Chapter 6 Beyond the Ridge #2
Above them, the sky had cleared completely.
Stars emerged one by one until the darkness seemed crowded with them, stretching across the mountains in endless silver patterns.
The snow reflected enough light that the world never became entirely black, and the pines stood like dark silhouettes against the pale landscape while sparks drifted upward from the fire and vanished among the stars.
For a while, conversation wandered wherever it pleased.
Stories from old patrols gave way to arguments about hunting routes, which somehow turned into discussions about the merits of different horses, and eventually the entire circle found itself debating whether Riven had actually gotten lost during a training exercise three winters earlier.
“I wasn't lost.”
“You were gone for six hours.”
“I was exploring.”
“You came back from the opposite direction.”
“That proves how much exploring I did.”
Even Eira laughed at that, while Riven looked unbearably pleased with himself.
The warmth of the drink settled deeper into her hands as she listened.
What struck her most was how ordinary everything felt.
No one treated her differently tonight, and she only realized it gradually as the evening unfolded.
There were no careful pauses when she spoke, no awkward silences when she approached, and no one lowering their voice whenever she came near.
She was simply there, woven into the circle and the conversation as naturally as everyone else.
The feeling should not have mattered as much as it did, yet she found herself holding onto it all the same.
As the evening wore on, the talking quieted little by little, not because anyone wished to leave but because people had grown comfortable enough to let silence exist between them.
Someone fed another piece of wood into the fire, while another wolf leaned back against a fallen log and tilted his head toward the sky.
For several moments the camp rested in a peaceful stillness broken only by crackling wood and the distant rush of water moving beneath the ice.
Then a low voice began to sing.
Eira didn't recognize the wolf immediately. He sat near one of the smaller fires beyond the brightest circle of light, his features half-hidden by shadow.
The song itself was simple and unadorned, carrying none of the dramatic flourish of a performance and making no attempt to draw attention. It was merely a quiet melody offered to the night.
The language was an old Ironfang dialect, roughened by generations of use, yet the meaning remained easy enough to follow.
It spoke of mountains and winter roads, of wolves leaving home and finding their way back again.
It was not a song about glory or victory, but about returning after long journeys and discovering that home still waited.
One voice became two, then three, and before long enough wolves had joined that the melody deepened and spread gently through the camp.
No one seemed surprised by it.
The harmony rose with the sparks drifting upward from the fire and wove itself into the darkness above them.
Eira listened without speaking.
The mountains felt different here at night than they had during the day. Their vastness no longer seemed imposing; instead, they felt almost protective, as though the darkness gathered around the camp rather than against it.
When the song finally faded, silence returned without feeling empty.
Riven stared into the fire for a while before speaking.
“You know what I'm going to do after this winter?”
The question seemed directed toward no one in particular, though several wolves looked over anyway.
“What?”
“Sleep.”
“That's ambitious, is it?”
“Very.”
The circle chuckled.
Riven took another drink before continuing.
“No, seriously. I want to spend a season near the western coast.”
That earned several surprised looks.
“The coast?”
“There's water as far as you can see.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because none of you believe me.”
One of the older hunters snorted.
“We've seen water before.”
“Not like that.”
Riven leaned back, his eyes reflecting the firelight.
“There's no opposite shore. No mountains behind it. Nothing at all.”
He gestured vaguely into the darkness.
“It just keeps going.”
Eira found herself watching him. The excitement in his voice was impossible to miss.
“You've been there?”
“Once.”
His smile returned immediately.
“My uncle took me when I was fourteen.”
“That explains a lot,” someone muttered.
Riven ignored him.
“I thought the world had ended.”
“Earlier today you thought it ended at the mountains.”
“Exactly.”
The laughter returned.
“But I mean it,” he continued. “Everyone should see it at least once.”
His gaze lifted briefly toward the stars.
“Sometimes you need to stand somewhere big enough to remind yourself how small your problems are.”
The words settled quietly around the fire.
No one mocked him this time, perhaps because they understood exactly what he meant.
