Page 6 of Iron Beneath the Snow

A knock struck the door, hard enough to break through the stillness of the chamber. It carried none of the restraint expected within Frostvein walls, and when it came again, sharper and more insistent, it left no doubt that whoever stood beyond it had no intention of waiting.

Eira opened her eyes, straightening slowly as she dried her hand against the cloth beside the basin.

“Enter.”

The door did not open.

Instead, a scream tore through the corridor.

It was not directly outside her chamber, yet close enough that the sound cut cleanly through stone, stripped of echo and restraint. Another shout followed, then the harsh clash of metal, and beneath it a growl that carried nothing of Frostvein discipline—raw, uncontained, unfamiliar.

Her wolf stirred beneath her skin, alert before thought could fully form.

Outside, the corridor broke into motion—boots striking stone, voices colliding, the unmistakable crack of bone punctuating the chaos.

Eira moved toward the door just as it burst inward.

A Frostvein guard staggered across the threshold, blood darkening the front of his throat, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and realization, as though the world had broken along a line he had not known existed.

Behind him, the corridor churned with movement.

Dark cloaks cut through the chaos, iron catching briefly at their clasps.

Her pulse struck hard once in her chest as recognition settled with a certainty she did not question.

Ironfang.

The guard lurched toward her, raising his arms as though he could shield her body with his own.

Something moved behind him, swift and precise, and steel flashed briefly in the firelight before disappearing again.

The guard collapsed before he could reach her.

Eira did not scream.

Her hand moved instead, closing around the small ceremonial knife on the table—the one meant for offerings rather than defense—as she turned toward the doorway.

A figure stepped inside.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in dark fur threaded with iron. His face remained partly obscured, but his eyes were clear and focused, not wild, not frenzied, and whatever had brought him here did not resemble mindless violence.

The wolf within her stilled.

“You will not fight,” he said, his voice low and controlled, carrying a certainty that did not rely on force.

The calmness of it struck sharper than any threat.

“Get out,” she said, raising the knife.

His gaze flicked to the blade and away again.

“I don’t have time for this.”

Another crash echoed through the corridor, closer now.

He moved before she could react.

The distance between them collapsed as his hand closed around her wrist, forcing her grip open so the knife slipped from her fingers, while his other hand braced against the wall beside her, caging her in without quite touching.