Page 95 of Iron Beneath the Snow

“You will return it,” Mara said, already moving closer. “Or you will keep it until you can.”

Eira didn’t argue again.

Mara helped her change with efficient hands, adjusting the ties at the back, smoothing the fabric at the waist. There was no fussing. No attempt to make Eira delicate. The dress moved easily with her, warm without being restrictive.

Then Mara reached for Eira’s braid.

“Not tonight,” she said.

Eira tensed automatically.

Her hair down felt like vulnerability.

In Frostvein, loose hair had been reserved for sanctified rites, for brides, for moments where a woman became symbol more than person. It had always felt like an exposure.

Mara’s fingers paused at the base of the braid.

“You do not have to perform,” she said quietly. “You have to live.”

Eira swallowed.

Mara loosened the braid carefully. The tension released in small increments, strand by strand, until her hair fell heavy over her shoulders.

It was warmer like that, oddly. Not just physically. As if the simple act of letting it down reminded her she still had choices—small ones, but real.

Mara brushed it with steady strokes until it smoothed and softened.

“You look like a wolf tonight,” she said.

Eira almost laughed, but the sound didn’t come.

“What did I look like before?” she asked.

Mara’s mouth curved slightly.

“A daughter.”

Eira held her gaze in the reflection.

“And now?”

“A woman who will be remembered for her own name.”

The words sat under Eira’s ribs, heavier than they should have been.

Mara stepped back, satisfied.

“Come,” she said. “Before the fire burns too low.”

The main hall had been transformed, though nothing about it felt artificial or forced.

Ironfang did not dress its walls in banners or polish stone into something it was not. Instead, they had built the fire larger, and that alone changed everything.

The central hearth burned high enough for heat to ripple outward through the hall in visible waves. Tables had been pushed back to open space near the flames, and every surface was covered with food—thick cuts of boar, uneven stacks of dark bread, bowls filled with roasted roots and salted berries.

Voices filled the space, not chaotic, but constant in a way that spoke of life rather than noise. Children slipped between adults, laughing when scolded and laughing harder when they weren’t. Elder wolves remained closer to the fire, their lined faces lit by the shifting glow, their hands wrapped around steaming cups.

Somewhere along the far wall, a stringed instrument began to play—rough, unrefined, but steady—soon joined by a drum that carried a low, grounding rhythm beneath it.