Claimed by the vampire prince

Chapter 365: Chapter 365

The town square was alive with movement as people moved briskly between stalls, their breaths visible in the air.

Ragnar and Circe walked side by side through it all, clad in thick coats lined with fur to keep out the chill. Their shoulders brushed now and again as they passed through the narrow paths between merchant stands. He kept one gloved hand loosely behind her back, staying close to her while furtively scanning their surroundings as well.

Circe’s gaze moved constantly, bouncing from one item to another. Bolts of dyed fabric. Rows of polished boots. Carved wooden boxes. Strings of colored glass beads that caught what little winter light filtered through the pale sky. She could not seem to settle on one thing for long.

The merchants noticed them as they passed. Smiles spread across weathered faces. Some dipped their heads respectfully as Ragnar approached. A few stepped forward eagerly, lifting their finest wares.

" Your highness," one called, presenting a velvet cushion lined with silver hairpieces. "For the lovely lady."

Ragnar did not even hesitate.

Ragnar inclined his head in return, his expression calm but approachable. He allowed Circe to look at the proffered items. He watched her more than the goods themselves.

At one stall adorned with feminine trinkets and hair adornments, she paused longer than usual.

The jeweled hairpins were arranged in careful rows—silver stems crowned with tiny clusters of sapphires and garnets. Circe leaned closer, studying them with open admiration.

"These ones are quite nice," she murmured.

The merchant beamed. "Thank you, Your Highness. Finest stones I could acquire."

Ragnar picked up the two she pointed out without hesitation. Delicate things shaped like winter blossoms, tiny stones glinting along their petals. He placed the coins into the merchant’s waiting hand.

Circe turned toward him, and held out her hand for the hairpin but he only shook his head at her as he stepped even closer.

Carefully, he removed one of the simpler pins she already wore and replaced it with the new one. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they worked through the soft strands of her hair. He adjusted the second beside it, angling it just slightly until he seemed satisfied. freewebnøvel.com

"There," he said quietly.

She reached up instinctively, fingertips brushing the cool metal. "You spoil me."

He looked at her as though that accusation pleased him. "That is my intention."

By the time they left the stall, several more delicate accessories had been wrapped and handed off to the footman trailing a respectful distance behind them. The man’s arms were steadily filling.

She tilted her head slightly, smiling at him in quiet approval. Two more pins now joined the many others he had given her over the months, small tokens that seemed to follow her wherever she went.

He had promised her on the carriage ride over that she could choose whatever she pleased. As much as she pleased.

He remembered the way she had leaned toward him when he said it. Their arms had brushed as they sat close together, and then she had leaned closer still. Her scent had filled his senses, sweet and heady and he had felt the familiar ache in his fangs.

"With you being this generous," she had whispered, her lips hovering dangerously near his, "I am tempted to make your pockets hurt after this."

He had drawn in another pull of her scent and smirked. "Do it."

Now, as they moved on from the hairpin stall, he kept that same expression.

They stopped at another stand, this one crowded with bracelets, ribbons, and small embroidered gloves. Circe pointed at items, picked them up to examine them, reconsidered, then pointed again at another one. Ragnar paid for everything she settled on, handing each neatly wrapped parcel to the footman who followed a few paces behind them, his arms steadily filling.

Ragnar did not once protest. In truth, he seemed almost pleased by it.

Circe felt light as they continued walking. There was something comforting about being here with him, in the open square rather than inside his manor, no matter how much she had come to adore his home. This allowed her, for a short while, to forget the fragments of the dream that had disturbed her sleep the night before. The images still lingered somewhere at the edge of her mind, but they felt distant now.

They paused before another stall selling handmade trinkets, small carved figurines, rings of twisted wire, tiny painted charms. Circe reached toward a row of pendants when a sudden burst of excited children’s voices rose from somewhere ahead.

The sound cut through the murmur of the square.

She lifted her head at once.

Curiosity took hold before she could stop herself. Without a word, she began walking toward the source of the noise. Ragnar followed after her immediately.

They came upon a small crowd, no more than ten children gathered before a simple wooden puppet booth. The stage was no larger than a tabletop, draped with faded red cloth. Only the puppeteer’s hands were visible above the curtain as he lifted carved wooden figures into view.

The performance had already begun.

"The War of Kins!" the puppeteer declared in a dramatic voice that drew gasps from the children.

Circe recognized the story at once from the hours she had spent reading through texts of Lamorian history.

After the death of King Orrin, the third ruler of Lamora, no clear heir had been named. Orrin had fathered more children than anyone could properly count, twenty-five were said to be known, though some claimed there were more. Without a chosen crown prince, his sons had turned on one another. Brother against brother. Army against army.

The wooden puppets clashed together on the small stage as the puppeteer narrated each betrayal and battle with exaggerated intensity. One by one, the figures fell, knocked onto their sides to mark defeat. A few were dragged off the stage entirely to represent those who fled in shame, never to return.

Only one puppet remained standing in the end.

Daemar, sixth son of Orrin.

The final figure stood upright in the center of the stage, sword raised high, surrounded by fallen kin. The puppeteer lowered his voice as he declared Daemar victorious, the next king of Lamora.