Page 205 of Salt Between the Wolves

A child no older than seven broke away from his mother's side and pointed toward Soren.

"He's hurt."

The words carried farther than intended, and the mother immediately pulled him back.

It was already too late.

The silence shifted, subtly but noticeably.

For the first time, Soren became aware of what everyone else was seeing: the bandages beneath his cloak, the stiffness in his movements, and the exhaustion he could no longer fully conceal.

Their alpha was wounded.

The thought felt wrong, not because he had never been injured before, but because Ironfang had rarely been allowed to see it.

A blacksmith lowered his hammer, a group of younger wolves exchanged uneasy glances, and an elderly woman standing near the main hall stared openly.

She did not look at him with judgment but with concern.

That disturbed him far more.

Concern belonged to the very young, the very old, and the wounded.

It did not belong to him.

Garrick rode beside him in silence.

The captain noticed everything, as usual, yet neither man commented.

There was little either of them could say because the damage had already been done.

Soren dismounted near the entrance to the main hall, and pain immediately shot through his shoulder.

His vision darkened for a moment, but the weakness lasted long enough for one of the younger warriors to take an instinctive step forward as though expecting him to fall.

Soren straightened before the man could move another inch.

The warrior stopped at once, visibly embarrassed.

The gesture should have irritated him, yet instead it left something colder behind.

The young wolf had not stepped forward out of disrespect; he had stepped forward because he was worried.

And for perhaps the first time in his life, Soren realized that the people of Ironfang were looking at him differently.

They no longer saw only a weapon, a shield, or the alpha who always knew what came next.

They saw a man.

A wounded man returning home with eight dead wolves.

That realization followed him all the way to the doors of the fortress, and somehow it weighed more than the arrow ever had.

Varda was waiting for him, which came as no surprise.

By the time Soren reached the infirmary, word of his return had already spread through half the fortress.

The healer stood beside one of the examination tables with her arms folded neatly across her chest, looking exactly as she always did: calm, composed, and entirely unimpressed.