Page 3 of Salt Between the Wolves

A chair scraped softly against stone as Soren entered the chamber.

The conversation did not stop, but it shifted around him almost immediately, tightening into structure the way water adjusted around rock. He crossed to the head of the table without hurry, traces of snow falling from the hem of his dark cloak before he shrugged it from his shoulders and handed it off to one of the younger wolves waiting near the entrance.

Only then did his attention move briefly through the room.

His gaze passed over her without lingering, yet the reaction inside her came all the same. Awareness settled low beneath her ribs, quiet but immediate, the bond recognizing him before she could force her thoughts elsewhere. She hated how easily it happened now, how instinct adjusted around his presence even while anger still sat sharp beneath her skin from the days of distance that had stretched between them since the ravine.

Soren took his place at the table.

“The western route is closed,” one of the older council wolves said, fingers pressed against the carved map beneath him. “Varos pulled their caravans back before dawn.”

Another voice answered from farther down the table. “Temporarily?”

“No. They’re suspending trade until the border stabilizes.”

The words settled heavily into the chamber.

A long silence followed, strained rather than shocked, as everyone present measured the consequences already unfolding behind the statement. Salt shipments. Iron tools. Winter grain. Not enough to cripple Ironfang immediately, but enough to weaken them over time if the isolation spread.

“They’ve traded through harsher winters than this,” another council wolf muttered. “Varos doesn’t scare easily.”

“They do when Frostvein starts circling their southern routes,” someone replied. “And when rumors spread faster than caravans.”

No one looked directly at Eira, which only made her more aware of it.

The wolf nearest the windows leaned forward slightly. “Three smaller packs pulled back from negotiations this morning as well.”

“Because of Frostvein?”

“Because they think war is coming.”

That answer carried more weight than the room liked. Eira felt it in the subtle shift around the table, in the way shoulders stiffened and attention narrowed without anyone speaking immediately afterward. Outside, the wind struck the windows hard enough to rattle faintly through the stone.

Through all of it, Soren remained still, one hand resting against the edge of the table while the others spoke around him. From where Eira stood, he looked almost untouched by the tension in the room, his expression revealing nothing beyond concentration, though someone watching closely might have noticed how quiet he had become.

“The smaller packs are beginning to question Ironfang’s judgment,” one of the older wolves said carefully at last.

There it was.

Not spoken directly. Never directly. Yet the meaning settled through the chamber all the same.

Eira kept her expression still.

For a few moments no one answered, until Soren finally lifted his gaze.

“Then they can question it from farther away.”

His voice carried evenly through the chamber, calm enough that the words landed harder because of it. There was no anger in them, no defensiveness, only certainty sharpened into something cold and final.

Several wolves exchanged brief glances, tension easing slightly around the table as the discussion resumed, but Eira remained motionless.

Once again, he had defended Ironfang. Not her.

The distinction should not have mattered. Politically, strategically, emotionally—it was the correct response. An alpha protected his territory first. Anything else would have been weakness.

Still, something inside her tightened anyway.

The conversation shifted toward supply routes and border patrols, yet beneath every new subject ran the same undercurrent, invisible and impossible to mistake now that it had surfaced openly.