Chapter 25 Come for Answers
Soren
The mountains appeared shortly before dusk, dark, familiar, and unchanged.
For once, the sight brought Soren no comfort.
The journey back to Ironfang had taken two days filled with rain, pain, and silence.
The wounded rode slowly, while the dead traveled even slower.
Eight covered bodies accompanied them along the mountain roads in a grim procession returning home.
No one spoke much because there was little left to say.
The fortress gates stood open when they finally emerged from the pines, and someone had already carried the news ahead, as Ironfang always seemed to know.
The guards atop the walls straightened immediately, not in welcome but in alarm.
Soren noticed and hated it.
The gates opened wider, and the column entered the courtyard.
Silence spread faster than any announcement.
Stable boys stopped moving, smiths looked up from their work, and servants froze where they stood.
Their eyes followed the wounded first, then the covered bodies, and finally him.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
They were counting who had returned and who had not, not consciously or cruelly, but counting all the same.
A young woman standing beside a water trough pressed a hand over her mouth, while an older wolf stepped forward instinctively before stopping himself.
Several warriors abandoned whatever task they had been doing and moved toward the returning riders, searching faces for familiar ones.
Soren knew what came next: names, families, mothers, brothers, and mates.
The fortress would spend the next several days drowning in grief, and he had brought that grief home.
His shoulder throbbed beneath the bandages, and the mark burned beneath his ribs, yet neither compared to the weight settling deeper inside him with every step through the courtyard.
A child no older than seven broke away from his mother's side and pointed toward Soren.
"He's hurt."
The words carried farther than intended, and the mother immediately pulled him back.
It was already too late.
The silence shifted, subtly but noticeably.
For the first time, Soren became aware of what everyone else was seeing: the bandages beneath his cloak, the stiffness in his movements, and the exhaustion he could no longer fully conceal.
Their alpha was wounded.
The thought felt wrong, not because he had never been injured before, but because Ironfang had rarely been allowed to see it.
A blacksmith lowered his hammer, a group of younger wolves exchanged uneasy glances, and an elderly woman standing near the main hall stared openly.
She did not look at him with judgment but with concern.
That disturbed him far more.
Concern belonged to the very young, the very old, and the wounded.
It did not belong to him.
Garrick rode beside him in silence.
The captain noticed everything, as usual, yet neither man commented.
There was little either of them could say because the damage had already been done.
Soren dismounted near the entrance to the main hall, and pain immediately shot through his shoulder.
His vision darkened for a moment, but the weakness lasted long enough for one of the younger warriors to take an instinctive step forward as though expecting him to fall.
Soren straightened before the man could move another inch.
The warrior stopped at once, visibly embarrassed.
The gesture should have irritated him, yet instead it left something colder behind.
The young wolf had not stepped forward out of disrespect; he had stepped forward because he was worried.
And for perhaps the first time in his life, Soren realized that the people of Ironfang were looking at him differently.
They no longer saw only a weapon, a shield, or the alpha who always knew what came next.
They saw a man.
A wounded man returning home with eight dead wolves.
That realization followed him all the way to the doors of the fortress, and somehow it weighed more than the arrow ever had.
Varda was waiting for him, which came as no surprise.
By the time Soren reached the infirmary, word of his return had already spread through half the fortress.
The healer stood beside one of the examination tables with her arms folded neatly across her chest, looking exactly as she always did: calm, composed, and entirely unimpressed.
Soren immediately regretted coming.
"You look terrible."
He stopped near the doorway and sighed.
"Good evening to you as well."
Varda ignored the remark.
"Sit."
"I can stand."
"You can bleed on the floor standing up, or you can sit."
Soren sat, mostly because arguing required more energy than he currently possessed.
The healer approached without ceremony, sympathy, or fear, which was one of the advantages of having known someone since childhood.
Varda carefully removed the outer bandages from his shoulder.
The room remained silent until she saw the wound.
Her expression tightened slightly, not enough for most people to notice but enough for Soren.
"The arrow missed anything important."
"I noticed."
"It was trying."
"I noticed that too."
Varda continued her work, cleaning, inspecting, and rewrapping the injury with her usual methodical precision.