The night deepened around them, conversations fading one by one while the fires slowly burned lower. Yet Eira remained where she was a little longer, her hands wrapped around the warm cup while the last traces of the song seemed to linger somewhere beyond hearing.
Surrounded by firelight, laughter, and the steady presence of people who expected nothing from her except her company, she felt something she had not experienced in a very long time.
It was not a perfect or permanent sense of belonging, nor was it strong enough to erase everything that had come before, but it was real enough for her to recognize it when it arrived.
And beneath the mountains, on that quiet winter evening, it felt like more than enough.
The camp stirred before dawn.
No one needed to wake the others. Years of patrols had shaped the habit too deeply for that.
One by one, wolves emerged from blankets and bedrolls, feeding the fire, checking horses, and moving through familiar routines with the quiet efficiency of people who had done the same thing hundreds of times before.
The sky remained dark when Eira stepped from beneath the shelter of the trees.
The last embers still glowed beneath a layer of ash.
Cold bit immediately at her face.
Nearby, someone handed her a cup of whatever remained from the previous night's drink. It had lost most of its heat, but she accepted it anyway.
Across the camp, Riven was already awake.
Of course he was.
He stood beside one of the horses, trying unsuccessfully to look like a seasoned commander rather than a young man enjoying every moment of his first independent patrol.
One of the older hunters watched him for a moment before shaking his head.
"You've been standing there for ten minutes."
"I'm supervising."
"You're staring at a saddle."
"Someone has to."
The hunter snorted.
"Remarkable leadership."
Several nearby wolves laughed.
Riven accepted the mockery with surprising dignity.
"One day you'll all appreciate my contributions."
"Unlikely."
"Deeply unlikely."
The laughter followed them through breakfast.
By the time the first pale light appeared beyond the eastern peaks, the camp had already been dismantled.
The patrol resumed its journey shortly afterward.
For several hours, the road offered few complications. The weather held, the horses moved well, and conversation rose and faded naturally as the trail wound deeper into the western mountains.
It was nearly midday when one of the scouts returned from ahead. He reined his horse alongside Riven and lowered his voice, though not enough to prevent the nearest riders from overhearing.
"There's another route."
Riven glanced up.
"What kind of route?"
"A shorter one."
The scout pointed toward a line of darker hills visible beyond the trees.
"It cuts south through the ridge pass and rejoins the main trail near the river."
One of the older hunters frowned immediately.
"The narrow pass?"
The scout nodded.
"It's clear."
"The last time I saw it, half the path had collapsed."
"That was years ago."
The hunter remained unconvinced.
Riven considered the suggestion in silence.
"How much time?"
"Three hours. Maybe four."
That estimate immediately drew more attention. The weather had been kind so far, but everyone knew how quickly conditions could change in the mountains.
The scout shrugged.
"If the forecast is right, we'll hit snowfall tomorrow evening."
Several riders exchanged glances.
The hunter who had spoken earlier scratched at his beard.
"Soren wouldn't take it."
The observation carried neither challenge nor criticism, only certainty.
Riven looked toward the distant ridge before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Soren isn't here."
A few quiet chuckles followed.
The older hunter sighed.
"That's not the reassurance you think it is."
The laughter spread a little farther this time.
Riven's grin widened.
"It's three hours."
"It's also a route we weren't assigned."
"We weren't assigned a weather report either."
The hunter muttered something under his breath.
Riven turned back toward the scout.
"Any signs of movement?"
"None."
"Tracks?"
The scout shook his head.
"Nothing."
For another moment, Riven studied the distant ridge before making his decision.
"We'll take it."
No one argued. Whether they agreed with him or not mattered less than the simple fact that he was in command.
The patrol adjusted course, and within the hour they had left the main trail behind.
The new route wound through older forest where the pines grew closer together and sunlight struggled to reach the ground. Snow lingered more deeply beneath the trees, untouched except for the occasional animal track crossing the path.
For a time, the shortcut appeared to justify itself. The terrain remained stable, no signs of recent passage appeared, and the forest around them remained undisturbed.
Perhaps too undisturbed.
The thought crossed Eira's mind almost before she realized it.
Then she dismissed it.
The mountains were often quiet, especially this far from settled routes.