Page 309 of Salt Between the Wolves

"The captains have maintained order," he continued while Eira listened.

"No one has claimed leadership," he added, his gaze remaining steady.

"They're waiting."

"For me."

"Yes."

The words hung between them, and outside the chamber walls, beyond the mountain and the snow-covered valleys, an entire pack waited for a woman who had spent most of her life trying not to lead anyone.

Eira looked away first and asked, "And what happens now?"

"Whatever you decide."

She let out a tired laugh and said, "That sounds suspiciously simple."

"It isn't."

"No, it isn't," he agreed, his eyes holding hers.

For a moment neither spoke, and then Eira asked the question she had been avoiding.

"My father."

Something hardened in Soren's expression, though not with anger, as he replied, "He lives."

She nodded as he continued, "He crossed the eastern border three days ago," making exile real, not just a sentence spoken on a mountain but a man walking alone into the world.

Eira looked down at her hands and said, "I should hate him," but Soren said nothing.

"I should be relieved," she added, and still he remained silent.

She exhaled slowly and admitted, "And instead I don't know what I feel."

"You don't need to," he said, and when her eyes lifted, she saw that he stood exactly where he had entered, as though unwilling to move closer without permission.

"You don't need to decide today," he added, and the words settled somewhere unexpectedly deep, because no one had said that to her in a very long time, not about anything.

Eira studied him for a moment and then asked quietly, "Do you regret it?"

The room became still, and though it was not about the challenge, the exile, or White Pass, both of them knew what she meant: the bond, the ritual, and the choice he had made for her, believing he had the right to make it.

Soren's jaw tightened, and for the first time since entering the room he looked away, and in that single movement she had her answer.

"You used me," she said calmly, without accusation or raised voice, which somehow made the words sharper.

Silence followed as Eira waited, remembering how she had heard Soren justify impossible decisions before, explaining strategy, duty, risk, and necessity, dismantling arguments with a handful of sentences and leaving nothing standing.

But this time he said nothing, not because he lacked words, but because every word would become an excuse, and there was no excuse.

The silence stretched until, unexpectedly, Soren moved, not toward the door or the fire, but toward her.

Eira frowned slightly as he crossed the room and stopped beside the bed, and for a heartbeat she thought he intended to speak, but instead he lowered himself to one knee and then both.

The motion was so unexpected that she simply stared at Soren Ironfang, Alpha of Ironfang and victor of White Pass, the man who had stood before armies and delivered judgment, now kneeling beside her bed with his head bowed, not in submission or obedience, but in acknowledgment of what he had done, what it had cost, and what could not be taken back.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he rested his forehead against her knees, offering no words, no defense, and no request for forgiveness, only the quiet weight of a man who understood he had crossed a line and possessed neither argument nor authority capable of undoing it.