Page 226 of Salt Between the Wolves

The feeling belonged to someone else.

Pain followed a moment later—a sudden, blinding flash across her shoulder just beneath the collarbone.

Eira gasped and pushed herself to her feet so abruptly that the chair scraped sharply against the floor.

The pain vanished almost as quickly as it had come, leaving only a faint echo behind.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she looked around. The room remained unchanged. The desk, the window, and the shell were all exactly where they should be.

Everything was unchanged except her.

Slowly, she pressed a hand against her shoulder. There was nothing there—no wound, no blood, no sign of injury—yet the sensation lingered like the memory of pain that had never truly belonged to her.

The realization settled over her in slow, cold waves.

Soren.

The name appeared uninvited.

She closed her eyes and immediately saw him as she remembered him: standing in the snow, leaning over the war table, crossing the training grounds, and turning toward her on that last morning in Ironfang.

The memory hurt more than she expected.

When Eira opened her eyes again, the fading sunlight stretched across the room in long golden bands. Outside, life continued as though nothing had happened.

Perhaps nothing had happened.

Perhaps it was only exhaustion, imagination, or the lingering effects of the marks.

That explanation should have comforted her, but it didn't.

She looked toward the sea beyond the window, toward the distant horizon and the mountains she could no longer see, and for the first time since leaving Ironfang, a single thought rose above all the others.

It was not anger, resentment, or confusion.

It was concern.

What happened to you?

The question remained unanswered as the last of the light slowly faded from the room.

By the time Eira finally descended to supper, darkness had settled over Silverwake, and the dining room glowed with warm candlelight that softened the edges of the stone walls.

Unlike the great halls of Frostvein or Ironfang, the room felt almost intimate despite its size, as only a small section of the long table had been prepared for the evening meal.

Leander was already there, seated near the window with a document in hand while absently turning a wine glass between his fingers.

The sight should have been ordinary, yet for some reason it wasn't.

Eira took her seat, and Leander immediately folded the document and set it aside.

"Good evening."

"Good evening."

A servant appeared with food, and the conversation that followed was pleasant enough, at least on the surface.

Leander asked about the archives, and Eira answered.