Free Web NovelChapter 114: Chapter 114
The string quartet played a gentle, lilting melody as the guests trickled into the grand ballroom, men and women dressed in their finest, the shimmer of jewels and satin catching the golden light that cascaded from the chandeliers above.
Hands interlocked, they stepped gracefully into the throng of other couples, their laughter and perfume mingling with the soft hum of music and candle wax.
The sound of light chatter floated through the air. Conversations overlapped, hushed words, polite laughter, and the occasional burst of a genuine chuckle, all blending seamlessly with the rhythm of bows sliding across strings.
Some couples spun elegantly on the marble dance floor, skirts flaring like blooming flowers, while others lingered by the long tables laden with crystal decanters and silver trays of fruit and wine.
At the far end of the hall, Ragnar stood in quiet conversation with Lord Falein Tomar and one of the other attending lords. His posture was erect, his tone measured, but his eyes moved constantly, scanning the crowd with the reflexive wariness that came from years of palace life.
"I heard the king intends to shut down most of the southern region," Lord Tieran said, a cup of wine in his hand. With how loose his lips had been all night it was clear that this wasn’t his first drink of the night.
He was worse than gossiping old ladies whenever he imbibed. His goblet was nearly empty, and the faint wobble in his stance betrayed just how long he’d been drinking. "And that Lord Armen openly challenged His Majesty during the meeting."
Tieran, of course, had not been invited to that meeting. Only the highest-ranking officials had attended, and Tieran had not made the cut. He did not say it aloud, but his tone carried the weight of his displeasure.
The bitterness clung to his every word, and it was clear he was drinking more to nurse a wounded pride than to enjoy the evening.
For all his bluster, Tieran was a minor lord in Lamora, one who was teetering dangerously close to financial ruin if the circulating rumors were true.
His fortunes had been dwindling for years, and the only thing keeping him afloat were the fragile alliances he maintained with more powerful men. Even those, however, would not sustain him for long.
"Where do you even get such absurd information?" Lord Tomar interjected sharply, his voice low but firm. He cast a quick glance around to ensure no unwanted ears had caught the exchange. "Armen never challenged the king, and you would do well not to spread such tales unless you wish to find yourself in trouble for spreading misinformation. His Majesty isn’t shutting down the south. He’s simply enforcing a curfew to maintain order while we try to tackle the current crisis."
Tieran scoffed, lifting his cup again before replying, "It might as well be the same thing at this point. What of the businesses that rely on nightly trade? The brothels will all suffer. Those establishments thrive after sundown. A curfew will strangle them."
"Of course that’s where your concern lies," Falein muttered dryly, struggling to keep the sneer from his lips. His eyes glinted with thinly veiled disgust at the man standing in front of him. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com
Tieran only shrugged, unbothered. "I’m simply being pragmatic. Money has to come from somewhere. You can’t expect people to visit a brothel in broad daylight, it defies the very nature of the trade. The entire district will bleed coin by the week’s end."
Ragnar listened in silence, unmoved by their squabble.
There were only a few times in his life when he had been in full agreement with his father, and this was one of them.
He had attended the meeting himself and understood Lord Armen’s perspective. The man had made fair arguments about the economic toll. Yet, Ragnar knew the king’s decision to impose a curfew was ultimately the right one.
Armen was right that businesses would suffer, but what good were thriving establishments if there were no people left to run them? Citizens were vanishing from the streets and at the rate it was happening, something drastic had to be done.
Since every attack had occurred under cover of night, limiting movement after sundown was the only sensible course of action.
Even so, uncertainty hung heavy over them. They still knew next to nothing about the nature of the threat, what it was, how it operated, or even if it was one creature or many that was terrorizing the people. All they had were scattered reports and the growing unease that one of them might be the next victim.
Then, as if summoned by the tension in Ragnar’s thoughts, the atmosphere in the ballroom shifted.
