Page 35 of Salt Between the Wolves

“It's terrible.”

“Good,” Riven said. “That means it's working.”

A nearby hunter laughed.

“My grandmother used to make that.”

“Then your grandmother hated people.”

“She did.”

“That explains everything.”

More laughter followed, blending with the soft crackle of burning wood.

Above them, the sky had cleared completely. Stars emerged one by one until the darkness seemed crowded with them, stretching across the mountains in endless silver patterns. The snow reflected enough light that the world never became entirely black, and the pines stood like dark silhouettes against the pale landscape while sparks drifted upward from the fire and vanished among the stars.

For a while, conversation wandered wherever it pleased. Stories from old patrols gave way to arguments about hunting routes, which somehow turned into discussions about the merits of different horses, and eventually the entire circle found itself debating whether Riven had actually gotten lost during a training exercise three winters earlier.

“I wasn't lost.”

“You were gone for six hours.”

“I was exploring.”

“You came back from the opposite direction.”

“That proves how much exploring I did.”

Even Eira laughed at that, while Riven looked unbearably pleased with himself.

The warmth of the drink settled deeper into her hands as she listened.

What struck her most was how ordinary everything felt. No one treated her differently tonight, and she only realized it gradually as the evening unfolded. There were no careful pauses when she spoke, no awkward silences when she approached, and no one lowering their voice whenever she came near. She was simply there, woven into the circle and the conversation as naturally as everyone else.

The feeling should not have mattered as much as it did, yet she found herself holding onto it all the same.

As the evening wore on, the talking quieted little by little, not because anyone wished to leave but because people had grown comfortable enough to let silence exist between them. Someone fed another piece of wood into the fire, while another wolf leaned back against a fallen log and tilted his head toward the sky.

For several moments the camp rested in a peaceful stillness broken only by crackling wood and the distant rush of water moving beneath the ice.

Then a low voice began to sing.

Eira didn't recognize the wolf immediately. He sat near one of the smaller fires beyond the brightest circle of light, his features half-hidden by shadow.

The song itself was simple and unadorned, carrying none of the dramatic flourish of a performance and making no attempt to draw attention. It was merely a quiet melody offered to the night.

The language was an old Ironfang dialect, roughened by generations of use, yet the meaning remained easy enough to follow. It spoke of mountains and winter roads, of wolves leaving home and finding their way back again. It was not a song about glory or victory, but about returning after long journeys and discovering that home still waited.

One voice became two, then three, and before long enough wolves had joined that the melody deepened and spread gently through the camp.

No one seemed surprised by it.

The harmony rose with the sparks drifting upward from the fire and wove itself into the darkness above them.

Eira listened without speaking.

The mountains felt different here at night than they had during the day. Their vastness no longer seemed imposing; instead, they felt almost protective, as though the darkness gathered around the camp rather than against it.