Chapter 36 Hear My Choice
Eira
Eira woke to warmth, and for a moment that was all she knew. The cold of White Pass was gone, replaced by heavy furs, the muted glow of firelight, and the scent of herbs steeping somewhere nearby.
She remained still, caught between sleep and waking, uncertain whether this was another brief return to consciousness or something more substantial.
Over the past several days there had been other moments.
She remembered a cup pressed to her lips, the steady movement of a horse beneath her, voices speaking around her, and Varda repeatedly insisting that she drink before darkness pulled her under again.
The memories drifted through her mind like fragments of a dream, disconnected and impossible to place with certainty.
This felt different.
The exhaustion remained, but the fog that had wrapped itself around her thoughts seemed finally to be loosening. When she opened her eyes, she found dark stone overhead and immediately recognized her surroundings.
Ironfang.
Her chamber.
A quiet sense of relief settled over her.
A figure moved beside the hearth and turned at the faint shift of breath. Varda's grey hair had partly escaped its braid, and the shadows beneath her eyes suggested she had slept very little since White Pass.
"You're awake."
Eira tried to answer, but her throat felt raw. Before she could make a second attempt, Varda had already crossed the room with a cup in her hands.
"Slowly."
The healer helped her sit upright and held the cup while she drank. The water tasted faintly of mint and something more bitter beneath it.
As warmth spread through her throat, memory began returning in clearer pieces. She remembered White Pass, the confrontation with her father, Soren's voice, and the pain that had torn through the mark before everything dissolved into confusion and darkness.
Her hand moved instinctively beneath the blankets until her fingers found the place where the mark rested beneath the linen at her collarbone. The skin remained tender, but the unbearable heat was gone.
Varda noticed immediately.
"It has settled."
Eira left her hand where it was.
"For now?"
"For now," Varda said.
The honesty of the answer told her more than reassurance would have.
She turned toward the window, where night pressed against the glass and the mountains beyond had disappeared into darkness.
"How long?"
"You've been in and out of consciousness for five days."
Eira looked back at her.
"Five?"
"You woke several times during the journey, but rarely for more than a few minutes."
A vague memory surfaced of someone holding her upright in the saddle while snow stung her face.
"I remember pieces."
"I'm not surprised. The bond exhausted you more severely than I expected."
Eira absorbed that in silence before asking the question that mattered.
"What happened?"
Varda's expression tightened slightly.
"How much do you remember?"
"White Pass."
The healer nodded.
"Then you remember enough."
Eira waited.
"Lord Soren challenged your father under the Law of Yielding, and the challenge was accepted."
The room seemed quieter after that.
"And?"
"Vargan Frostvein yielded."
For several seconds Eira simply stared at her. It was not disbelief that held her silent so much as the fact that she had never imagined hearing those words.
"He is alive?"
"Yes."
Only then did she release the breath she had been holding.
Varda watched her carefully.
"The sentence was exile."
Eira closed her eyes.
The emotions that followed refused to separate themselves into anything simple. Relief existed alongside grief, anger beside pity. Her father was alive, yet he was gone. He had done this to himself, and he had done it believing love gave him the right to decide her future.
When she finally opened her eyes again, she asked,
"Where is Soren?"
Something unreadable crossed Varda's expression.
"Outside."
The answer felt inevitable. He was not beside the bed claiming a place she had not given him, nor was he far enough away to ignore what happened next.
He had chosen the familiar middle ground between concern and restraint, remaining close enough to be summoned and distant enough to leave the choice entirely to her.
Eira watched the fire for a long moment.
"Send him in."
Varda inclined her head and rose from her chair.
A moment later the door closed behind her, leaving Eira alone with the firelight and the conversation waiting on the other side of the door.
For several moments nothing happened while Eira watched the fire, until she heard the latch move and the door opened to reveal Soren entering.
He looked tired, not exhausted in the way of sleepless nights or long journeys, but worn somewhere deeper, with healing cuts across his face faded into thin lines while new bruises still darkened the skin along his jaw and throat, remnants of a fight neither of them needed described.
He closed the door behind him and remained where he was, and neither of them spoke.
