Page 204 of Salt Between the Wolves
The young warrior from Red Creek flashed through his mind, followed by the carved wolf, the blood on the stones, the warning, the argument, and the ravine. Every step along that path had led directly to this moment.
A movement near the edge of the clearing drew his attention.
Several younger wolves stood together beneath the trees, watching. They were not staring openly, nor were they being disrespectful, but they were watching all the same in the way soldiers watch a commander after a defeat.
The realization settled heavily in his stomach.
They knew. Perhaps not everything, but enough to understand that this had not happened because the enemy was stronger. It had happened because the enemy had been smarter, and because their alpha had stopped listening.
Garrick followed his gaze, and neither man spoke because neither needed to.
The truth already stood between them, cold, heavy, and impossible to ignore.
And Soren found himself wondering whether the wolves watching him still believed he knew what he was doing, and that question frightened him far more than the arrow ever could.
Chapter 25: Come for Answers
Soren
The mountains appeared shortly before dusk, dark, familiar, and unchanged.
For once, the sight brought Soren no comfort.
The journey back to Ironfang had taken two days filled with rain, pain, and silence.
The wounded rode slowly, while the dead traveled even slower.
Eight covered bodies accompanied them along the mountain roads in a grim procession returning home.
No one spoke much because there was little left to say.
The fortress gates stood open when they finally emerged from the pines, and someone had already carried the news ahead, as Ironfang always seemed to know.
The guards atop the walls straightened immediately, not in welcome but in alarm.
Soren noticed and hated it.
The gates opened wider, and the column entered the courtyard.
Silence spread faster than any announcement.
Stable boys stopped moving, smiths looked up from their work, and servants froze where they stood.
Their eyes followed the wounded first, then the covered bodies, and finally him.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
They were counting who had returned and who had not, not consciously or cruelly, but counting all the same.
A young woman standing beside a water trough pressed a hand over her mouth, while an older wolf stepped forward instinctively before stopping himself.
Several warriors abandoned whatever task they had been doing and moved toward the returning riders, searching faces for familiar ones.
Soren knew what came next: names, families, mothers, brothers, and mates.
The fortress would spend the next several days drowning in grief, and he had brought that grief home.
His shoulder throbbed beneath the bandages, and the mark burned beneath his ribs, yet neither compared to the weight settling deeper inside him with every step through the courtyard.
