Claimed by the vampire prince

Chapter 249: Chapter 249

Ragnar stepped out of the manor and into the afternoon light, the sky a muted silver above him. Cool air bit faintly at his skin, carrying the damp scent of wet earth and snow. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he stepped off the front steps, his attention already fixed on the distant curve of the road that led straight to the manor.

Two riders emerged from the distance, their silhouettes blurred at first, then sharpening as they drew closer. The horses moved at a measured pace.

Ragnar’s gaze narrowed.

One horse carried two men. The third presence slung awkwardly over the saddle, limp and unmoving, his body swaying with each step of the horse.

The horses slowed as they neared the manor and came to a halt several paces from the steps. The guard who rode alone dismounted first and bowed his head low.

"Your Highness."

Ragnar acknowledged him with a brief nod, his attention already shifting past the man to the second horse. Two guards rushed to help the unconscious man off the saddle. They grasped the unconscious figure beneath the arms and hauled him down. The man sagged heavily between them, a dead weight that made no attempt to resist.

Ragnar’s eyes swept over him in a single, assessing glance.

Dark patches marred the man’s clothes, dried blood stiffening the fabric along his side and shoulder.

The guard straightened, readying to speak when a low groan cut through the air.

The unconscious man stirred, his brow knitting as pain dragged him reluctantly toward awareness. A weak sound slipped from his throat, followed by a twitch of his fingers.

"We should restrain him properly," the guard said quickly, tension sharpening his tone. "Before he fully wakes."

Ragnar gave a single nod. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

The command was carried out at once. Hands tightened their grip. Iron cuffs were secured around the man’s wrists with a dull metallic click. When he sagged again, half-conscious, the guards tightened their hold and began moving him toward the manor.

***

It had taken a week in Jireh before the trail led anywhere promising.

The assassin’s blade had been distinctive. The markings near the hilt were subtle, and easily missed by an untrained eye, but unmistakable to those familiar with the craft.

Jireh’s blacksmiths were few, and after careful inquiries, they discovered that only one worked with that particular alloy.

It took another three days to find him.

They located the forge near the edge of the town, heat rolling from it in suffocating waves. The blacksmith stood at his anvil, sweat streaking down his temples as he worked the bellows, sparks leaping into the air like fireflies.

He was an older man, his hands scarred and burned, his eyes wary beneath a furrowed brow.

He denied them at first, ignoring them in favor of resuming his works. He raised his hammer and brought it down harshly on a red hot piece of steel, the sound of metal clanging against metal once more filling the space.

As he worked, his gaze flicked constantly toward the street through the open window.

Then they showed him the royal crest of House Acheron, confirmation that they were indeed sent by Prince Ragnar.

The color drained from his face.

His eyes darted toward the back of the forge, toward the narrow door he likely used when he wished to vanish. Without a word, the guards shifted, blocking it completely.

They did not threaten him. They did not need to.

The answers came quickly after that.

He confessed that the commission had come through an intermediary, that he had been paid handsomely to ask no questions. The same man returned every few weeks to collect the finished weapons. The blacksmith even told them when the next shipment was due to be picked up.

A week later, they were waiting.

The ambush was anything but clean.

The man fought harder than expected, desperation lending vicious strength to his movements. He lashed out wildly, teeth bared, eyes bright with the terror of a cornered animal. His knife was snatched away before it ever left its sheath. When that failed, he screamed for help as a last resort, his voice echoing uselessly as the dragged him to a deserted alley.

No one came.

When it was over, he was unconscious but still very much alive.

They subdued him, bound him, and dragged him from the town long before dawn could expose them.

***

The man was fully restrained now, iron bands locking around his wrists as he sagged against the guards holding him upright.

Ragnar’s gaze drifted back to the prisoner before him.

The man groaned again, eyes fluttering beneath bruised lids as awareness clawed its way to the surface. Ragnar crouched before him, studying his face with cold, detached interest.

At last, the man’s eyes cracked open.

They widened almost instantly.

Recognition dawned, followed swiftly by fear but it lasted only a heartbeat before it vanished, buried deep behind practiced emptiness.

Ragnar’s smile was sharp

"Good," he said softly. "You’re awake. I hope your journey here wasn’t too inconvenient. My men can be a bit forceful sometimes."

The bound man stared blankly as he slowly took in the room. It was mostly empty, bare stone walls, a single uncomfortable chair to which he was chained, and a steel bucket tucked into one corner. It resembled a cell more than any room meant for living.

Without needing to pat himself down, he knew they had stripped him of every weapon he carried. Their absence was immediate and visceral, like the loss of a limb. Without them, he was mostly defenseless against Ragnar’s guards.

He lifted his gaze back to the man looming before him, meeting the prince’s harsh stare without flinching.

His throat was so dry it burned when he swallowed, the ache sharp enough to make his eyes water. Still, he forced the words past cracked lips.

"Why am I here?" he rasped, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

"That," Ragnar replied evenly, "is also what I would like to know. But before we get to that, there are a few questions I intend to ask you first."

He spoke without raising his voice, without any outward sign of impatience, yet there was an unmistakable authority in his tone, one that made resistance feel futile.

"How are you connected to Narfor?" Ragnar continued. "I hear he operates an extensive network. What role do you play in his dealings? Or are you merely tasked with collecting new weapons for his assassins?"