Page 266 of Salt Between the Wolves

Kael cursed quietly, and the mountains suddenly felt much smaller.

"How long?" Soren asked.

"Two days." The scout hesitated, then added, "Maybe less."

Silence settled over the camp, the kind that came before difficult decisions.

Soren looked south, toward the mountains hidden beyond the next ridge, toward White Pass, toward Vargan.

Two days, perhaps less.

White Pass deserved its name.

Snow covered the narrow valley from cliff to cliff, broken only by dark stone and sparse pines clinging stubbornly to the mountainside, while the pass narrowed farther ahead into a natural choke point—the sort commanders dreamed about and soldiers hated.

Soren reached it shortly after midday, and the scouts had been correct: Frostvein was already there, not close enough for battle but close enough to see.

Across the valley, banners moved in the wind above a line of mounted riders and infantry—white and silver, bearing the wolf of Frostvein.

The two forces stopped within sight of one another, and no arrows flew, no one advanced, as the mountains seemed to swallow every sound.

For several moments, neither side moved.

Then a single rider emerged from Frostvein's line.

The horse was white, the cloak was white, and the man sitting atop it remained unmistakable even at a distance—Vargan Frostvein.

Kael swore softly, Garrek muttered something under his breath, and around them warriors shifted uneasily, but Soren felt none of it and simply watched.

Vargan rode forward alone, and after a moment Soren did the same, while neither side attempted to stop them and both armies watched.

The distance closed gradually—from a hundred paces to fifty, then twenty—until both men halted.

For a long moment, neither spoke, and the years between them seemed visible somehow.

Vargan sat straight despite his age; his hair had grown whiter since Soren last saw him, but his eyes had not softened, not even slightly.

"Alpha."

The greeting carried neither warmth nor hostility, only recognition.

Soren inclined his head.

"Lord Frostvein."

The older man's gaze lingered briefly, assessing and measuring as it always had.

"You look tired."

Soren almost smiled.

"You look disappointed."

Something resembling amusement appeared in Vargan's eyes, though only briefly before it vanished.

The silence returned, cold, controlled, and dangerous.

Finally Vargan spoke.