Chapter 14 The Cost of Shelter #3
Maelin waited while Eira stared into the fire, and for a moment she could almost hear his laugh again.
"He used to talk about the sea," she said quietly. "He had never stopped missing it."
Maelin remained silent, listening.
"He complained constantly."
"That sounds healthy."
"It was."
A small smile touched Eira's lips.
"He annoyed everyone."
"I liked him already."
"So did everyone else."
The smile faded gradually, and neither woman mentioned how his story ended because they didn't need to. The grief remained there regardless, lingering beneath every memory.
For a while the fire crackled softly between them before Maelin spoke again, choosing her words more carefully this time.
"Did you love him?"
The question arrived so unexpectedly that Eira looked up.
Only then did she understand that Maelin wasn't asking about Riven.
She was asking about Soren.
The room suddenly felt very still as snow drifted past the windows and the fire continued its quiet work in the hearth.
Eira stared into the flames for a long moment before lowering her eyes. The answer existed, and she knew it did, yet speaking it aloud felt strangely impossible because the truth frightened her more now than it had when she lived beneath the same roof as him.
Maelin watched her with patient understanding, willing to wait as long as necessary.
Eira never answered, and somehow the silence answered anyway.
By evening, snow had begun to fall again, though it bore little resemblance to the harsh mountain storms Eira had crossed on her journey west. Instead, a slow and steady snowfall drifted past the windows in soft white curtains, wrapping the estate in a quiet stillness.
The room had grown warmer as darkness settled outside.
A fire burned steadily in the hearth, filling the room with amber light and the occasional crackle of burning logs. Shadows danced lazily across the walls while the rest of the house seemed to retreat into the comfortable rhythms of evening.
For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, Eira found herself doing absolutely nothing, with no plans to consider, no preparations to make, and no decisions waiting to be made. The realization felt strange enough that she kept expecting something to interrupt it.
Across from her, Lyra sat sprawled across a rug with all the elegance of a collapsed tent. A book rested open in her lap, or rather, it rested there whenever she remembered it existed.
"Focus."
Maelin's voice carried the weary patience of someone who had repeated the same instruction many times before.
"I am focusing."
"You just spent three minutes watching snow."
"I was thinking."
"About the book?"
"No."
Maelin closed her eyes, and Eira hid a smile behind her tea.
The lesson continued, though not particularly successfully.
Every few minutes Lyra managed to discover something more interesting than reading, whether it was the snow beyond the window, the fire in the hearth, the shape of a knot in the floorboards, or a loose thread on her sleeve.
At one point she became convinced that one of the logs looked remarkably like a sheep and spent several minutes defending the observation.
Finn had inherited his mother's patience, while Lyra had inherited none of it.
Eventually Maelin surrendered and shifted from reading to storytelling, which proved significantly more successful, at least until Lyra began interrupting every third sentence.
The room settled into an easy warmth that seemed to belong entirely to itself. As darkness thickened beyond the windows and the fire glowed brighter inside, Eira simply listened to Lyra's questions, Maelin's answers, and the ordinary sounds of a house preparing for night.
Despite herself, she found her thoughts drifting, though not toward Ironfang, the road, or even the future.
Instead, they lingered here, in this quiet room and this fleeting moment of peace.
The realization felt almost dangerous because she could already understand why people stayed in places like this, why they built lives around hearths and children and familiar voices, and why leaving them hurt.
A sudden bark echoed faintly from somewhere beyond the house. The sound barely registered at first, but then another followed, and another after that.
This time Maelin looked up, not alarmed but attentive. The change was subtle, yet Eira noticed it immediately.
A moment later came the distant sound of voices, followed by the unmistakable rhythm of hooves crossing frozen ground. The dogs began barking in earnest, and Lyra was already on her feet.
"Father!"
The book slipped from Lyra's hands and landed on the floor. Maelin sighed.
"Lyra—"
The warning came too late. The girl had already vanished, and the sound of running footsteps echoed through the corridor beyond.
For a moment nobody moved before Maelin slowly set aside her sewing.
The expression on her face had changed, not dramatically and not enough for anyone else to notice, but Eira saw it.
