Page 3 of Iron Beneath the Snow

“This is the White Law,” Sael intoned, her voice steady and unwavering. “The Law that keeps the blood clean. The Law that binds the wild into order. The Law that makes Frostvein strong.”

Eira felt her heart strike once, then again, the rhythm slow but deliberate.

Sael’s fingers pressed to her throat, just above the collarbone, leaving a second mark that seemed to pulse faintly beneath the surface.

“Under the White Law, a wolf’s worth is proven.”

Eira swallowed against the dryness in her mouth.

A third mark followed, lower now, at her sternum, where the liquid felt heavier, as though it sought to sink deeper than skin.

“Under the White Law, a wolf’s line is protected.”

Elder Sael dipped her fingers once more, but instead of marking Eira’s skin again, she extended the bowl toward her.

“Drink.”

Eira accepted it with both hands.

The warmth of it startled her. It should not have been warm. For a brief moment, her gaze lifted before she could stop herself, but Elder Sael’s expression remained unchanged, and her father revealed nothing at all.

This was not the part she feared. It was what would follow.

She raised the bowl and drank.

The taste spread immediately—iron and smoke threaded with bitter herbs, undercut by something older that lingered at the back of her tongue like bone ground into dust. The liquid burned as it went down, settling heavily in her stomach, as though something within it resisted being absorbed and instead sank, dense and deliberate.

For a moment, the Hall seemed to tilt. The runes beneath her knees thrummed with a low vibration she could not hear but could not ignore, a pressure that moved inward rather than outward, as if the stone itself were responding to what had been set in motion.

The sensation faded slowly, leaving behind a sharpened stillness.

Elder Sael took the bowl from her hands and set it aside with measured care.

“Rise.”

Eira obeyed, pushing herself to her feet as the world drew back into focus. The details came first—the resin smoke curling through the air, the damp wool of cloaks, the weight of bodies standing too close together. Even the faint scent of snow carried on stone seemed more distinct, as though the ritual had stripped away a layer of distance she had not known existed.

Sael reached for the blade.

It was not steel.

The obsidian surface absorbed light rather than reflecting it, matte and absolute, its edge almost invisible except where it cut the air.

A ritual tooth.

Eira held still as Sael took her left hand, turning it palm upward before drawing a shallow line across the skin. Pain flared, bright and contained, followed almost immediately by the warmth of blood rising to the surface.

Then Sael cut her own palm.

The two cuts were narrow, precise, controlled.

“By blood.”

Their hands met.

The contact was warm and wet, grounding in a way that felt less like connection and more like a seal being made.

“By Moon.”