Page 45 of Iron Beneath the Snow

The mark did not flare at her throat.

The sensation struck deeper, behind her ribs, sharp enough to steal her breath before she could prepare for it.

Eira drew in air too quickly, her body reacting before her thoughts could follow. Her fingers rose instinctively, pressing lightly against her sternum as if she could steady whatever had shifted inside her.

Across the yard, Soren stilled.

It lasted no more than half a heartbeat—subtle enough that most would have missed it—but she saw it clearly in the interruption of his movement, in the fraction of stillness that did not belong there.

Then he continued.

He adjusted his stance, resumed the exchange, and moved as if nothing had occurred, his control closing over the moment with practiced precision.

Eira lowered her hand slowly.

The timing was too exact to be coincidence.

Whatever had tightened beneath her ribs had reached him too—or found some answering point in him.

He gave no sign of acknowledging it.

She watched him continue sparring, each movement measured, each strike landing exactly where intended.

But beneath her skin, the thread had tightened.

Not sharply now, but with a slow, insistent pull that refused to release.

If this was what he meant by her body adjusting, then it reached further than he had admitted.

And if he believed it would simply settle with time—

he was misjudging something.

Not her. Not Frostvein.

Something older, and far less obedient than either.

Her gaze remained on him as he moved, controlled and unshaken, fully contained within the discipline he relied on.

Control alone might not be enough to hold this.

Chapter 12: Impact

Eira

Training in Ironfang did not begin with ceremony or acknowledgment. No one marked her arrival, no one paused to recognize what she was or what she represented. At dawn, a wooden practice blade simply waited for her at the edge of the yard, as though it had always been there.

Soren did not hand it to her. He only gestured, a small, precise motion that drew her forward.

“Show me.”

Nothing more. No conditions, no expectations spelled out. Just a demand to see what she was without Frostvein shaping the frame.

Eira stepped into the open space. The stone beneath her boots still held the cold of night, but the air had already warmed with movement—breath clouding, bodies shifting, wood and steel striking in steady rhythm.

A loose circle formed around them. Not tight and hostile, but simply attentive.

She lifted the practice blade and took her position.