Chapter 7 Blood in the Square #3
Eira had passed the place before, but she had never stood among the wolves gathered there until now.
The sky was turning gold when she arrived.
No one spoke as the crowd slowly assembled around the pyre. Families stood together, hunters gathered beside one another, and older wolves remained near the front while children stayed close to their parents, unusually quiet beneath the weight of the occasion.
At the center stood Riven, or what remained of him.
His body rested atop stacked timber wrapped in dark cloth, his hunting knife placed beside him along with a handful of personal belongings chosen by his family.
There was nothing extravagant about the arrangement and nothing symbolic enough to erase death, only the small things that had belonged to him in life.
The wind carried the scent of pine and distant snow across the ridge while, somewhere below, waves crashed faintly against the western coast.
For a long time, no one moved.
Then the singing began, starting with a single low, steady voice from an older man standing near the front of the gathering. Others joined gradually until one voice became three, three became ten, and the melody spread through the crowd until it seemed to rise from the mountain itself.
Eira didn't know the words, but she understood enough of them to follow their meaning.
The song spoke of roads traveled and roads ending, of winter yielding to spring, and of wolves returning to the earth that had carried them through life.
No one cried openly, yet the grief remained visible all the same—in lowered heads, in clasped hands, and in the way Riven's younger brother stood rigid beside his mother as though afraid that any movement might break whatever composure remained.
The song continued long after the sun touched the horizon, and only when the final notes faded did Soren step forward.
He stood before the pyre without speaking, allowing a silence that felt deliberate and respectful, a final space left for the living and the dead alike.
Then he took the torch offered to him.
The fire caught quickly as dry timber cracked and smoke rose toward the darkening sky.
No one looked away.
Eira found herself unable to breathe for a moment as flames climbed higher around the structure. Yesterday, Riven had been laughing beside a campfire; today, fire was carrying him away.
The thought settled somewhere deep inside her and refused to leave.
Around her, wolves remained motionless. Some watched the flames while others watched the sky, and no one hurried the moment or attempted to shorten it.
They stayed until the fire had burned low and darkness fully claimed the mountain.
Only then did the second part of the ritual begin.
The ashes were gathered carefully after midnight—not all of them, only what remained. The process was slow and reverent, performed by family and elders while the rest of the pack waited nearby.
A small portion was placed into a carved wooden vessel, while the remainder would stay with the mountain.
Eira followed the others toward the cliffs north of the fortress, a place she had never visited before.
The path ended at a wall of stone marked by centuries of weather and wind. At first it appeared unremarkable, until the crowd parted enough for her to see the narrow opening hidden within the rock.
The chamber beyond was deeper than she expected, dark, silent, and ancient.
An elder stepped forward carrying the vessel, and when he spoke, his voice echoed softly within the hollow stone.
"Those who leave us do not leave Ironfang."
The words were simple, and no one interrupted.
"They return to the mountain that carried them."
The vessel was opened, and a handful of ash was released first. The wind caught it immediately, carrying the pale particles through the moonlight above the valley before they disappeared into the darkness beyond the cliffs, returning to the land, to the forests, to the snow, and to the roads he had traveled.
The remainder was carried into the chamber.
Inside, carved recesses lined the stone walls, hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, holding generations of wolves resting together, family beside family and friends beside friends.
The elder poured the remaining ash into an empty hollow among them.
No grand declaration followed, and no dramatic conclusion came afterward.
There was only silence.
Riven joined those who had come before him and, in doing so, remained part of Ironfang forever.
One by one, the wolves began leaving, with families departing first, then hunters, and finally the elders.
Gradually, the mountain reclaimed its quiet.
Eira remained where she was as the wind moved through the cliffs above her, carrying the scent of smoke and distant pine.
Far below, darkness covered the valleys.
Behind her, the last footsteps faded, while ahead of her stood the mountain itself.
For as long as she could remember, part of her had belonged somewhere.
To Frostvein.
To Ironfang.
Now there was only absence.
And when she finally found herself alone beneath the stars, she realized that the loneliness hurt almost as much as the grief.