Free Web NovelChapter 63: Chapter 63
One by one, they exited the drawing room once they were ready to head back home, with Ragnar being the last to leave. He followed behind at a measured pace, his long strides unhurried. Just as he was about to cross over the threshold, a hand shot out and clasped his arm, halting him in place.
He turned swiftly, only to find that the fingers belonged to Lady Maelis. Her expression had changed dramatically since the last time he looked at her. Gone was the warmth and polite composure she had displayed minutes earlier. In its place was a look that teetered between caution and tightly leashed agitation.
When she spoke, her voice was low barely above a whisper as if she feared being overheard.
"Yannick Tavish was seen heading toward the eastern borders just yesterday," she said, her tone clipped. "I don’t trust that family."
Neither did he.
Yannick was the second son of Laheir Tavish, and his name had begun to surface with alarming frequency in hushed conversations about the recent unrest spreading through the far eastern region of Lamora. There were rumors, serious ones that he had played a role in inciting rebellion.
Claims like that should have warranted immediate investigation or even trial before the royal court, but Yannick had so far evaded all scrutiny. His father’s long-standing relationship with the king had shielded him from consequence, just like it had done for so many others before him.
Ragnar kept his expression carefully neutral, though tension tightened his jaw. "There’s not much we or anyone else can do about it for now," he said quietly. "All we can do is sit, wait, and hope more damning evidence surfaces."
Evidence that Ragnar strongly suspected Laheir would do everything in his power to bury, just like he buried the countless people that had died at his command.
What Ragnar was doing wasn’t just difficult, it was also dangerous. Others before him who had tried to look too closely into the kingmaker’s dealings or had dared to question the Tavish family’s power had either mysteriously vanished or died under suspicious circumstances.
Their deaths were swept neatly under the palace’s bloodstained rugs, just like every other corrupt deed perpetrated by the royals.
Laheir had never been fond of Ragnar, but unlike his usual cold politeness, his dislike was laced with something far more insidious. The man’s hatred was like a quiet poison, it was calculating, and cruel. Many didn’t realize how much Laheir despised them until it was too late, until his knife was already at their throats.
For that reason, Ragnar had learned to tread carefully. Very carefully.
When he finally emerged outside, he spotted the rest of his companions waiting for him in the courtyard. Without a word, he made a beeline toward his horse. That, at least, would be the version of events he would give if anyone were ever to ask. The truth was that Circe just so happened to be standing at the end of the path he had chosen.
Nieah and Casilo had already mounted their horse and were now waiting.
Circe didn’t speak to him as he approached, didn’t even glance in his direction. Her silence was loud. But Ragnar’s restraint was far more fragile. His eyes kept flicking toward her, unbidden, taking in her every detail: the subtle tension in her shoulders, the guarded set of her jaw, the way her fingers clutched the fabric of her skirt.
There was a frown growing between her brows, one of confusion. And he saw it, as clearly as he saw everything else about her.
"I can hear your thoughts from here," he said as he climbed onto the saddle behind her, his tone light but edged with curiosity. "What has you so puzzled?"
Circe didn’t answer right away. She remained quiet, even as Ragnar nudged his horse into a slow canter. She was still angry about the way he had forcibly dragged her out of Rowen’s room the night before and that wasn’t even the only thing she resented him for. There were layers to her bitterness, each one built upon something he had said or done or failed to do.
Inside her mind, stubbornness battled against curiosity but eventually, her curiosity won.
A low sigh escaped her lips before she finally spoke. "How does a human become a noble in Lamora?" she asked, voice flat but thoughtful.
"Marriage," Ragnar answered simply, giving the reins a soft tug to quicken the pace of his horse. "The same way you became a princess of Lamora. Lord Soren took a liking to one of his human employees and chose to marry her."
Circe’s lips parted to speak, to correct him. She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t a princess of Lamora, not truly. Not when the people still looked at her as property, something to be owned, fought over, and manipulated. Not when even she couldn’t bring herself to see their marriage as real.
But she said nothing.
Instead, the two of them rode in silence, the quiet stretching comfortably between them. Only the rhythmic thud of hooves against the dirt road filled the space where their voices might have been.
The journey back to Ragnar’s manor didn’t take long. When they arrived, Ragnar was the first to dismount, handing the reins of his horse to a nearby stable hand. His movements were swift and fluid, but as he turned to head toward the entrance of the manor, a figure emerged from the side garden, a maid, her apron slightly soiled from tending to the flowers.
She looked surprised to see him and offered a hurried bow.
"You have a visitor, Your Highness," she said quickly, her tone respectful but tight with unease.
Ragnar slowed his steps, eyebrows narrowing faintly. fгeewebnovёl.com
"Who is it?" he asked, already bracing himself.
The maid hesitated only a second before answering.
"Prince Jayran, Your Highness."
Those words immediately broke Ragnar out of his thoughts and pushed his feet to move faster.
What was his brother doing here?
