Chapter 10 The Leaving
Eira
By the time Eira left the storage halls, the sun had already begun its slow descent toward the western peaks. Pale light spilled across the stone passageways and open courtyards, painting long shadows across the fortress.
The satchel rested against her hip, heavier than it should have been. A few supplies had found their way inside during the afternoon—nothing that would attract attention on its own, but enough to slowly build the provisions she kept hidden in her rooms.
She told herself it was simply preparation. Nothing more.
Yet she had spent the better part of the week returning to the storerooms whenever she could, collecting small necessities one item at a time. The routine occupied her hands and gave structure to thoughts she preferred not to examine too closely.
The effort had helped, at least for a while.
Perhaps that was why she failed to notice the voices at first.
The conversation drifted from a storage alcove beneath one of the galleries. It was not hidden or secret, merely private enough that its owners assumed no one else was nearby.
Eira would have walked past without paying attention if she had not caught a familiar word.
"...her."
Her steps slowed slightly, though not enough to draw attention.
A man sighed.
"Heard they're sending her away."
The reply came immediately.
"About time."
Neither voice sounded cruel, and that somehow made the exchange worse. There was no anger in their tone, no satisfaction, only a weary resignation, as though they were discussing the weather, supplies, or some practical matter that needed resolving.
The first man lowered his voice.
"You think it's true?"
A brief pause followed before the other answered.
"Wouldn't surprise me."
Silence settled between them for a moment, broken only by the faint scrape of shifting footsteps somewhere beyond the stone wall.
Eira continued walking at the same steady pace.
Behind her, the conversation resumed.
"Maybe things will settle down after that."
The words reached her clearly despite the growing distance.
Neither man sounded certain. They sounded hopeful, as though hoping hard enough might somehow make it true.
Eira rounded the corner before either of them could notice her. The voices faded behind stone and distance, and she never looked back.
The fortress stretched before her exactly as it always had. Workers moved between buildings, smoke drifted from chimneys, and the scent of pine rode the wind descending from the mountains.
Nothing had changed.
And yet something inside her quietly settled into place.
She knew there were people who believed her. Some had never doubted her, while others had chosen to trust her despite everything that had happened.
That wasn't the point.
The point was that the story no longer belonged to the people who knew the truth.
It belonged to fear.
Fear had a way of creating its own momentum, its own voice, its own version of events.
It no longer needed accusations or evidence.
Nobody had to point fingers anymore. The rumor was already alive, moving through the fortress from one conversation to the next and changing shape each time it was repeated.
Eira tightened her grip on the satchel.
What surprised her most was that she wasn't angry.
She was tired.
Tired of being discussed, tired of being explained, and tired of existing as a question everyone else seemed determined to answer for her.
As she crossed the courtyard, another realization followed close behind.
The words she had overheard had not hurt nearly as much as they should have.
A month ago, she might have gone looking for Soren. She might have demanded answers, honesty, or some assurance that the rumors were false.
Now she found herself doing none of those things.
The realization should have frightened her, yet it brought a strange sense of calm instead.
Somewhere between Riven's funeral and this moment, she had stopped waiting for someone else to decide what happened next.
That thought remained with her as she continued through the fortress, disappearing into the lengthening shadows of the afternoon.
By the time Eira reached the great hall, dusk had settled over Ironfang.
Warm light spilled through the open doors, carrying with it the familiar sounds of evening life as laughter drifted into the corridor, someone called out a joke from one of the long tables and earned a chorus of groans and scattered laughter in return, while plates clattered and benches scraped against stone.
For a moment, Eira remained where she was.
The great hall had once intimidated her, but over time it had become familiar—not quite home, yet close enough that she had stopped noticing the difference. Now she stood in the doorway and felt like a visitor.
Inside, the hall was nearly full. Warriors sat beside craftsmen, hunters shared tables with stablehands and traders, and the enormous hearth that dominated the center of the room cast a warm glow across faces she had spent months learning to recognize.
