Page 26 of Iron Beneath the Snow

They treated her like cargo under protection.

The distinction mattered.

The mountain wind struck her bare throat, sharp and unkind. Her ceremonial white clung too lightly to her body, the fabric never meant for travel beyond stone halls and ritual floors. Frostvein had not given her a cloak.

Neither had Ironfang.

Not yet.

At the base of the steps, several dark-coated horses waited, their breath rising in pale clouds against the thin mountain air. They were larger than Frostvein’s stock—thick-necked, broad-backed, accustomed to uneven ground.

She had not expected horses.

Some part of her had imagined they would walk.

That she would feel every step of exile.

Instead, the distance would be measured in days.

The Ironfang alpha mounted first with unstudied ease. The movement was economical and practiced. He did not look at her as he settled into the saddle.

Another wolf brought a horse forward for her.

It stood still beneath her hand, dark hide warm despite the wind.

No assistance was offered.

No mockery either.

Eira gathered the thin white fabric at her legs and mounted on her own.

The wolves formed around them—two ahead, three behind, others fanning outward along the slope.

A silent formation.

Then they began to descend.

The path cut into the mountain in long, uneven curves, stone scarred by centuries of territorial skirmish and winter erosion. Snow gathered in shallow drifts between exposed rock, crunching beneath hooves.

She did not look back.

She knew what she would see: white towers against grey sky, banners stiff with frost, perhaps the faint silhouette of her father watching from the upper balcony.

If she looked, she might hesitate.

If she hesitated, she might break.

So she let the mountain swallow Frostvein from her periphery without ceremony.

The wind was harsher beyond the protection of the upper walls. It slipped beneath her sleeves, stung her ears, and found the hollow at the base of her throat where the mark lay.

It burned faintly under the cold.

The Ironfang alpha rode slightly ahead and to her left, keeping close enough to intercept danger while maintaining a distance that avoided any unnecessary contact.

His wolves moved with quiet discipline. No one spoke, and no one celebrated. The ride did not carry the energy of victory; instead it felt like the orderly conclusion of a task that had been planned long before it began.

An acquisition.