Page 216 of Salt Between the Wolves

His eyes drifted toward the bloodstained bandage beneath his shirt, then to the mark and the wound that refused to heal.

The fire crackled softly in the darkness.

For the first time since Eira had disappeared, his thoughts were no longer fixed on where she had gone but on what had happened to both of them.

And somewhere beyond the mountains and the sea, a man named Leander apparently believed that he held the answer.

Chapter 26: Possibilities

Eira

Sleep offered little comfort.

When Eira finally opened her eyes the following morning, the weakness remained, though it was not strong enough to keep her in bed and served mainly as a reminder of everything that had happened the day before.

The memory returned immediately: the burning pain, the dizziness, the sensation of the floor rushing toward her, the frightened faces around her, and the healer’s voice. Later, through the haze of exhaustion, she had caught fragments of a conversation she had never been meant to hear about two marks that were both active and both dangerous.

She stared at the pale ceiling above her and remained motionless for a long moment.

Outside, distant gulls cried somewhere beyond the windows, and the sound had already become familiar. It was a strange realization. Only weeks ago she had never seen the sea, and now its voice greeted her each morning. The thought should have brought comfort, yet her mind drifted back to the same subjects it always seemed to find lately: Frostvein, Ironfang, the marks, Soren, her father, and the growing number of questions that no one seemed willing to answer.

Eira slowly sat up, and the room tilted briefly before settling again. She felt better than she had yesterday, though not well enough to ignore the lingering weakness entirely.

The healer had ordered her to rest, but the instruction irritated her immediately. Lying in bed would not explain what was happening to her, nor would answers appear simply because she remained still long enough.

A humorless smile touched her lips.

That strategy had never worked in Frostvein, and she doubted it would work here.

Her gaze drifted toward the writing desk, where the shell from the beach still rested beside several pages of notes she had written over the previous evenings. They contained observations, thoughts, and small details she did not want to forget.

The sight steadied her unexpectedly.

Words remained even when memories faded and stories changed. Written things endured unless someone deliberately destroyed them.

The thought arrived quietly and refused to leave.

How many stories had vanished because her father had wanted them gone? How many names had been erased? How many truths had disappeared with them?

Eira frowned.

The question felt larger than it should have, extending beyond Frostvein and somehow beyond her own life.

The conversation she had overheard surfaced again, bringing with it memories of the healer’s voice, references to old laws and ancient bonds, and hints of things that had been forgotten, lost, or perhaps deliberately hidden.

Slowly, Eira swung her legs over the side of the bed.

If answers existed, they would not be found by staring at the ceiling, and she was tired of waiting for someone else to decide what she deserved to know.

Her father had done that for years. Soren had done it in different ways. Even Leander, for all his kindness, seemed convinced that he could choose which truths to reveal and which to keep hidden until later.

The realization sharpened something inside her. It was not quite anger, but something steadier and more useful.

Determination.

She was done allowing others to decide how much of her own life she was permitted to understand.

If her future was being shaped by decisions she did not fully comprehend, then she would begin changing that, one answer at a time.