The quiet ease that had filled the room throughout the day had disappeared, replaced by something else that seemed to be a mixture of anticipation and concern.
Outside, more voices drifted across the yard as a gate opened and someone called a greeting. A moment later came laughter, deep and familiar, the kind shared by people returning home.
Maelin rose carefully from her chair.
"He's back."
The words were simple, yet somehow they seemed to alter the shape of the entire evening.
Eira set down her cup, and neither woman spoke.
Below them, Lyra's excited voice rang through the courtyard, and for the first time since arriving at the estate, Eira found herself wondering about the man whose absence had made all of this possible.
For a few moments neither of them moved.
The sounds from the courtyard grew louder as voices drifted through the falling snow, accompanied by the familiar bustle that followed the return of someone expected.
Then Lyra's voice rang out again, louder this time and followed almost immediately by laughter—real laughter, the kind that escaped before anyone remembered to be dignified.
Eira found herself drawn toward the window.
Below, lantern light spilled across the snow-covered yard.
Several riders had entered through the gates and were already dismounting near the stables. Stable hands moved forward to take reins while dogs darted excitedly between boots and horses, barking at everyone equally.
Near the center of the commotion stood a man shrugging snow from his cloak.
He was taller than most of those around him, broad-shouldered from years spent outdoors rather than years spent commanding others.
Nothing about him suggested the carefully cultivated authority Eira had grown accustomed to among alphas and nobles.
Instead, he looked tired, cold, and mildly overwhelmed by the reception waiting for him, especially when Lyra launched herself at him with enough force to nearly send both of them into the snow.
"Gods."
The word reached the window clearly as the man staggered, caught her, and laughed.
"Lyra."
"You were gone forever."
"I was gone three days."
"Forever."
"I see."
Eira heard Maelin exhale softly beside her.
It was not irritation but relief, the kind that arrived only after seeing someone return safely. This was what waiting for someone looked like when love wasn't tangled up with fear.
Below them, Lyra was already talking, and the words came so quickly that even from the window Eira could see her father struggling to keep pace.
At one point he glanced helplessly toward Finn, who had emerged from somewhere nearby, but Finn merely shook his head in the manner of a man abandoning all hope.
The exchange made Eira smile.
Then Lyra grabbed her father's hand and announced something with enormous enthusiasm.
The man blinked and asked a question.
Lyra answered immediately.
His expression changed, not dramatically but enough for the smile to fade and confusion to take its place.
Another question followed, and this time Lyra pointed toward the house, toward them, toward this very window.
Eira's stomach tightened.
Beside her, Maelin went completely still.
Down below, the man slowly lifted his head.
For the first time, his gaze found the window.
Even from this distance, Eira could tell exactly what had happened.
The secret had survived one night, perhaps a day, but no longer.
"What did she say?" Eira asked quietly.
Maelin closed her eyes.
The expression on her face suggested she already knew the answer, and neither woman needed to hear it spoken aloud because they both knew Lyra well enough.
A moment later, the man handed his reins to a waiting stable hand and started toward the house, neither hurried nor angry but moving with the determined stride of someone who intended to have a conversation.
Eira watched him cross the courtyard before looking at her sister.
"Well."
A tired laugh escaped Maelin.
"Well."
Outside, snow continued to fall, while inside the brief peace of the past day quietly came to an end.
The knock came sooner than either of them expected, sounding neither loud nor demanding as it echoed briefly against the door before it opened.
For a moment nobody spoke.
The man from the courtyard paused on the threshold, his gaze moving first to Maelin and then to Eira.
Up close, he looked much as he had from the window. Snow still lingered in the dark hair at his temples, while the journey had left traces of exhaustion beneath his eyes. His cloak was gone now, though he still wore the practical clothes of someone who spent more time outdoors than behind a desk.
He remained silent for several seconds before finally looking at Maelin.
"You let Lyra reach me first."
The accusation sounded entirely familiar.
Maelin folded her arms.
"I had approximately three seconds."
"Three seconds is enough."
"Not with Lyra."
A corner of his mouth lifted, and some of the tension in the room eased, though not entirely.
Finally his attention shifted toward Eira.