Chapter 93: The Founding Night

Chapter 93: The Founding Night
The wind shifted two days before Founding Night.

Not sharply. Not with the sting of storm or the warning scent of blood. Just a change in the air—subtle, clean, touched with pine and memory. It rolled in through the high gaps in the walls and drifted between the den houses, carrying the sound of laughter and the smell of woodsmoke. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel hunted by the cold. It walked beside me instead, companionable, familiar.

Talon felt it too.

He had been more alert since morning. Less fussy, more focused. His eyes tracked movement with uncanny precision. When the Beta wolves passed through the training yard, he turned his head to follow the rhythm of their boots. When someone laughed nearby, he let out a high echoing sound of his own, wide-mouthed and delighted. I’d bundled him into his sling earlier than usual, and now he rested against me with one hand curled in my braid, the other slapping softly against the buttons of my coat.

He didn’t nap. Not even once. He didn’t cry either. Just watched.

The way wolves moved that day was different. More measured. They were preparing for something, even if none of them said it aloud. I caught glimpses of garlands being woven with feathers and twine, platters passed to the outer kitchens, stones swept clear along the fire pit path. They didn’t announce it. They didn’t need to.

Iron Hollow remembered.

I knew what was coming, even before Dessa arrived at my door just past noon, holding a dark green sash between her hands like it was holy.

“Founding Night’s tomorrow,” she said.

I stared at the cloth. “You don’t say.”

She gave me a look. “And he’s been chosen to carry the bough blessing.”

Talon chose that moment to squeal and slap my shoulder, clearly proud of himself.

I raised a brow. “He doesn’t even walk yet.”

“He doesn’t have to. The youngest born under Iron Hollow’s shield always carries the blessing. Doesn’t matter if they crawl, cry, or throw it in the fire.”

“Sounds sacred.”

Dessa snorted. “It is. And it’s his. I’ll come back tomorrow to dress him.”

I took the cloth, half-expecting it to dissolve in my hands. It didn’t. It was soft and sturdy, well-woven, trimmed in dyed feathers the color of stormclouds.

“He won’t remember this,” I said quietly.

“No. But we will.”

She left without further argument. I folded the sash once, then again, and tucked it into the drawer beneath Talon’s cot.

The rest of the day passed slowly.

I walked the perimeter near the outer garden, then fed Talon small bits of roasted root while he gnawed more on his spoon than the food. His gums were red again. Teething. When I tried to soothe him, he butted his head against my chest and let out a high, indignant whine. I kissed his temple, and he quieted.

The sun dipped low. The smell of snow began to rise.

I lit the fire. Wrapped Talon in a fur-lined wrap and laid him against my chest. I rocked gently in the old chair near the hearth, my hands pressed flat against his back. He had finally dozed off, mouth slack, breath warm against my throat.

So when the knock came, I wasn’t prepared.

It was soft. Not hurried. Not forceful. But not someone passing through either.

I rose carefully, one hand supporting Talon’s head, and stepped to the door.

Roran stood on the other side.

He didn’t speak right away. His coat was unfastened at the top, revealing a dark tunic underneath, dusted lightly with frost. His eyes dropped to Talon and stayed there for a moment. The silence stretched.

“I didn’t mean to wake him,” he said.

“You didn’t.”

He nodded once. Then his gaze came back to mine. Clear. Steady.

“I wanted to speak with you.”

I didn’t move. “All right.”

“May I come in?”

I stepped aside.

He didn’t bring snow with him, somehow. Just the faint scent of cedar and the clean sharpness of the cold. I gestured toward the hearth, and he sat on the bench across from the fire. I took the chair again, settling Talon back against me. His mouth moved slightly in sleep, but he didn’t stir.

Roran watched the flames for a moment before speaking again.

“Tomorrow is Founding Night.”

“I know.”

“You’ve probably noticed the preparations.”

I tilted my head. “I’m observant.”

He glanced at me then, the edge of a smile almost forming, but not quite. Instead, he said, “The celebration is open. Anyone may attend. It’s not required, but it’s… expected.”

“I wasn’t planning to go.”

He nodded once, slowly. “I thought you might say that.”

Talon shifted. Roran leaned forward slightly, not to touch, just to see. He seemed to check the weight of the boy in my arms, the way he slept, the looseness of his fists. When his eyes came back to mine, they were unreadable.

“You don’t have to go for them,” he said.

“Then for who?”

“For him.”

My throat tightened.

“He’s carried so much already,” Roran said, voice low. “Too much. But he’s still a child. This will be his first winter celebration. It won’t matter to him now, but it might later.”

“I don’t know if I can stand beside a fire and pretend to be part of something again.”

“You wouldn’t be pretending.”

I looked away.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he rose.

He crossed the room in three slow steps and stopped in front of me. I looked up.

He reached out carefully, his fingers brushing Talon’s back through the sling.

“He settles faster with you,” I said.

“He feels safe,” Roran replied.

Talon stirred again, a small sigh. Roran stilled. He let his hand rest a moment longer, then withdrew.

“I’ll be there,” he said. “At the fire.”

“I know.”

“And if you come,” he added, voice quieter now, “you won’t stand alone.”

The words sank into me like warmth through skin. I couldn’t answer. Not yet.

He gave a slight incline of his head, then turned toward the door. Before he opened it, he paused.

“Dessa said he’s wearing the sash?”

I nodded.

A flicker of something crossed his expression. “Good. He belongs here.”

Then he left.

The door closed with barely a sound behind him. The fire crackled softly. Talon’s breath warmed the space between my collarbones.

And I sat there for a long time, wondering what it meant to be invited—not ordered, not tolerated, but wanted.

Not for what I could offer.

Just for being.

That night, I dreamed of a fire that did not burn me.