Chapter 3 Fault Lines #2
Eira lowered her head slightly, hiding the faintest trace of amusement near the edge of her mouth before answering something too softly for Soren to hear from across the hall.
Riven grinned.
The tension around their section of the table loosened gradually after that, conversation rebuilding itself in cautious layers as the others began speaking again around them.
Painfully normal. That was what unsettled Soren most.
Riven did not watch Eira carefully before speaking to her. He did not hesitate over certain subjects or adjust his behavior around the bond the way everyone else had slowly begun doing without realizing it.
More dangerously, Eira responded to him differently now. Soren noticed it immediately.
The stiffness in her posture eased little by little as the conversation continued.
Her attention stopped darting toward the room around her.
Once, when Riven muttered something under his breath after one of the hunters complained about stable duty, she laughed quietly enough that the sound barely carried beyond the table.
Still, Soren heard it.
And the reaction beneath his ribs came hard enough this time that he nearly tightened his grip around the cup in his hand.
Across from him, Kael glanced up briefly.
Soren looked away before the observation could settle too clearly between them.
The bond itself felt strangely muted tonight, quieter around her than it had been in days. He could still sense it beneath the surface—steady, present, impossible to fully ignore—yet whatever strain usually sharpened the connection seemed diminished while she sat beside Riven.
Around him, she seemed able to breathe more easily.
The realization settled badly.
Not because he resented Riven himself, but because the younger wolf offered something Soren increasingly suspected he could not: a space untouched by tension, expectation, or the constant awareness of the bond.
At one of the center tables, a younger wolf asked Eira something directly for the first time all evening.
Soren watched surprise flicker briefly across her face before she answered.
Nothing happened afterward. The room did not freeze. No awkward silence followed. Conversation simply continued, and with every passing moment Eira seemed a little less like an outsider and a little more like someone the fortress had quietly begun accepting.
The sight should have reassured him.
Instead, something instinctive tightened unpleasantly beneath his restraint. The feeling had little to do with reason and even less to do with strategy. It was simply the ugly awareness that the further Eira drifted from him, the more easily she appeared to find her place among everyone else.
He set the untouched cup back on the table harder than intended.
The sound carried sharply enough through the hall that several nearby conversations faltered.
Soren rose immediately.
Kael's gaze lingered on him for a moment too long.
Soren ignored it.
Across the hall, Eira glanced up at the movement.
Their eyes met only briefly before he turned and walked out into the cold.
The lower training grounds sat open beneath a pale winter sky, enclosed on three sides by dark stone walls that trapped the cold instead of blocking it.
Snow had been cleared from the center ring earlier that morning, leaving packed earth darkened by meltwater and boot marks beneath the thin wash of daylight.
The sound of wooden practice blades striking carried sharply through the yard.
Soren descended the stone steps without slowing.
Several wolves already occupied the ring below, rotating through drills in pairs while others watched from the outer benches wrapped in heavy cloaks against the wind pushing steadily through the open side of the grounds.
Conversation moved easily through the training yard at first — low remarks, scattered laughter, the familiar rhythm of routine settling back into place after patrols and midday duties.
Then Soren entered the ring.
The nearest wolves straightened instinctively as he crossed the yard, their movements tightening with the subtle awareness that always followed him into spaces like this. Normally, he ignored it without effort.
Today, the restraint required to ignore anything felt thinner than usual.
One of the younger fighters stepped aside at once, offering him a practice sword without being asked. Soren took it automatically, testing the weight once in his hand before stepping into the center of the ring.
Cold air burned cleanly in his lungs.
For a few moments, he intended nothing more than movement. Discipline. Routine. Something capable of forcing his thoughts back into order.
Then he looked up and saw Riven crossing the yard toward the weapon rack.
The decision formed almost before thought caught up to it.
“Riven.”
The name carried easily across the training grounds, drawing several nearby glances.
Riven slowed, visibly surprised before smoothing the reaction into something lighter. “You planning to make an example out of me today?”
A few quiet laughs answered from the sidelines.
Under normal circumstances, Soren might have allowed the mood to remain there. Instead, he lifted the second practice blade from the rack and tossed it toward him.
“Fight.”
The sword spun once through the daylight before Riven caught it cleanly by instinct.
That drew more attention.
Not because the challenge itself was unusual, but because Soren almost never initiated sparring personally anymore, especially not without reason.
Riven hesitated briefly before stepping into the ring opposite him. “You could’ve just said you were still irritated about the ridge.”
“I’m not irritated.”
Kael, leaning against one of the outer posts, folded his arms without speaking.
Riven noticed that too.
The training circle gradually quieted around them as the others drifted farther back to make space.
Soren rolled the sword once in his grip.
“Ready.”
Riven exhaled slowly before settling into stance. “Right,” he muttered. “That usually means yes.”