Page 44 of Iron Beneath the Snow

The distinction held between them.

Nearby, a young warrior misjudged a strike and stumbled. Another reached out, steadying him without comment, and they reset without breaking the rhythm.

Eira watched the exchange.

“You don’t invoke the Moon before you fight,” she said.

“We don’t need to,” Soren replied. “By the time they step into the yard, they already know what the work requires.”

“And if the Moon turns her face away?”

He glanced at her then.

“Then whatever they’ve built still has to hold.”

There was no challenge in the answer, and no dismissal of belief—only a quiet reliance on preparation over ritual.

Ironfang was not chaos dressed as strength.

It was control that didn’t need to be named every time it was used.

She looked back at the yard.

“You intend for me to watch?” she asked.

Soren studied her for a moment, as if weighing not the question but the way she had chosen to ask it.

“Do you intend to stand there?” he said.

“No.”

“Then don’t.”

A brief pause followed.

“I’m not interested in keeping you behind doors,” he added. “That only works if you’re meant to be hidden.”

Her gaze flicked back to him.

“And I’m not?”

“No.”

The answer came without emphasis, which made it land more firmly.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said. “We’ll see where you fit.”

It wasn’t framed as an order.

And it wasn’t permission either.

It was simply the next step.

He turned back toward the center of the yard, already slipping into the rhythm he had left.

One of the warriors pivoted too quickly and collided with him shoulder to shoulder. The impact was minor, barely enough to disrupt balance, the kind of mistake that would normally pass unnoticed in the flow of training.

But the instant his balance broke, something inside her snapped tight.