The familiar routine should have been reassuring, but it wasn't.
The mark burned again, sending a slow, hot, persistent pulse beneath his ribs as though it were aware she was here and looking directly at it.
Varda's hands paused for only a second before she slowly reached for the collar of his shirt.
Soren immediately caught her wrist.
The movement sent pain through his shoulder, but he ignored it.
"So we're doing this again."
The healer looked down at his hand and then back up at him.
Neither spoke for a moment.
Eventually she said, "Yes."
Soren released her.
Varda pulled the fabric aside, and a long silence followed.
The mark stood out clearly against his skin, darker than before and somehow angrier in appearance.
Fresh blood had stained the fabric beneath it, not much but enough.
The healer closed her eyes briefly, looking not frustrated but resigned, which disturbed him far more than frustration would have.
"You are getting worse."
Soren leaned back.
"The shoulder will heal."
"I wasn't talking about your shoulder."
The answer came immediately, which was hardly surprising.
The healer carefully cleaned away the blood, her movements remaining steady, professional, and unhurried, as though they were discussing the weather rather than something far more serious.
That calmness somehow made every word heavier.
"I'm alive."
Varda nodded.
"For now."
Silence settled between them while the crackling fire in the corner suddenly sounded both very loud and very far away.
Soren looked toward the opposite wall, focusing anywhere except the mark and anywhere except her eyes.
The healer finished applying fresh linen and then sat back, studying him rather than the wound.
She looked at him the way a physician studies a patient who refuses to understand his own condition.
"The injury in your shoulder will heal," she said quietly and with complete certainty.
"The bruises will heal."
After a brief pause, she added, "The exhaustion might heal."
Soren already disliked where this was going.
Varda continued anyway.
"The other wound won't."
The room became very still.
For the first time since entering, Soren said nothing.
The healer rarely spoke dramatically, exaggerated, or guessed, which meant she believed every word she was saying, and that made those words difficult to dismiss.
"The other wound is changing."
She pointed toward it.
"Whatever is happening, it isn't slowing. "
"You are in more pain than you were a month ago. "
After another pause, she added, "And now your judgment is failing."
That finally drew his attention.
Soren's eyes narrowed.
"My judgment."
"Eight dead wolves."
The words landed softly, far softer than they should have.
There was no accusation, anger, or cruelty in them—only fact.
Somehow that hurt more.
Varda held his gaze.
"You are not sleeping."
"No."
"You are not healing."
"No."
"You are not listening."
The silence that followed stretched longer than either of them seemed willing to break.
Eventually the healer stood and gathered the bloodied cloths into a basin.
The conversation was apparently over, unfortunately.
Just before reaching the door, she stopped without turning around.
"If you continue like this..."
The pause lasted only a heartbeat.
"...the mark will not be the thing that kills you."
Soren frowned.
Varda finally looked back, and for the first time that evening genuine sadness crossed her face.
"It will simply make sure you help the process along."
Then she left, leaving Soren alone in the silence with the fire, the bandages, the blood, and the growing suspicion that everyone around him had begun seeing the truth long before he had.
The council convened the following morning, because no one had wanted to wait after the ambush, the losses, and the questions spreading through Ironfang faster than any official report.
The council chamber felt smaller than usual, though perhaps Soren was simply more aware of the people inside it.
Garrick stood near the western wall, Kael occupied his usual place beside the map table, and several senior wolves had already gathered before Soren entered.
The conversations stopped immediately, not out of respect but out of expectation, because everyone was waiting to see what he would say.
Soren hated that realization.
He took his seat without ceremony, and the movement pulled at his injured shoulder. The pain helped, or at least it felt honest.
For several moments, nobody spoke before Kael finally broke the silence.
"The southern road remains open."
It was neither good news nor bad news, but rather the kind of report people gave when they were desperately searching for something positive.
"The merchants are still moving."
After a brief pause, he added, "Fewer than before."
There it was—the real report.
Another wolf spoke next.
"The Black Ridge council has postponed all military discussions indefinitely."
That came as no surprise anymore.
"The northern villages are requesting additional patrols."