Page 82 of Iron Beneath the Snow

She stepped in—not toward the attacker, but across his line, shifting herself into the path that led deeper into the structure, forcing a decision.

He adjusted instantly. He had not expected her.

His gaze caught at her throat—at the mark—and something in his expression sharpened for a fraction of a second, recognition overtaken almost immediately by calculation.

He moved again.

She dropped beside the wounded guard, pulling the sword from his hand before he could lose hold of it entirely, and rose into the next strike already armed.

Steel met steel with a force that ran straight through her arm, and she held it anyway, letting the impact guide her footing instead of breaking it, shifting her weight just enough to keep him from locking into position.

Behind her, Ironfang was already responding—boots striking stone, voices beginning to form structure out of the breach.

A second figure broke from the deeper shadow of the archway.

He did not follow the first. Instead, his attention shifted, passing over Soren—just entering the courtyard—and fixing, with unsettling clarity, on her.

She understood the change a moment too late.

His arm moved, and the blade left his hand in a clean, efficient arc, without hesitation or wasted motion.

Soren was already closing the distance, fast enough that under any other circumstance it would have been enough.

Here, his intervention came a fraction too late to stop the blade, but enough to alter its path.

Instead of her throat, steel tore across her upper arm.

The pain came sharp and immediate, but it barely had time to register before something else took hold.

The mark ignited—not as a gradual pulse of heat, but as something abrupt and absolute, tightening at her throat so violently that for a moment she could not breathe. The sensation broke outward from there, rushing through her chest and spine, collapsing her awareness inward until the courtyard itself seemed to fold into pressure rather than space.

She might have gone down if he hadn’t caught her.

Soren’s hand closed around her forearm just as her balance failed, holding her upright—and the moment he touched her, whatever burned within her surged outward.

The connection snapped into place with a force that felt less like heat and more like impact, something that travelled through contact and did not stop at skin.

She felt the answer in him through the same current—the sudden tension, the disruption that was not hers. The break in his breath only confirmed it before he forced himself back under control.

Around them, Ironfang was already reasserting order. The attackers withdrew as quickly as they had appeared, dissolving into shadow before pursuit could become reckless. Commands cut through the courtyard, torches flared back to life, and movement reorganised into something deliberate again.

But none of that reached the space between them.

The fire did not follow structure. It climbed, relentless and searching, refusing to settle into anything she could contain.

Soren moved her back toward the wall, away from the open line of the courtyard. His grip didn’t loosen; it steadied, anchoring her when her body threatened to give way again.

“Look at me.”

His voice cut through the pressure.

It took effort to obey. Her vision resisted focus, but she forced it, dragging the world back into something she could see.

His pupils were blown wide.

There was no confusion in his expression—only recognition.

“This is proximity,” he said, and though his tone remained even, there was strain beneath it, subtle but unmistakable.