Page 4 of Iron Beneath the Snow

At her feet, the runes stirred, a faint silver-grey light threading briefly through the carved lines before dimming again.

“By Law.”

A collective exhale moved through the Hall, not loud but unmistakable, as though every body present had released breath in the same moment.

Eira watched as the mingled blood darkened between their palms, thickening where it gathered, the distinction between them dissolving with quiet inevitability.

The thought came unbidden.

Two voices.

Years ago, a servant had whispered the words to her beside the hearth, eyes flicking toward the door, voice barely more than breath. There had once been another law, older than the White Law—a law erased from books and carved from memory.

A law that named two voices equal.

Young enough to mistake curiosity for safety, Eira had repeated it at supper.

Her father had not corrected her. He had simply stared.

And then he had taken her to the training yard.

Even now, her fingers twitched faintly at the memory, the echo of pain rising uninvited. The whip had not been raised in anger, nor with haste, but with the same calm precision that defined every lesson he chose to teach.

“There are no equal voices under the Moon,” he had told her afterward, his tone as steady as still water. “There is Law. There is obedience. There is strength.”

Eira forced the memory back into stillness, smoothing it over before it could take shape in her expression.

Elder Sael released her hand.

“Eira Frostvein stands under the White Law,” she declared, her voice carrying easily through the Hall. “Clean. Willing. Worthy.”

The word lingered.

Worthy for what, Eira wondered, though the question remained unspoken.

A murmur rose among the wolves, low and gathering.

“Tonight we witness her sanctification,” Sael continued. “Soon, we witness her union. Frostvein will be strengthened.”

Eira did not look down at them. Their attention pressed against her skin without the need for sight, a collective weight that settled without asking permission.

Her father stepped forward.

For a brief, unwarranted moment, she allowed herself to wonder whether he might say something different—something that belonged to her rather than to the role she fulfilled.

Instead, his hand settled on her shoulder, heavy and unyielding, the touch devoid of warmth.

“Remember what you are,” he said quietly. “Do not shame me.”

Her throat tightened, though her voice did not.

“Yes, Father.”

He withdrew at once, already turning away, his focus shifting toward the Council, toward whatever calculations waited beyond her.

Eira remained where she was, unmoving, as though carved from the same stone beneath her feet.

Below, the chant resumed, its rhythm low and unrelenting, threading through the Hall with renewed force.