Page 90 of Salt Between the Wolves

"You can argue tomorrow, or the day after, but you are not spending another night alone in the mountains."

Emotion rose unexpectedly in Eira's throat, and she swallowed it before it could become something dangerous.

Maelin reached for her hand. The gesture was simple and familiar, a bridge thrown across years of distance.

"Come."

This time, Eira followed.

Together they descended the hill toward the waiting horses.

The sun had already begun its slow journey toward the horizon, bathing the snow-covered countryside in gold and amber light. Long shadows stretched across the fields, and for the first time in what felt like an age, Eira found herself walking beside someone rather than behind them or alone.

The road ahead remained uncertain, and so did tomorrow, but as they left the ruined tower behind, one thing no longer felt true.

She was no longer facing it by herself.

The road wound downward at first, threading between rocky outcroppings and clusters of wind-bent pines clinging stubbornly to the frozen earth before gradually descending into gentler country, where snow-covered fields stretched between dark forests and the mountains loosened their hold on the landscape.

For a while neither of them spoke. After everything that had been said among the ruins, the silence no longer felt heavy. If anything, it offered a welcome respite, allowing them to sit beside one another without the pressure of difficult questions or painful memories.

More than once, Eira caught herself glancing toward her sister. She had always known that Maelin would have changed—years had passed, after all—but seeing those changes with her own eyes was something entirely different.

The pregnancy was impossible to miss now. When Maelin had mounted her horse near the tower, the movement had been slower and more deliberate than Eira remembered, and since then she had shifted carefully in the saddle whenever the road became uneven. She looked older than Eira remembered, though not in any way that suggested age. Rather, she carried the quiet confidence of someone who had spent years building a life of her own, and that transformation felt stranger to Eira than the pregnancy itself.

“You’re still staring as though you’re trying to decide whether I’m real,” Maelin remarked without looking at her.

“Maybe I am.”

“I assure you, I’m real.”

“I’m reserving judgment.”

“Wise.”

A reluctant smile tugged at Eira’s lips.

“You were always a terrible rider.”

Eira turned toward her in disbelief.

“What?”

“It’s true.”

“It absolutely is not.”

“Very much so.”

“I’ve been riding since I could walk.”

“Which makes it all the more impressive.”

The argument that followed was so absurdly familiar that it seemed to erase the distance between them for a little while. Ironfang, Frostvein, the war, and everything that had happened since their last meeting receded into the background, leaving behind only two sisters arguing over an old memory neither of them was willing to surrender.

Eventually the conversation drifted elsewhere.

“My son is nine now.”