Page 50 of Salt Between the Wolves

The words felt absurd now, almost distant.

They sounded like a leader retreating to a conversation he understood, to a place where decisions still made sense and problems could be answered with orders.

Eira stared at him.

Not because of the guards, but because of what stood behind them.

Protection and containment. Responsibility and duty.

Always duty and always Ironfang.

She understood then that if the day ever came when he had to choose between her and his people, the choice would already have been made.

Not because he lacked feeling or courage, but because he was Soren.

And because Ironfang would always come first.

One of the old stories returned to her unexpectedly.

A tale about two voices bound together, equal to one another in a way that seemed almost impossible now.

As a child, she had barely paid attention to it. The old stories were full of impossible things.

Yet the memory lingered.

Whatever existed between her and Soren, it had never resembled that legend.

Perhaps it never could.

The realization carried no anger.

Only grief—a different kind of grief than the one waiting outside, quieter and far more personal.

Soren seemed to understand that something had changed.

The awareness showed in his face, along with the helplessness and the knowledge that whatever distance had existed between them before was becoming something larger, something neither of them knew how to cross.

Outside, dawn finally touched the mountains.

Inside, neither of them moved.

Eira found herself wondering whether there had ever truly been a future for them at all.

By the time sunset approached, the entire fortress seemed quieter than usual.

Work still continued where it had to, fires still burned, and voices still carried across the courtyards from time to time, yet everything felt muted, as though the mountain itself understood what was about to happen.

The funeral pyre had been built beyond the main gates on a rocky rise overlooking the western valleys.

Eira had passed the place before, but she had never stood among the wolves gathered there until now.

The sky was turning gold when she arrived.

No one spoke as the crowd slowly assembled around the pyre. Families stood together, hunters gathered beside one another, and older wolves remained near the front while children stayed close to their parents, unusually quiet beneath the weight of the occasion.

At the center stood Riven, or what remained of him.

His body rested atop stacked timber wrapped in dark cloth, his hunting knife placed beside him along with a handful of personal belongings chosen by his family. There was nothing extravagant about the arrangement and nothing symbolic enough to erase death, only the small things that had belonged to him in life.