Page 50 of Iron Beneath the Snow

That drew the faintest hint of a smile from Eira.

She lifted the tunic and pulled it over her head. The fabric sat differently against her frame—less rigid, more responsive to movement, as though it expected to be used rather than displayed.

Mara stepped forward without asking and adjusted the laces at Eira’s back. Her touch was efficient, unintrusive, guided by habit rather than ceremony.

“You’ll be training again today,” she said.

Eira met her reflection in the polished metal disk near the hearth.

“So I’ve been told.”

“It spreads quickly,” Mara replied.

Eira glanced at her.

“What does?”

“That you didn’t break.”

Eira considered that for a moment.

“I did,” she said quietly. “More than once.”

Mara’s hands stilled briefly before tightening the final lace.

“You stood again,” she corrected. “That’s what carries.”

A pause held between them, not uncomfortable.

“And you spoke at the table,” Mara added.

So that had traveled too.

Eira turned slightly, enough to catch Mara’s expression more clearly.

“Do Ironfang women usually remain silent in a room like that?”

Mara resumed her work, separating Eira’s hair with steady, practiced movements.

“They speak when it matters,” she said. “And when it doesn’t, they listen long enough to understand what’s actually being said.”

“And what have they understood about me?” Eira asked.

Mara worked the braid steadily down Eira’s back before answering.

“That you’re sharper than they expected.”

Eira absorbed that without reacting outwardly.

“And do they resent me?”

“Some,” Mara said. “Not because of you, exactly—but because you remind them Frostvein still breathes.”

There was no hostility in the statement. Only clarity.

Eira nodded once.

Mara smoothed the final strands into place.