Page 59 of Salt Between the Wolves

He left the council hall and made his way through the fortress without any particular destination in mind, and only when familiar corridors began appearing around him did he realize where his feet had taken him.

Eira's rooms lay at the end of the passage ahead.

Soren stopped.

The distance between them was not far—perhaps a dozen steps at most—and it was close enough that the bond stirred immediately, a familiar and persistent ache beneath his ribs.

For several moments he remained where he was.

The corridor stood empty, with no voices, no footsteps, and nothing but silence and the closed door waiting at the far end.

He could have crossed the distance, knocked, and finally said something—anything at all.

Instead, he found himself thinking about the square, about Riven, and about all the conversations that should have happened and never had, along with the explanations that arrived too late and the truths he still didn't know how to speak aloud.

His hand tightened briefly at his side before relaxing again.

A moment later, Soren turned away.

The bond lingered long after he began walking, as did the uneasy certainty that every day spent waiting made the distance between them larger.

Yet he continued down the corridor anyway, and the door remained closed behind him.

Chapter 9: Maps

Eira

The snow had begun to soften around the edges of the fortress walls, although winter still held the mountains firmly in its grasp. During the day, water occasionally trickled beneath sunlit roofs before freezing again after dusk. The change was subtle enough to escape most people's notice, yet Eira found herself watching for it, just as she had lately found herself watching for many other things.

Mara stood behind her, gathering sections of hair between practiced fingers as she worked.

For a long time, neither woman spoke.

The silence itself was not unusual. There had always been mornings when conversation came slowly, when both of them were content to sit quietly while Mara braided her hair. Yet those silences had once felt companionable rather than empty, filled with an easy familiarity that no longer seemed to exist.

Eira watched their reflections in the polished metal mirror resting against the wall. Mara's attention remained fixed on the braid, her gaze lowered to her work, and the simple fact that she never looked up struck Eira more sharply than she expected.

Only then did she realize that she could no longer remember the last time Mara had volunteered a story.

There had always been stories before—small, inconsequential things that somehow made the mornings feel warmer. She would talk about arguments among the hunters, about someone falling through river ice, or about some foolish remark Riven had made during training. The details themselves had rarely mattered. What mattered was the telling, the effortless way Mara had filled the room with life.

Without those stories, the room felt strangely hollow.

Mara's fingers moved efficiently through Eira's hair, tightening the braid more firmly than necessary before loosening a section and beginning again. There was something restless in the motion, though whether it came from irritation or simple distraction, Eira could no longer tell.

Beyond the window, the fortress was already awake. Voices drifted upward from the lower courtyard, mingling with the distant clang of a hammer striking metal in a slow, steady rhythm. Neither woman commented on the sounds, and neither seemed inclined to fill the silence that stretched between them.

Eventually Mara secured the end of the braid and stepped back.

"There."

Eira lifted a hand to touch the finished braid.

"Thank you."

"Mm."

The response came automatically. It was not rude, but neither did it carry any warmth.