The chatter began to fade. The once-lively hum of conversation dulled to a nervous murmur. Even the music, though still playing, seemed quieter, hesitant, as if the musicians themselves felt the weight of the moment.
Hairan stepped through the wide double doors and it was as if half the room had collectively held their breaths. He was the reason for the sudden change, but it wasn’t because of his status as a prince. The people present hadn’t made quite that much of a fuss when Ragnar arrived.
The true reason for the shift was because no one had seen Ragnar and Hairan in the same place at the same time like this since the fight at the arena.
For years, whispers had spread through the court that the king’s two eldest sons were at odds with each other. A feud that had festered long before their public altercation.
If any had doubted it, those doubts were crushed the day Hairan lunged at Ragnar in front of the entire arena with a blade flashing in his hand and hatred burning in his eyes.
Now, as the two princes stood once again under the same roof, they all waited with bated breath, drunk on anticipation as they watched the two princes finally notice each other.
The melody from the quartet lingered faintly, a trembling thread of sound in a room thick with unease.
And for a moment, even the air itself felt like it was waiting, waiting to see which of them would act first.
Ragnar went stock-still at the sight of his younger brother making his way into the ballroom with slow, confident steps. The crowd instinctively parted for Hairan, their curious eyes flitting between the two men, sensing the unspoken tension that had long divided them.
Unless it was an event hosted by the king or queen, no one ever made the mistake of inviting both princes to the same gathering. That had been an unspoken rule since Ragnar turned his back on the palace and made his home in Amris.
The host of this ball must have had it out for him. That was Ragnar’s first thought as Hairan suddenly turned, his gaze sweeping the crowd before locking directly with Ragnar’s.
Ragnar had not seen the host in nearly an hour, not since he watched the man disappear into the throng of guests.
Perhaps it had all been deliberate, a staged encounter meant to draw attention, and to reignite old whispers.
A pregnant pause settled between them. For one tense moment, neither of them moved. Then, Hairan’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile.
It was a jarring expression, like lightning cutting through a night sky, brilliant yet dangerous. Ragnar knew that smile too well, it wasn’t friendly. It was a provocation wrapped in charm.
The spell broke as quickly as it had formed. Hairan turned away and continued walking, vanishing into the din of murmured conversation.
At Ragnar’s side, Lord Falein Tomar leaned close and whispered, voice low, "Try to avoid engaging with him at all costs. And if you must, make sure it’s not here. These people are starving for a scandal, and they’ll twist whatever they see into something that fits their own narrative. If something happens tonight, you know who they’ll blame."
Him. Always him.
Ragnar’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached. He knew Lord Tomor had a point, but that did little to soothe his irritation.
He hated the constant need to tread carefully, to measure every glance and word just to avoid offending people who had already decided to despise him from the very start. They hated him not for what he had done, but for what he was.
Bastard. Demon-spawn.
The words echoed faintly in his mind, ghosts from his youth that refused to die. His only crime was coming out of the wrong womb, and to them, that alone was enough to condemn him.
That was why he preferred Amris over staying in the capital. In his manor there, he could breathe freely. No whispers. No judgment. Just himself and people he trusted.
And Circe.
From the corner of his eye, Ragnar noticed Lord Tieran slipping away into the crowd, no doubt seeking out more powerful company to cling to. Which was typical of him.
Lord Tomar gave him two firm pats on the shoulder, a small, fatherly gesture meant to reassure him.
Since Luria’s death, Falein’s attitude toward him had softened in quiet, unexpected ways. He had lowered his guard, speaking to Ragnar more like a father. A better father figure than Ragnar’s real one.
At first, Ragnar hadn’t known what to make of the change. He couldn’t tell if it was sympathy or pity for being widowed far too young. It had felt strange at the beginning, uncomfortable even, but he hadn’t questioned it.
The last thing he wanted was to drive away one of the few people who had stayed by his side when his world had fallen apart.
