Page 81 of Salt Between the Wolves

Of course, she needed money.

In Ironfang she had spent her time thinking about food, horses, routes, weather, supplies, and escape, but money had never crossed her mind because she had never needed it before.

For a brief moment uncertainty tightened in her chest before she reached beneath her cloak and retrieved one of the smaller valuables that had survived the journey: a silver hair ornament from Frostvein. It was nothing extravagant by noble standards, yet it was worth far more than a night's lodging.

The innkeeper's eyebrows rose slightly.

Eira already knew she was overpaying, but she also knew she had little choice.

The woman examined the piece before nodding.

"It'll do."

Relief arrived immediately.

The room was small but clean, and more importantly the mare received a stall, grain, and a chance to rest, which alone made the exchange worthwhile.

Later, after a hot meal that tasted better than anything she could remember eating in weeks, Eira returned downstairs.

The common room had grown quieter, with only a handful of travelers remaining near the fire while others had already retired for the evening.

The innkeeper glanced up as Eira approached once more.

"Something else?"

Eira hesitated before nodding.

"Paper."

The woman looked surprised.

"And ink."

Her surprise deepened, but she disappeared briefly before returning with both items.

Eira thanked her and carried the supplies upstairs.

Night had fully settled outside by the time she sat beside the narrow window of her room. The paper rested before her while the ink remained untouched, and for a long while she simply stared at them.

The letter should have been easy to write. She had spent days thinking about her sister and imagining what she might say, yet now that the moment had arrived the words refused to come.

Outside, the village had begun settling into silence as snow drifted softly beyond the glass and somewhere below a door closed.

Eira dipped the pen into the ink and finally lowered it to the page.

The first words appeared slowly, written not to a noblewoman, a mother, or the wife of a neighboring lord, but to the sister she had not seen in years.

Maelin.

Eira woke to knocking.

For a brief moment she didn't know where she was as she stared at the unfamiliar ceiling while sleep slowly released its hold. The warmth of the blankets, the distant murmur of voices downstairs, and the faint scent of woodsmoke all felt strangely disconnected from the mountains she had crossed only days before.

Then memory returned all at once: the village, the inn, and the letter.

She sat upright immediately as another knock sounded at the door.

"Message for you," a voice called from the corridor.