Page 29 of Iron Beneath the Snow

None bowed.

She found she preferred that.

He led her through corridors carved into the mountain. Iron braces reinforced the stone doorframes, and stylized fangs had been etched into the archways—less ornament than warning.

At the end of the east wing he stopped before a heavy wooden door banded with iron.

He opened it and stepped aside.

“Your quarters.”

The room inside was modest but not austere. A bed layered with dark furs stood against one wall, a basin rested beside a narrow table, and a hearth had already been prepared with kindling waiting for flame.

There was not a trace of white anywhere.

Eira stepped inside slowly.

The door closed behind her with a solid sound, but she noticed immediately that it was not barred.

He remained near the threshold, as if unwilling to cross too far into the room.

“You will not be confined here,” he said.

She glanced at him over her shoulder.

“How generous.”

“You are not a prisoner.”

Her gaze sharpened slightly.

“No?”

“No.”

He did not raise his voice, but the certainty in it made the word land more heavily than volume would have.

A brief silence held between them—not tense, exactly, but aware.

It was the first moment they had been alone without council, witnesses, or ceremony.

The mark at her throat stirred faintly.

“You made a calculated decision today,” she said at last.

He did not look away from her.

“I did.”

“At Frostvein.”

A faint shift crossed his expression, almost too small to notice.

“That was the only place it could be done,” he said. “In front of witnesses. In front of your father.”

She studied him more carefully now.

“So it was strategy.”