Page 62 of Iron Beneath the Snow

A boy stood near the edge of the stone, no more than seven winters old, watching with focused intensity. He did not turn away when the first cut was made.

“Does it frighten you?” she asked quietly.

He looked up at her, considering the question rather than answering at once.

“No,” he said at last. “It feeds us.”

There was no hesitation in it, no need to justify the answer.

Eira inclined her head slightly.

“Yes,” she said. “It does.”

The work continued in a steady, unbroken rhythm. Meat was divided with clean precision; what could be used was set aside with care. Nothing was treated carelessly, though nothing was elevated beyond its purpose.

A woman with ash-streaked hands passed close to Eira and pressed a basin into her grip without comment.

Eira accepted it without thinking.

She knelt and held it steady while another hunter rinsed a blade, the water running pink at first, then clearing as the blood thinned and disappeared. Steam curled upward, softening the edges of stone and skin alike.

No one paused to remark on her presence. No one looked twice.

She was not being placed. She had simply stepped into the work.

Across the courtyard, Soren stood with two of the elder warriors. Their conversation remained low and contained, the kind that shaped decisions without drawing attention to itself. He did not stand apart from them, nor did he impose himself over the exchange; he held his position within it.

A small movement drew Eira’s attention—a girl stepping forward and catching at Soren’s sleeve with quiet insistence. He did not notice her immediately, or chose not to break his focus at once, but the child persisted until he finally looked down.

He listened.

She held up a rough wooden carving, its lines uneven, the antlers slightly crooked but unmistakably shaped as a stag.

Soren took it with care that did not seem performative. He examined it as he might a map or a boundary line, giving it the same measured attention he afforded anything of consequence. He said something too low for Eira to hear, and the girl’s face lit instantly with pride.

Before she stepped away, he adjusted the carving with his thumb, smoothing the curve of one antler.

The moment passed quickly.

Nothing in his posture changed.

And yet it lingered.

Eira lowered her gaze back to the basin in her hands. The water had warmed, slipping over her fingers as the last traces of blood faded into something clear.

“You don’t look away,” Mara said quietly beside her.

Eira glanced up.

“Most do,” Mara continued, her gaze still on the work rather than on Eira. “Not always openly. Some lower their eyes. Some busy their hands. Some convince themselves they’re not watching at all.”

A brief pause.

“But they turn from it, one way or another.”

Eira followed her gaze back to the stone, where careful hands moved through the work with steady precision.

“I was taught to,” she said.