Page 111 of Iron Beneath the Snow

He did not question it.

He rode into the storm.

Eira

By full dark, the storm had worsened.

Snow forced its way through the smallest seams in the stone shelter, slipping past the edges of Riven’s cloak where it had been fastened across the entrance. The wind shifted direction with unsettling speed, striking from one angle and then another, probing for weakness in fabric, in stone, in bone. The fire resisted, but only just, its flame bending low each time the draft found a new path inside.

Rysa muttered under her breath as she fed it more fuel, her movements quick, efficient, already accounting for the possibility that it might not be enough.

Eira didn’t notice the cold at first.

At first it crept deeper than surface chill, dulling sensation rather than sharpening it. Only when she tried to flex her bandaged arm and the movement came slower than it should have—delayed, distant—did she recognize the shift.

“You’re pale,” Rysa said, sharper now.

“I’m fine,” Eira replied, though her teeth clicked together at the end of the sentence, betraying what her voice did not.

Riven was beside her almost immediately.

“Let me see your hands.”

The instinct to pull away rose without warning, automatic and familiar, but she held it back. He took her hands between his palms with a care that felt practical rather than intimate, rubbing warmth back into her fingers in steady, deliberate motions.

It helped, but not enough.

The cold had already moved too far inward, running along her spine and hollowing out her breath until each inhale came shorter than the last.

At her throat, the thread stirred faintly—not heat, but awareness, as if something far away had turned toward her.

The wind rose again, pressing harder against the shelter. Outside, the horses shifted restlessly, their movement uneven against the growing force of the storm.

Then, beneath it, another rhythm emerged—hoofbeats, fast and closing.

Riven’s head turned toward the entrance at once.

“That’s not the rotation,” one of the younger wolves said, unease cutting through his voice.

The cloak snapped inward as someone forced through it, snow driving in behind him in a sharp, violent gust.

Soren.

Two riders crowded in behind him, one immediately dragging the cloak back across the entrance while the other moved to help Rysa secure what the wind had disturbed.

Ice clung to the edges of Soren’s cloak, snow catching in his hair and melting along his temples as he stepped fully inside. His gaze swept the shelter in a single, controlled motion, taking in position, structure, damage—until it reached her and stopped.

The thread snapped tight, and her breath caught before she could stop it.

He crossed the space in a few decisive strides, not hurried in appearance, but faster than necessity alone would require.

By the time he reached her, the thread had already drawn tight enough to sharpen her awareness of him.

He knelt in front of her, his attention narrowing as his gaze moved over her face with quick, precise focus, as though he were confirming something that had already been decided before he reached her.

“Look at me.”

She did.