Page 60 of Iron Beneath the Snow

Eira ran.

Not to prove anything, and not to outrun the others, but because the line moved and she moved within it.

The younger huntress curved left with smooth precision, cutting off the stag’s path without breaking stride. The older woman widened her angle more gradually, her movement patient and exact. Soren adjusted without hesitation, shifting direction as though the terrain itself had informed the decision.

The stag stumbled once on thawed ground.

It recovered immediately.

But the moment had been enough.

Eira saw the ridge before the others reacted—not because she moved faster, but because her attention had been on the land rather than the animal. The narrow spine of stone ahead gleamed faintly where melt and frost had reshaped its surface.

If the stag reached it, the chase would break apart.

Someone could fall.

She adjusted her course.

Not ahead of the formation, and not in defiance of it, but alongside it. She angled closer to the younger huntress, matching her stride until they moved in parallel. A glance passed between them—brief, clear, sufficient.

They shifted together.

The arc narrowed.

The stag reached the ridge and launched forward.

Its hooves slipped just enough to break momentum.

That was all Soren needed.

He closed the distance within that fraction of imbalance, the movement precise and without excess. The strike followed cleanly, not dramatic, not drawn out—simply the end of a decision already made.

The stag faltered, staggered, and fell. Breath slowed. Movement stilled. Even the distant rustle of branches seemed to recede into stillness once more.

Eira approached more slowly now.

Up close, the animal was larger than it had appeared in motion, its body still holding warmth beneath the cooling air. Its eyes remained open, reflecting the pale sky and the figures gathered around it.

Alive moments ago. Now still.

She lowered herself beside it—not out of habit, and not for display, but because standing felt misaligned with the weight of the moment.

The older huntress joined her, placing a steady hand against the stag’s flank.

“For the hall,” she said quietly.

Not to the Moon. To those who depended on it.

Soren cleaned his blade with practiced efficiency, the motion precise and unadorned. When he looked at her, there was no curiosity in it, no attempt to interpret what she felt.

Only evaluation.

“You adjusted well,” he said.

“She saw the ridge,” the younger huntress added.

His gaze returned to Eira, sharper now.