Page 261 of Salt Between the Wolves

"If he must."

"He will."

Leander did not deny it, and the silence that followed felt colder than the room.

Eira looked back at the desk, at the unfinished letter, at the name she had written and abandoned.

"He should not have to face this because of me."

Leander's voice changed only slightly.

"Is that what you think this is?"

She said nothing.

"Eira."

The sound of her name was careful, almost too careful.

"Vargan was moving long before you left Ironfang."

"I know."

"Do you?"

Her jaw tightened, and Leander let the question remain between them without forcing an answer.

For a while neither of them spoke.

Then he said, "There is a difference between being the reason something happens and being the person someone uses as an excuse."

The words settled quietly, and Eira hated that they reached her.

Vargan would have called it duty, Ironfang would have called it strategy, and Leander, infuriatingly, called it what it was.

She looked down at her hands.

"Everyone keeps telling me what I am not responsible for."

"Perhaps because you keep trying to claim responsibility for things that were never yours."

Her eyes lifted sharply, and Leander held her gaze without challenge, only recognition.

For one dangerous moment, she thought of the archive, of Blackwater Keep, of a dead lord who had mistaken possession for order, of Soren, who had tried to hold together something he did not understand, and of herself, who had fled because staying had felt too close to surrender.

The wolf chooses once, but the heart must choose too.

Her fingers curled against her palms, and Leander noticed, of course he noticed, but he did not ask.

Instead, he said, "Whatever you do next, let it be yours."

The words were not command or permission, but something worse—freedom.

Eira looked away first.

"I don't know what I'm doing next."

"I know."