Page 12 of Salt Between the Wolves

The realization settled badly.

Not because he resented Riven himself, but because the younger wolf offered something Soren increasingly suspected he could not: a space untouched by tension, expectation, or the constant awareness of the bond.

At one of the center tables, a younger wolf asked Eira something directly for the first time all evening.

Soren watched surprise flicker briefly across her face before she answered.

Nothing happened afterward. The room did not freeze. No awkward silence followed. Conversation simply continued, and with every passing moment Eira seemed a little less like an outsider and a little more like someone the fortress had quietly begun accepting.

The sight should have reassured him.

Instead, something instinctive tightened unpleasantly beneath his restraint. The feeling had little to do with reason and even less to do with strategy. It was simply the ugly awareness that the further Eira drifted from him, the more easily she appeared to find her place among everyone else.

He set the untouched cup back on the table harder than intended.

The sound carried sharply enough through the hall that several nearby conversations faltered.

Soren rose immediately.

Kael's gaze lingered on him for a moment too long.

Soren ignored it.

Across the hall, Eira glanced up at the movement.

Their eyes met only briefly before he turned and walked out into the cold.

The lower training grounds sat open beneath a pale winter sky, enclosed on three sides by dark stone walls that trapped the cold instead of blocking it. Snow had been cleared from the center ring earlier that morning, leaving packed earth darkened by meltwater and boot marks beneath the thin wash of daylight.

The sound of wooden practice blades striking carried sharply through the yard.

Soren descended the stone steps without slowing.

Several wolves already occupied the ring below, rotating through drills in pairs while others watched from the outer benches wrapped in heavy cloaks against the wind pushing steadily through the open side of the grounds. Conversation moved easily through the training yard at first — low remarks, scattered laughter, the familiar rhythm of routine settling back into place after patrols and midday duties.

Then Soren entered the ring.

The nearest wolves straightened instinctively as he crossed the yard, their movements tightening with the subtle awareness that always followed him into spaces like this. Normally, he ignored it without effort.

Today, the restraint required to ignore anything felt thinner than usual.

One of the younger fighters stepped aside at once, offering him a practice sword without being asked. Soren took it automatically, testing the weight once in his hand before stepping into the center of the ring.

Cold air burned cleanly in his lungs.

For a few moments, he intended nothing more than movement. Discipline. Routine. Something capable of forcing his thoughts back into order.

Then he looked up and saw Riven crossing the yard toward the weapon rack.

The decision formed almost before thought caught up to it.

“Riven.”

The name carried easily across the training grounds, drawing several nearby glances.

Riven slowed, visibly surprised before smoothing the reaction into something lighter. “You planning to make an example out of me today?”

A few quiet laughs answered from the sidelines.