For the first time since she had known him, he seemed uncertain whether he was welcome, and the realization startled her more than his injuries.
His gaze moved over her once, assessing and confirming she was awake, conscious, and sitting upright, and only then did some of the tension leave his shoulders.
"You look terrible," Eira said, and one corner of his mouth moved slightly.
"You've been unconscious for five days."
"Then I assume I win."
The faint trace of amusement vanished almost immediately as silence settled again, until Soren broke it.
"Frostvein remains stable," he said, speaking straight to the point as always.
"The captains have maintained order," he continued while Eira listened.
"No one has claimed leadership," he added, his gaze remaining steady.
"They're waiting."
"For me."
"Yes."
The words hung between them, and outside the chamber walls, beyond the mountain and the snow-covered valleys, an entire pack waited for a woman who had spent most of her life trying not to lead anyone.
Eira looked away first and asked, "And what happens now?"
"Whatever you decide."
She let out a tired laugh and said, "That sounds suspiciously simple."
"It isn't."
"No, it isn't," he agreed, his eyes holding hers.
For a moment neither spoke, and then Eira asked the question she had been avoiding.
"My father."
Something hardened in Soren's expression, though not with anger, as he replied, "He lives."
She nodded as he continued, "He crossed the eastern border three days ago," making exile real, not just a sentence spoken on a mountain but a man walking alone into the world.
Eira looked down at her hands and said, "I should hate him," but Soren said nothing.
"I should be relieved," she added, and still he remained silent.
She exhaled slowly and admitted, "And instead I don't know what I feel."
"You don't need to," he said, and when her eyes lifted, she saw that he stood exactly where he had entered, as though unwilling to move closer without permission.
"You don't need to decide today," he added, and the words settled somewhere unexpectedly deep, because no one had said that to her in a very long time, not about anything.
Eira studied him for a moment and then asked quietly, "Do you regret it?"
The room became still, and though it was not about the challenge, the exile, or White Pass, both of them knew what she meant: the bond, the ritual, and the choice he had made for her, believing he had the right to make it.
Soren's jaw tightened, and for the first time since entering the room he looked away, and in that single movement she had her answer.
"You used me," she said calmly, without accusation or raised voice, which somehow made the words sharper.
Silence followed as Eira waited, remembering how she had heard Soren justify impossible decisions before, explaining strategy, duty, risk, and necessity, dismantling arguments with a handful of sentences and leaving nothing standing.
But this time he said nothing, not because he lacked words, but because every word would become an excuse, and there was no excuse.
The silence stretched until, unexpectedly, Soren moved, not toward the door or the fire, but toward her.
Eira frowned slightly as he crossed the room and stopped beside the bed, and for a heartbeat she thought he intended to speak, but instead he lowered himself to one knee and then both.
The motion was so unexpected that she simply stared at Soren Ironfang, Alpha of Ironfang and victor of White Pass, the man who had stood before armies and delivered judgment, now kneeling beside her bed with his head bowed, not in submission or obedience, but in acknowledgment of what he had done, what it had cost, and what could not be taken back.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he rested his forehead against her knees, offering no words, no defense, and no request for forgiveness, only the quiet weight of a man who understood he had crossed a line and possessed neither argument nor authority capable of undoing it.
Eira's breath caught, because she had never seen him like this, not once, not in the council chamber, not with his people, and not even at White Pass, and the realization that the mountain had finally bent somehow hurt more than any explanation could have.
For a long moment neither moved, and then his voice came, rougher than she had ever heard it.
"I knew there was risk," he said, and after a pause added, "I believed I understood it," before another silence followed and he finally admitted, "I didn't."
Nothing more followed, and nothing needed to, because for once Soren was not speaking as an Alpha, or a leader, or a man defending a decision, but simply admitting that he had been wrong.
Silence settled between them once more as Eira lowered her gaze.
Soren's forehead still rested against her knees, close enough that she could see the dark strands of hair that had escaped their binding, close enough that all she needed to do was lift her hand.
Her fingers moved instinctively before stopping halfway.
She did not know whether she meant to comfort him or simply reassure herself that this was real.