Page 321 of Salt Between the Wolves

The journey to the cliffs above Ironfang took less than half an hour.

Winter had finally begun to loosen its grip on the North.

Snow still lingered in the shadows of the mountains and along the northern slopes, but the valleys below no longer lay buried beneath endless white, as dark stone showed through, streams ran free once more, and patches of stubborn brown grass pushed through thawing earth wherever the sun reached long enough to matter.

It was not spring as southern kingdoms would have understood it, with no flowers or green hills, only the first quiet signs that the world had chosen to survive another winter.

Eira paused briefly as the path climbed higher.

The air smelled different, colder than the coast and cleaner than the valleys, carrying the scent of melting snow and distant stone on the wind.

Ahead, the cliff opened toward the sky.

The gathering was smaller than many council meetings she had attended, exactly as she had hoped, with no feast, no celebration, and no banners, only the people who mattered: the elders, several captains, Mara, a handful of those closest to them, and Soren waiting near the edge of the cliff.

For a moment Eira simply looked at him.

Gone were the furs, the armor, and the heavy cloak that seemed permanently attached to the Alpha of Ironfang; today he wore dark grey wool and simple leather, nothing more.

Without the symbols of authority, he somehow looked even more dangerous and far more human.

His gaze found hers immediately, as it always did, and something softened in his expression, only for her.

Eira felt the familiar answering warmth of the bond, not demanding or urgent, but simply there, steady as breathing.

Mara appeared beside her.

"Stop staring."

"I wasn't staring."

"You were."

"I was observing."

Mara groaned.

"You've both become unbearable."

Eira smiled despite herself.

Then her attention shifted downward.

She had not noticed the clothing at first, not because it was elaborate, but because it wasn't.

It was dark gray wool with simple lines, no jewels, no embroidery worthy of a ruler, and no attempt to transform her into someone she was not.

The sleeves were lighter than those she normally wore, and the fabric moved easily in the wind.

Around one wrist someone had tied a narrow braid of dried mountain herbs, and a matching wreath rested lightly against her silver hair.

It was simple, northern, ancient, and perfect.

For the first time in her life, she stood before a ritual wearing clothing chosen for herself rather than for what others expected her to represent, and the realization settled unexpectedly deep.

An elder approached, the oldest woman of Ironfang, whose age had bent her back but not her gaze, and nothing seemed capable of bending that.

She looked at Eira, then at Soren, and nodded once.