Page 280 of Salt Between the Wolves

She frowned, as that was not the answer she expected. "Nothing?"

"Perhaps the armies remain where they are," he said with a slight shrug. "Perhaps your father refuses to listen. Perhaps Soren refuses to bend."

"Perhaps."

Eira stared at him. "You're not helping."

"No." A faint smile touched his mouth, then disappeared. "I'm trying not to lie to you."

The honesty struck harder than reassurance would have. Leander set his glass down.

"You are asking the wrong question."

Eira waited, his gaze holding hers.

"The question is not whether returning will change anything."

The room seemed strangely quiet.

"The question is whether you can live with staying."

Silence followed—long, uncomfortable, complete—and for the first time since the riders arrived, Eira found herself without an answer.

Eira left the map room shortly afterward.

Leander did not try to stop her, offer advice, or tell her what she should do, and for once the decision belonged entirely to her. That should have felt freeing, but instead it felt unbearable.

The corridors were quieter than usual as rain drummed steadily against the stone walls of the keep, and servants moved around her carrying lanterns and armfuls of firewood while life continued as though thousands of armed men were not standing in the snow waiting for someone else to make a mistake.

Eira climbed the stairs without thinking, one flight and then another, until she emerged onto the highest terrace overlooking the harbor.

The storm had swallowed the horizon, and sea and sky had become the same dark mass. Below, Silverwake glowed with scattered lantern light—safe, distant, untouched, for now.

She rested both hands against the wet stone parapet as cold rain gathered in her hair, but neither the weather nor the discomfort mattered, because her thoughts had become louder than either.

You can stay.

The realization came unexpectedly.

No one could force her to leave—not Leander, not Soren, not Vargan, not the council, not the people whispering her name beside campfires in White Pass.

She could stay exactly where she was, and the world would continue, events would unfold without her, others would make their choices and bear responsibility.

The thought should have brought relief, but it did not, because the more honestly she examined it, the more impossible it became.

Not because she believed she could stop a war—she wasn't arrogant enough to think that—and not because she imagined both men would suddenly listen to her, which seemed even less likely.

The truth was simpler.

If blood was spilled at White Pass, she would spend the rest of her life wondering whether she should have gone, whether she could have done something, whether she had abandoned the problem because it was easier than facing it.

Eira closed her eyes as rain struck her face—cold, sharp, real.

For years she had believed freedom meant escaping other people's expectations, but perhaps she had been wrong, and perhaps freedom was making a choice even when you hated every possible outcome.

A door opened somewhere behind her, and footsteps crossed the terrace.

Eira did not turn; she recognized Leander's stride immediately.