Page 67 of Iron Beneath the Snow

Soren allowed the distinction to stand.

“You also bring a warning,” he said.

The messenger did not hesitate.

“He will not allow Ironfang to move further into contested trade routes.”

Something faint touched Soren’s expression—something that might have been amusement, though it did not fully form.

“You will not allow.”

“Those were his words.”

An invitation, made visible without being pressed.

Soren did not take it.

Instead, he stepped back, the movement slight but deliberate enough to register as refusal.

“Tell Vargan that Ironfang has no intention of advancing.”

For a brief moment, the messenger’s composure shifted—not enough to break, but enough to register.

“We have already achieved what we required.”

The words did not rise. They did not need to.

They carried through the courtyard as something established rather than declared.

Across the yard, Eira remained where she stood, fully visible now. She did not withdraw. She did not interrupt.

She listened.

“And if we choose to read more into that?” the messenger asked.

Soren’s gaze sharpened by a degree.

“Then you choose incorrectly.”

Silence followed, brief and complete.

At last, the messenger inclined his head.

“I will deliver the message.”

He turned, mounted, and was escorted through the gates.

Only once the hooves faded beyond the walls did the courtyard breathe again.

Soren lifted his eyes to the balcony.

Eira had not moved.

He could not read her expression from that distance—and he suspected that was by design.

He dismissed the gathered wolves with a brief motion of his hand. Order returned in practiced strands. Conversation resumed, low and contained.

But the narrative had shifted.