Page 68 of Salt Between the Wolves

The evening had deepened by the time Eira left the great hall behind.

The sounds of conversation and laughter faded gradually as she moved through the fortress, replaced by quieter noises—the distant creak of timber settling in the cold, the whisper of wind along stone walls, and the occasional call of a sentry somewhere above.

Night was gathering over Ironfang, and while most of the windows still glowed with warm firelight, others had already gone dark.

Eira followed familiar paths without consciously choosing a destination, which was perhaps why she found herself slowing when the training grounds appeared ahead.

The circle stood empty beneath the moonlight, which silvered the packed earth while the wooden practice posts cast long shadows across the yard. A few discarded training weapons rested near the racks where they had been left after the day's exercises.

For several moments, she remained where she was.

There had been a time when she hated this place, and the memory brought the faintest hint of a smile.

The first training sessions had been humiliating; every muscle had ached, every mistake had been visible, and every lesson had felt like proof of how little she knew.

She remembered Soren correcting her stance with infuriating patience, remembered arguing with him, and remembered being furious with him.

The memory should have hurt, yet instead it felt strangely distant, like sunlight preserved beneath ice.

Other memories surfaced alongside it: Riven laughing after knocking her into the dirt, insisting she had improved, and refusing to let her quit when frustration threatened to overwhelm her.

The ache that followed his name never truly left anymore and simply existed alongside everything else.

Eira looked across the empty training circle.

Months ago she had stood here feeling like an outsider, and now she was preparing to leave as one.

The thought settled quietly inside her, not because Ironfang had rejected her entirely and not because she had stopped caring. If anything, caring too much was the problem.

Somewhere between the training yard, the great hall, the mountain paths, and the people who lived among these walls, she had allowed herself to become attached—not only to Soren, but to all of it, to Ironfang itself.

She loved this place: its roughness, its honesty, and the way people worked, fought, celebrated, and mourned together.

Even now, after everything that had happened, she loved it enough that leaving felt like tearing away part of herself, and perhaps that was exactly why she could no longer stay.

After a while, she continued walking.

The path eventually carried her toward the stables, and the familiar scent of hay and horses greeted her before she stepped inside.

Most of the animals had settled for the night, though several lifted their heads briefly as she passed.

The mare she had chosen waited in the same stall, calm, steady, and reliable.

The horse watched her approach before lowering her head toward Eira's shoulder.

A quiet breath escaped her as she stood there for several moments with one hand resting against the mare's neck.

Then she checked the saddle she had hidden earlier, along with the travel blanket, the waterskin, and the small bundle of supplies.

Everything remained exactly where she had left it, ready for departure.

The sight made something tighten inside her chest.

Until now, every preparation had carried a degree of uncertainty, existing as a possibility, a contingency, or simply an option.

Standing there beside the horse, Eira finally understood that the decision itself had already been made.

She was no longer considering leaving; she was leaving.