Page 51 of Salt Between the Wolves

The wind carried the scent of pine and distant snow across the ridge while, somewhere below, waves crashed faintly against the western coast.

For a long time, no one moved.

Then the singing began, starting with a single low, steady voice from an older man standing near the front of the gathering. Others joined gradually until one voice became three, three became ten, and the melody spread through the crowd until it seemed to rise from the mountain itself.

Eira didn't know the words, but she understood enough of them to follow their meaning.

The song spoke of roads traveled and roads ending, of winter yielding to spring, and of wolves returning to the earth that had carried them through life.

No one cried openly, yet the grief remained visible all the same—in lowered heads, in clasped hands, and in the way Riven's younger brother stood rigid beside his mother as though afraid that any movement might break whatever composure remained.

The song continued long after the sun touched the horizon, and only when the final notes faded did Soren step forward.

He stood before the pyre without speaking, allowing a silence that felt deliberate and respectful, a final space left for the living and the dead alike.

Then he took the torch offered to him.

The fire caught quickly as dry timber cracked and smoke rose toward the darkening sky.

No one looked away.

Eira found herself unable to breathe for a moment as flames climbed higher around the structure. Yesterday, Riven had been laughing beside a campfire; today, fire was carrying him away.

The thought settled somewhere deep inside her and refused to leave.

Around her, wolves remained motionless. Some watched the flames while others watched the sky, and no one hurried the moment or attempted to shorten it.

They stayed until the fire had burned low and darkness fully claimed the mountain.

Only then did the second part of the ritual begin.

The ashes were gathered carefully after midnight—not all of them, only what remained. The process was slow and reverent, performed by family and elders while the rest of the pack waited nearby.

A small portion was placed into a carved wooden vessel, while the remainder would stay with the mountain.

Eira followed the others toward the cliffs north of the fortress, a place she had never visited before.

The path ended at a wall of stone marked by centuries of weather and wind. At first it appeared unremarkable, until the crowd parted enough for her to see the narrow opening hidden within the rock.

The chamber beyond was deeper than she expected, dark, silent, and ancient.

An elder stepped forward carrying the vessel, and when he spoke, his voice echoed softly within the hollow stone.

"Those who leave us do not leave Ironfang."

The words were simple, and no one interrupted.

"They return to the mountain that carried them."

The vessel was opened, and a handful of ash was released first. The wind caught it immediately, carrying the pale particles through the moonlight above the valley before they disappeared into the darkness beyond the cliffs, returning to the land, to the forests, to the snow, and to the roads he had traveled.

The remainder was carried into the chamber.

Inside, carved recesses lined the stone walls, hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, holding generations of wolves resting together, family beside family and friends beside friends.

The elder poured the remaining ash into an empty hollow among them.

No grand declaration followed, and no dramatic conclusion came afterward.