Page 255 of Salt Between the Wolves

Soren looked at him—the man who had fought beside him for years, who had followed him into storms, winters, and battles neither of them should have survived, and who was now waiting for an answer.

"Everyone dies."

Kael closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. "That's not what I asked."

The corridor seemed smaller suddenly, the air heavier, as Soren held his gaze and, for the first time since returning to Ironfang, stopped trying to avoid the question.

"I don't know."

Kael's expression shifted—not relief, not fear, but something worse, because he believed him. Soren truly didn't know, and the uncertainty itself was the answer.

Silence stretched between them until Kael finally asked, "Does Garrek know?"

"No."

"The council?"

"No."

"Anyone?"

"No."

Kael exhaled slowly, then nodded once as though reaching a decision. "Then they don't hear it from me."

Soren studied him. "Kael—"

"No." This time the interruption was calm, steady, and deliberate. "If you're going to be an idiot, that's your right as Alpha."

A faint shadow of amusement flickered across Soren's face despite everything, though it vanished almost immediately.

"But if there's even a chance that healer is right," Kael continued, "then I'm staying close enough to make sure you don't get yourself killed before Vargan gets the opportunity."

For a moment neither man spoke, and then Soren nodded once—not as Alpha, but as a friend. It was the closest thing to gratitude Kael was likely to get, and somehow that was enough.

"Now," Kael said, turning toward the council chamber, "let's go tell a room full of angry elders that they've been waiting half a day because their Alpha decided to interrogate a healer about ancient legends."

A corner of Soren's mouth twitched, the expression disappearing before it could become a smile, but it was there—and after everything that had just been said, Kael counted it as a victory.

Chapter 30: The Heart Must Choose

Eira

The archive was nearly empty by the time Eira found it, with several oil lamps burning low between the shelves while the old keeper had long since retreated to his quarters, leaving her alone among centuries of dust and forgotten names.

For three days she had searched through crumbling ledgers, treaties, birth records, trade agreements, and half-decayed chronicles that mentioned bonds only in passing, as if everyone assumed their meaning was obvious, yet most had told her nothing, and the few that did only repeated the same stories about ancient wolves, ancient promises, and ancient truths that offered no real help.

Eira rubbed her eyes and reached for another volume stacked carelessly atop a pile of damaged records, feeling the leather binding crack beneath her fingers as she noticed there was no title, no markings, only a faded seal pressed into the cover, and although she almost set it aside, she hesitated and opened it instead.

The pages were brittle with age, some partially rotted away while others had been repaired generations later by hands that no longer matched the original script, and at first the text appeared no different from dozens of others she had already read, filled with names, dates, political marriages, and border disputes, until one passage caught her attention not because of what it said but because someone had underlined part of it centuries ago, though the ink had nearly vanished.

Lord Auren of Blackwater Keep received the bond during the twenty-third year of his rule.

Eira frowned as the next lines continued.

The woman named in the record refused recognition of the bond and departed Blackwater within the month.

She sat up slightly, and for the first time all evening her exhaustion receded as the writing changed farther down the page, shifting into the tone of a chronicler that was cold and precise rather than that of a storyteller or poet.