because his uncle had the Warlord's ear. Now it could just as easily be Drakkari because he thinks his bloodline buys him favors."
"I don't think he's looking for favors," Evran says.
The words come out sharper than he intended, and he feels Vaike's gaze shift to him, full attention, focused and searching.
"I think he's looking for something to happen to you," Evran continues, keeping his voice low, pitched beneath the noise of the crowd. "An assassination. An uprising. An accident."
The last word hangs between them. Evran thinks about the excursion to the eastern villages, open country, exposed.
He has already told Bran about what he overheard in the ale room. Bran's face had gone still and hard and he had said I'll make sure Leona knows, we'll take precautions. But precautions are not proof, and without proof they are running on suspicion and instinct and the information Evran gathered while pretending to be drunk on a man's shoulder.
"I know you're suspicious of Torsten," Vaike says, his voice even, patient, taking the concern seriously even if he does not fully share it. "But without proof of his involvement, there is nothing to be done. Suspicion is not evidence. A Warlord cannot accuse a member of another clan's delegation without concrete proof, especially not someone with Merrik's protection."
"Merrik's protection," Evran repeats.
"Being Merrik's nephew makes Torsten virtually untouchable by the Warlords. Merrik is a respected figure among the clans. He served at three Gatherings before Ragna took the seat. If I accuse Torsten without evidence, it becomes my word against his, and Merrik will rally the Windfar delegation behind his nephew. It would fracture the summit."
Evran's jaw tightens. He looks down at his hands in his lap and thinks about the vial of purple liquid that might be sitting in a bedside drawer in the Windfar wing. He thinks about the things Torsten's men said when they thought no one who mattered was listening. He thinks about how close he is to having what they need, and how the path to getting it runs directly through Torsten's rooms and Torsten's trust and every inch of performance that entails.
He does not say any of that.
"I want you to be careful," Evran says instead.
Vaike is quiet for a moment. The tournament continues below them, the clash of weapons and the roar of the crowd and the dust rising from the rings in golden clouds, but neither of them is watching.
"I'm more worried about you," Vaike says.
Evran looks up. "What do you mean?"
"If Torsten really is looking to undermine me, then there's no quicker path than striking where I'm most vulnerable." Vaike's dark eyes hold his, steady and serious, the noise of the crowd fading to a murmur against the weight of his gaze. He pauses, and the pause is deliberate. "My husband."
The word,husband,spoken here, in public, on the tournament platform in full view of the delegations, sends a flush climbing up Evran's neck. It is born from the fierce, defiant tenderness of being claimed in the open, of being named in front of everyone as the thing a Warlord holds most precious, and Evran feels it settle into him alongside the fear and the determination andthe knowledge that Vaike is right, that he is the vulnerability, and that being the vulnerability is exactly what makes his plan possible.
"You don't need to worry about me," Evran says. "I'm not going to be a liability."