Life continued as it always did, and the realization carried no bitterness, only a quiet sadness.
No one noticed her immediately, and the conversations continued uninterrupted.
A serving girl crossed between tables carrying a tray of steaming bowls, two older hunters argued over something that appeared deeply important to them and entirely irrelevant to everyone else, and near the far wall a group of younger wolves laughed so hard that one nearly spilled his drink.
For a few moments, Eira simply watched.
There had been a time when she would have searched for Riven among them, and the thought arrived unexpectedly.
She could almost picture him there, leaning too far back on a bench while telling some exaggerated story that no one fully believed, but the image vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the empty space behind.
Eventually someone noticed her.
A woman seated near the entrance lifted a hand in greeting, and Eira returned the gesture. Another wolf shifted along the bench beside her to make room, offering an invitation that was subtle, kind, and uncomplicated.
No one told her to leave, looked away, or whispered behind her back. Several people nodded politely when their eyes met hers, while others returned to their conversations after only a glance.
Everything about the scene was ordinary, and that was what made it hurt, because she suddenly understood that the distance she felt no longer belonged entirely to them. Part of it belonged to her as well.
Weeks ago, she would have crossed the room, sat down, and forced herself into the conversation even if it felt awkward. Riven would have helped, Mara would have rolled her eyes at something, someone would have complained about training, and life would have continued as usual.
Now she found herself standing perfectly still, watching from a distance and feeling separated from it all by something she could neither see nor touch.
The invisible wall had not been built in a single day. It had appeared stone by stone, through a silence here, a hesitation there, a conversation that ended too quickly, or a glance that lingered too long. Somewhere along the way, Eira had stopped trying to cross it.
The realization settled quietly inside her, bringing neither anger nor grief, but only certainty.
A movement near the entrance drew her attention.
The woman who had shifted along the bench earlier was still waiting, still holding the empty space beside her with patient kindness.
Eira managed a small smile before shaking her head.
The woman seemed only slightly surprised, but a moment later she nodded in understanding and returned to her meal.
Eira stood there a little longer, long enough to memorize the sight before her: the firelight, the noise, the warmth, and the simple comfort of people sharing food at the end of a long day.
Then she turned away.
No one stopped her or called her name as the sounds of the hall followed her into the corridor and gradually faded behind her while she walked deeper into the fortress.
When the doors finally disappeared from view, Eira realized she would never eat another evening meal there again.
The thought should have broken her heart, yet instead it felt strangely peaceful, like the final page of a chapter she had already finished reading.
The evening had deepened by the time Eira left the great hall behind.
The sounds of conversation and laughter faded gradually as she moved through the fortress, replaced by quieter noises—the distant creak of timber settling in the cold, the whisper of wind along stone walls, and the occasional call of a sentry somewhere above.
Night was gathering over Ironfang, and while most of the windows still glowed with warm firelight, others had already gone dark.
Eira followed familiar paths without consciously choosing a destination, which was perhaps why she found herself slowing when the training grounds appeared ahead.
The circle stood empty beneath the moonlight, which silvered the packed earth while the wooden practice posts cast long shadows across the yard. A few discarded training weapons rested near the racks where they had been left after the day's exercises.
For several moments, she remained where she was.
There had been a time when she hated this place, and the memory brought the faintest hint of a smile.
The first training sessions had been humiliating; every muscle had ached, every mistake had been visible, and every lesson had felt like proof of how little she knew.
She remembered Soren correcting her stance with infuriating patience, remembered arguing with him, and remembered being furious with him.
The memory should have hurt, yet instead it felt strangely distant, like sunlight preserved beneath ice.
Other memories surfaced alongside it: Riven laughing after knocking her into the dirt, insisting she had improved, and refusing to let her quit when frustration threatened to overwhelm her.
The ache that followed his name never truly left anymore and simply existed alongside everything else.