Page 192 of Salt Between the Wolves

The fire had long since burned low, and moonlight spilled through the narrow window of his chambers. The room remained unchanged, with the same walls, the same desk, and the same chair standing exactly where they always had. Everything was as it should have been, yet everything felt wrong.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a hand against his ribs. The mark burned beneath the fabric, not constantly, which would have been easier to endure, but in unpredictable and cruel waves that felt as though something beneath his skin refused to let him forget.

Sleep claimed him again, though only briefly before a sound pulled him back. His eyes opened instantly, and for a single heartbeat he was certain someone stood near the doorway. He thought he saw pale hair and a motionless figure waiting there, and hope arrived before reason had a chance to intervene.

Then the room sharpened into focus.

The doorway stood open, but it was empty.

Soren stared into the darkness while the silence settled heavily around him, becoming almost unbearable before he finally forced himself to look away.

The second time he woke, he thought he heard footsteps. The third time, he was certain he heard a voice. By the fourth awakening, he no longer knew whether there had been any sound at all.

By dawn, he was no longer certain which moments had been dreams and which had been real. When the first light appeared beyond the mountains, he abandoned any hope of sleep entirely.

The fortress was already waking around him as guards changed posts, kitchen fires were lit, and messengers moved through the halls while life continued as though nothing had changed.

Soren fastened his sword belt and left his chambers. Reports were waiting for him, speaking of a border growing unstable and allies becoming increasingly uncertain. Somewhere beyond the mountains, Vargan was also moving pieces across the board, building something whose shape remained hidden.

Soren could feel it.

Whatever the old wolf was planning, sitting inside Ironfang would not stop it, and neither would enduring another sleepless night.

By the time the sun cleared the eastern peaks, horses were already being saddled. If Black Ridge wished to postpone discussions, Soren intended to hear the reason himself.

By midday, the mountains behind them had begun to disappear.

The road wound through narrow valleys and dense pine forests as it descended gradually toward the southern territories.

Soren rode at the front, while no one seemed particularly eager to ride beside him, which was a recent development he had noticed even though no one ever mentioned it aloud.

The silence suited him because it demanded nothing from anyone.

The weather had turned colder overnight, and dark clouds gathered beyond the peaks while the wind carried the scent of approaching rain.

Ahead, the road curved around a rocky hillside as Garrick guided his horse closer with the caution of a man approaching an injured bear.

"We should reach Black Ridge before nightfall."

Soren responded with a grunt.

Under normal circumstances, Garrick would have continued speaking and Soren would have listened, but neither seemed interested in continuing the exchange, and the conversation died almost immediately.

Several riders exchanged glances behind them, and although Soren noticed, he pretended not to.

The mark burned again, sending a sharp pulse of heat beneath his ribs before the sensation vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

His hand tightened around the reins.

Not now.

The road continued downward, and eventually the trees began to thin as fields appeared between the hills alongside scattered farmhouses, stone walls, and shepherds watching the riders pass.

Everything looked ordinary, yet something felt wrong.

Soren first noticed it at the western checkpoint.

The banner of Black Ridge still flew above the gate, but the guards no longer stood at attention when they approached.