Page 103 of Salt Between the Wolves

By evening, snow had begun to fall again, though it bore little resemblance to the harsh mountain storms Eira had crossed on her journey west. Instead, a slow and steady snowfall drifted past the windows in soft white curtains, wrapping the estate in a quiet stillness.

The room had grown warmer as darkness settled outside.

A fire burned steadily in the hearth, filling the room with amber light and the occasional crackle of burning logs. Shadows danced lazily across the walls while the rest of the house seemed to retreat into the comfortable rhythms of evening.

For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, Eira found herself doing absolutely nothing, with no plans to consider, no preparations to make, and no decisions waiting to be made. The realization felt strange enough that she kept expecting something to interrupt it.

Across from her, Lyra sat sprawled across a rug with all the elegance of a collapsed tent. A book rested open in her lap, or rather, it rested there whenever she remembered it existed.

"Focus."

Maelin's voice carried the weary patience of someone who had repeated the same instruction many times before.

"I am focusing."

"You just spent three minutes watching snow."

"I was thinking."

"About the book?"

"No."

Maelin closed her eyes, and Eira hid a smile behind her tea.

The lesson continued, though not particularly successfully. Every few minutes Lyra managed to discover something more interesting than reading, whether it was the snow beyond the window, the fire in the hearth, the shape of a knot in the floorboards, or a loose thread on her sleeve. At one point she became convinced that one of the logs looked remarkably like a sheep and spent several minutes defending the observation.

Finn had inherited his mother's patience, while Lyra had inherited none of it.

Eventually Maelin surrendered and shifted from reading to storytelling, which proved significantly more successful, at least until Lyra began interrupting every third sentence.

The room settled into an easy warmth that seemed to belong entirely to itself. As darkness thickened beyond the windows and the fire glowed brighter inside, Eira simply listened to Lyra's questions, Maelin's answers, and the ordinary sounds of a house preparing for night.

Despite herself, she found her thoughts drifting, though not toward Ironfang, the road, or even the future. Instead, they lingered here, in this quiet room and this fleeting moment of peace. The realization felt almost dangerous because she could already understand why people stayed in places like this, why they built lives around hearths and children and familiar voices, and why leaving them hurt.

A sudden bark echoed faintly from somewhere beyond the house. The sound barely registered at first, but then another followed, and another after that.

This time Maelin looked up, not alarmed but attentive. The change was subtle, yet Eira noticed it immediately.

A moment later came the distant sound of voices, followed by the unmistakable rhythm of hooves crossing frozen ground. The dogs began barking in earnest, and Lyra was already on her feet.

"Father!"

The book slipped from Lyra's hands and landed on the floor. Maelin sighed.

"Lyra—"

The warning came too late. The girl had already vanished, and the sound of running footsteps echoed through the corridor beyond.

For a moment nobody moved before Maelin slowly set aside her sewing. The expression on her face had changed, not dramatically and not enough for anyone else to notice, but Eira saw it. The quiet ease that had filled the room throughout the day had disappeared, replaced by something else that seemed to be a mixture of anticipation and concern.

Outside, more voices drifted across the yard as a gate opened and someone called a greeting. A moment later came laughter, deep and familiar, the kind shared by people returning home.

Maelin rose carefully from her chair.

"He's back."

The words were simple, yet somehow they seemed to alter the shape of the entire evening.