Page 208 of Salt Between the Wolves

That finally drew his attention.

Soren's eyes narrowed.

"My judgment."

"Eight dead wolves."

The words landed softly, far softer than they should have.

There was no accusation, anger, or cruelty in them—only fact.

Somehow that hurt more.

Varda held his gaze.

"You are not sleeping."

"No."

"You are not healing."

"No."

"You are not listening."

The silence that followed stretched longer than either of them seemed willing to break.

Eventually the healer stood and gathered the bloodied cloths into a basin.

The conversation was apparently over, unfortunately.

Just before reaching the door, she stopped without turning around.

"If you continue like this..."

The pause lasted only a heartbeat.

"...the mark will not be the thing that kills you."

Soren frowned.

Varda finally looked back, and for the first time that evening genuine sadness crossed her face.

"It will simply make sure you help the process along."

Then she left, leaving Soren alone in the silence with the fire, the bandages, the blood, and the growing suspicion that everyone around him had begun seeing the truth long before he had.

The council convened the following morning, because no one had wanted to wait after the ambush, the losses, and the questions spreading through Ironfang faster than any official report.

The council chamber felt smaller than usual, though perhaps Soren was simply more aware of the people inside it.

Garrick stood near the western wall, Kael occupied his usual place beside the map table, and several senior wolves had already gathered before Soren entered.

The conversations stopped immediately, not out of respect but out of expectation, because everyone was waiting to see what he would say.

Soren hated that realization.

He took his seat without ceremony, and the movement pulled at his injured shoulder. The pain helped, or at least it felt honest.