Page 49 of Iron Beneath the Snow

Eira remained where she stood, the echo of the encounter still present in her body—not from the blows, but from the contact itself.

The heat beneath her skin began to fade.

The thread between them did not.

It had drawn tighter.

Chapter 13: Threads

Eira

There was a knock at the door—neither hesitant nor forceful. It came twice, evenly spaced, as if whoever stood outside had no doubt she was already awake.

Eira was.

She was sitting upright when the door opened, still wearing the Frostvein garments she had arrived in. Once pristine, they had dulled under travel, mountain dust, and a morning in the yard. The seams had stiffened, the hem worn slightly from stone and grit. It no longer belonged to ceremony, yet it had not fully become practical either.

She had not asked for anything to replace it. Had not complained.

But she was aware of what it signaled.

Not quite Frostvein anymore. Not yet Ironfang.

The woman who entered carried a folded set of garments over her arm—dark, unadorned, cut for movement rather than display.

“I am Mara,” she said, stepping inside with quiet assurance. “The east wing keeps to routine.”

Eira inclined her head slightly, watching her rather than the clothes.

“I wasn’t told anyone would come.”

“No,” Mara agreed easily, placing the garments on the chair with deliberate care. “But Ironfang doesn’t leave its women looking out of place.”

Its women.

Not guests. Not spoils.

Eira studied her more closely.

Mara wore no markings of status, no ritual paint or ornament. Her hands showed signs of work, but nothing in her posture suggested subservience. There was steadiness there—unspoken, but unmistakable.

“Do you serve the Hall?” Eira asked.

“I manage the east wing,” Mara replied.

“And that includes me?”

A faint curve touched Mara’s mouth, more acknowledgment than amusement.

“It includes anyone who sleeps behind those doors.”

Eira stepped closer to the garments and ran her fingers lightly over the fabric. It was heavier than what she was used to, built for durability rather than symbol. Deep charcoal and muted brown replaced Frostvein’s white.

“No one here wears white,” she said.

Mara’s answer came without hesitation.

“White doesn’t survive contact.”