Page 99 of Iron Beneath the Snow

Riven noticed the change without asking for an explanation. He adjusted his hold, giving her space without drawing attention to the movement, as though he understood the boundary without needing it defined.

Eira steadied her breath and returned her focus to the rhythm, to the movement of the circle, to the warmth of the hall around her. She did not look back toward Soren again. If he chose to watch, that was his choice, and she would not diminish herself to soften it.

The dance continued until the drum slowed and the circle gradually dissolved into scattered laughter and quiet conversation.

Riven released her hand without hesitation.

“Thank you,” he said.

She blinked, still catching her breath.

“For what?”

“For staying.”

A small, quieter smile touched her mouth.

“I didn’t feel like leaving.”

“No,” he said. “It didn’t seem like you did.”

He inclined his head and stepped away, folding back into the movement of the hall without lingering.

Eira remained near the fire, her hands lifted toward the embers, aware of the lingering warmth in her body and the echo of something less defined beneath it.

She could still feel Soren’s attention as a presence rather than a gaze, even without turning.

When she finally looked, he was no longer there.

He had not left abruptly or claimed space in doing so; he had simply removed himself, as though distance were the only form of control he allowed.

Eira exhaled slowly, and the thread eased with it, loosening just enough to stop pulling so sharply.

Around her, the hall continued—voices, movement, the steady persistence of life that did not pause for tension or uncertainty.

For a moment, she allowed herself to consider that she might find a way to exist here without hardening into something unrecognizable.

Her fingers brushed lightly against the mark at her throat, and it answered with a faint, steady pulse that held neither heat nor cold, only presence.

After a moment, she turned and made her way toward the east wing.

The corridor was quieter than the hall, the torches burning lower so that the shadows stretched longer along the stone.

She had almost reached the turn when she heard footsteps behind her—impossible to mistake.

Eira stopped, though she did not turn immediately.

“You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” Soren said.

His voice remained even, almost neutral, as if he were commenting on patrol routes rather than speaking to her directly.

She turned slowly to face him.

His expression was composed, but something in his gaze had shifted. It wasn’t softer, exactly—only more focused, more aware of her than it had been in the hall.

“I wasn’t alone,” she replied.

There was a brief pause before he answered.