Page 28 of Iron Beneath the Snow

They stopped only when the horses needed it.

By the second night, Eira no longer knew exactly where Frostvein ended and Ironfang began.

Perhaps that was the point.

The third morning came under a low iron-grey sky.

They continued west through the forest, the route bending gradually downward before climbing again along darker ridges. Signs of habitation began to appear as the day passed—not villages, but cut timber, old fire pits, narrow tracks packed hard by repeated travel.

Ironfang territory.

No banners announced it.

No carved boundary stone declared purity or blood.

The land simply began to look used.

By late afternoon, the metallic scent she had noticed earlier grew stronger.

Then, as dusk thickened the sky, Ironfang finally appeared.

It did not rise from the mountain in pale towers the way Frostvein did. Instead it seemed to grow out of the rock itself—dark stone reinforced with heavy beams, iron hammered directly into the cliff rather than polished into ornament.

There were no symmetrical rows of skulls and no carved proclamations of purity.

The place had been built for use, not spectacle.

Strength without sanctification.

They dismounted at the base of broad steps cut directly into the cliff face.

For a moment Eira remained where she was, looking up at the structure rising above her.

This place was not her home.

It was not even the enemy she had imagined while growing up among Frostvein stories.

It was something else entirely.

He turned toward her.

“You’ll be given quarters in the east wing,” he said.

Separate quarters.

The distinction registered quietly, but he seemed to notice it anyway.

“I assumed I would be displayed immediately,” she said after a moment. “You rode all the way into Frostvein Hall to claim me. I imagined the spectacle would continue.”

“If spectacle had been my goal,” he replied, his voice even, “I would have arranged it there. Frostvein would have appreciated the performance.”

There was no mockery in the words. Only a kind of cool practicality that made it difficult to argue.

Inside, Ironfang Hall was warmer than Frostvein’s, but the heat came from a roaring central fire that made no attempt at refinement. The air smelled of smoke and iron instead of incense and oil.

Wolves watched her openly as they passed.

There was no reverence in their gaze and no overt disgust either. Most simply studied her the way wolves assessed a new arrival—measuring, curious, occasionally wary.