Ragnar sat alone in his private study, a chamber tucked into the western wing of the manor. The room was built of old stone and timber, its high-arched windows flung wide to let in the golden light of late afternoon. From his seat at the carved oaken desk, he had an unobstructed view of the wind-swept grasslands beyond, stretching like a sea toward the horizon.
He had spent the better part of the day poring over the manor's ledgers and reading through missives delivered during his absence. Every correspondence addressed to him had been redirected here, as he placed little trust in the palace to handle them without interference. Too many whispered alliances. Too many knives sheathed in silk.
Of all the letters, one in particular stirred his temper, the seal of House Tomar waxed blood-red upon the parchment. Lord Tomar, ever the voice that echoed too near the throne, and ever too eager to meddle in what did not concern him. A man nestled in the king's ear like a parasite.
Ragnar read the contents with a furrowed brow, his mood darkening with each word. The letter detailed his brother Hairan's latest scheme, another underhanded attempt to turn the king against him, to sever his ties to court, and cast him into irrelevance.
Courtly intrigues. Ragnar loathed them. He found no joy in whispered plots or silver-tongued vipers circling the throne. He hated the theatrics and duplicity of it all. He was far more at home on bloodstained fields among loyal soldiers than in marble halls filled with painted smiles and false oaths. But his station unfortunately afforded him very few liberties so he didn't have the privilege of completely doing away with court affairs.
With a sigh, he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, smoothing it across the desk. Dipping his quill into a glass inkwell, he began drafting a reply to Lord Tomar, measured and sharp.
The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the chamber, when a knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," Ragnar said, not lifting his gaze from the parchment.
The door creaked open, followed by the soft fall of footsteps. Too light to be Casilo's. Ragnar's eye caught a glimpse of a flared green skirt from the edge of his vision.
Nieah.
His assumption was confirmed when she spoke.
"So she's the princess that has all of Lamora whispering," Nieah said, a hint of mirth curling through her voice.
"She's a handful, I can tell you that," Ragnar replied dryly, still focused on his writing.
"The people thought they would witness an execution, but received a royal wedding instead," Nieah continued. "You should have heard the rumors. They feared she'd taint Marzan's line with her soft-blooded humanity."
Ragnar bit back a smirk. The rumors had reached even him, each more absurd than the last.
"The nobility have done worse," he said. "Marrying a human is hardly the scandal they make it out to be." He was, after all, born of one of the king's many indiscretions.
While such unions were not unheard of among common folk, they were rare among the noble bloodlines, obsessed as they were with keeping their lineage unblemished and pure.
He set the quill aside and left the letter to dry.
When Nieah did not speak again, Ragnar knew she was weighing her next words and he doubted he'd enjoy them. Nieah was not merely the steward of the manor. She was his confidante, his friend. One of the very few he trusted. That trust was not given lightly, and once earned, it was not easily discarded.
That trust gave her liberties, like tugging at the reins of his temper now and again, simply to see if he'd buck.
"You neglected to mention how beautiful she is in any of your letters."
Ragnar narrowed his eyes without lifting his head.
"Her beauty serves no purpose," he replied curtly. "I wed her only to placate the queen."
Nieah clicked her tongue. Ragnar looked up to find her arching an eyebrow.
"A dutiful subject you may be, but a convincing liar you are not, Highness. Still, your secrets are your own."
"They are," he answered simply.
Nieah gave a knowing nod, sensing the line she should not cross.
"Dinner will be served soon. Shall I have your meal brought here, or will you dine with the others?"
"I'll join the others," he replied. A pause, then: "See to it that my wife and Rowen come down as well."
He could only imagine the mayhem Circe was unleashing upon the manor. Part of him regretted granting her the freedom to roam, even if it was under strict watch. She was feral, like a wolf backed into a corner.
In the ten days he had known her, she had slain a decorated Lamoran general, nearly flung herself from a tower balcony, threatened his life multiple times, and fought him at every turn.
And yet, she was alive. His wife.
Ragnar counted the days until he could finally unbind himself from her. It was too long. He could already see threads of his plan merging together. A plan years in the making was slowly coming to fruition.
The people of Westeria would never bend the knee to him if they saw Princess Circe recoiling from his touch and casting him wary glances. That wouldn't do. He needed her trust, if not her heart, then at least her loyalty, for her voice held sway over the hearts of the realm. He would earn it, wield it to fortify his claim, and cast her aside when her usefulness waned. Such was the design, etched in iron and rune, and Ragnar would see it fulfilled to the final stroke.