Free Web NovelChapter 85: Chapter 85
TRIGGER WARNING: DROWNING
Nobles flitted around him, their chatter a soft hum beneath the glittering chandeliers. Ladies whispered behind their fans, their eyes narrowing whenever they glanced his way. Lords shot him furtive looks from across the ballroom. Ragnar saw them all. He felt their scrutiny like a physical touch, like ghostly fingers tracing the sharp lines of his face and the edges of his shoulders. He pretended not to notice any of them.
There were three types of people who watched him, and the look in their eyes made it easy to tell them apart.
The first group were those who supported him, nobles who still harbored hope that the throne might one day bear a different name, his name. They aligned themselves with him not out of love, but out of strategy, ambition, and the desire to survive whatever chaos the queen’s rule might eventually ignite.
The second group regarded him with thinly veiled unease. They were wary of what he represented, of what he might one day become. Ragnar was elusive to them, unpredictable, a creature born of shadows and rumors. They feared what he could do, not just with his position, but with the shadows that bent to his will and obeyed his every command.
And then, there was the last group, the ones who despised him outright. Their scorn was seething and absolute. Most of them were nothing more than puppets of the queen, loyal to her power and blind to her corruption. They wouldn’t hesitate to bury a knife in his back if given the chance. To them, Ragnar’s existence was a stain on the royal lineage. A bastard demon-spawn unworthy of the title of prince of Lamora.
They were elitists that clung to the archaic ways of their ancestors like lifelines. They romanticized the era of King Marzen’s reign as Lamora’s golden age, despite the bloodshed, the tyranny, and the cruelty that had defined it.
They longed to return to that brutality, convinced their station would protect them from its consequences. They craved carnage from the safety of their tall ivory towers and above all, they despised humans. They viewed them as lesser beings, barely more than livestock.
So when Ragnar, the illegitimate prince of Lamora, married a human woman, their outrage had been immeasurable. It was a grievous offense in their eyes, added to the already unforgivable sin of his birth. The fact that the king’s lust and the queen’s manipulation had orchestrated both events mattered little. Their hatred was not logical. They blamed Ragnar for everything, even for those things he had no control over. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓
But at that moment, the empty chair beside him troubled Ragnar more than the nobles who surrounded him.
Circe had been gone for far too long.
Where could she have wandered off to?
He didn’t believe she would try to escape, not while her brother remained in his custody. Circe could be reckless, even defiant at times, but there was one thing about her Ragnar knew with unshakable certainty: her devotion to Rowen was unwavering.
Without warning, Ragnar rose from his chair, cutting off the lord who was speaking mid-sentence.
"Excuse me," he said sharply, already striding away before the man could protest. He pushed through the large double doors and stepped into the cold night air, his eyes scanning the darkened estate grounds.
The chill bit into his skin, but he barely felt it. His gaze darted from shadow to shadow, seeking any trace of her. His pace quickened, boots crunching over gravel and dead leaves as he followed instinct more than logic. Something was wrong. The stillness in the air pressed down on him like a warning.
He was nearing the edge of the western grounds when a sudden splash reached his ears. It was loud and frantic and it came from the direction of the pond. He remembered its location from previous visits.
The sounds grew more desperate as he closed in and just as the pond came into view, he caught sight of a slender hand peeking out from its surface but it was gone the very next second.
Someone was in the pond.
Ragnar’s blood turned to ice. He sprinted forward, unfastening his coat and kicking off his shoes as he ran. He reached the edge and threw himself into the water without a second thought, the frigid impact shocking the air from his lungs.
It didn’t matter if it was Circe or not. Someone was drowning and he had to help. He couldn’t afford to be too late.
The pond was deeper than it looked. From the surface, it gave the illusion of being shallow and harmless. But beneath, it was a world of murky shadows and bone-chilling cold. Visibility was low, but Ragnar’s sharp eyes caught sight of movement, a flurry of silk drifting downward.
Two figures. A man and a woman, slowly sinking toward the bottom.
The fabric of the woman’s dress bloomed around her like a dying flower. He had stared at that dress long enough earlier in the evening to recognize it now without question.
Circe.
His heart lurched painfully in his chest.
Her eyes were shut, her limbs hanging limp by her sides. She wasn’t fighting anymore, she wasn’t struggling to reach the surface. The very dress that had made her the center of attention at the ball was now dragged her down like an anchor.
A terrible, familiar kind of fear overtook him, one he had only experienced once before.
He clenched his teeth and forced his limbs into action, swimming harder and faster than he ever had before. He reached her just as her body settled against the muddy bottom of the pond. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pushed off the ground, kicking his way back to the surface.
Breaking through the water, he dragged her to dry land with shaking arms, collapsing beside her on the grass. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his panic left no room for rest. He turned to her immediately, eyes wild with worry.
"Circe," he breathed, voice laced with desperation. Her skin was cold to the touch and for a while it barely looked like she was breathing.
Seeing her like this, laying unconscious next to him, it brought back memories from the past, of Luria laying limp and lifeless in his hands. Those memories threatened to swallow him whole. But the woman next to him was Circe, not Luria and for that reason alone he fought against the heavy tides of his grief and sorrow to remain firmly in the present.
Then, suddenly she began to cough. A stream of water erupted from her mouth and nose, each hack sounding like it tore from her chest. Ragnar moved quickly, rolling her onto her side to help her expel the water. Her body trembled uncontrollably, her breaths short and ragged.
He didn’t know if it was the cold or the fear that made her shake so violently. Perhaps it was both.
"Circe," he said again, his voice breaking on her name.
Her eyes snapped open and she immediately brought her hands to her stomach, frantically patting over the torn part of her dress as if expecting to find a wound that wasn’t there. When her gaze finally met his, wide and terrified, it broke something in him.
His control snapped and he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He pulled her upright and into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest. His hands trembled where they clutched her, their bodies slick and wet from the pond.
"Circe," he whispered over and over like a prayer, as if saying her name could somehow erase what had just happened.
She didn’t resist his hold. Perhaps she was too weak to do so. Perhaps she needed the contact just as badly as he did.
She was silent for a very long time and her voice shook when she finally spoke.
"He tried to kill me," she whispered. "He tried to drown me. He—"
Her words trailed off as another wave of shivering overtook her.
Ragnar’s jaw clenched. The attacker must have been the second figure sinking in the pond. Circe had fought him off long enough to survive. That was the only reason she was here now, in his arms, breathing, and he had never been more grateful for her ferocity than he was in that moment.
Despite the joy and relief he felt right then, rage coiled tightly in his chest, simmering just beneath the surface. Someone had attacked her again, had almost killed her.
His eyes narrowed as he glanced back at the pond, sweeping his gaze over it. But he paused when something caught his eye. There, floating just on the surface of the pond was a deep red fabric, taunting him with its presence.
His mind instantly went back to the assassin that died in Gonan’s dungeons. There had been a deep red cloth there as well.
