The ride to the palace was long and brutal, hours of hard riding through snow-covered terrain, their horses pushed mercilessly to the brink as they raced against time. Icy winds lashed at their cloaks and stung exposed skin, and the ground beneath the hooves of their mounts was slick with frost.

By the time they finally reached their destination, darkness had already swallowed the sky whole, the last traces of daylight snuffed out by heavy clouds.

The palace grounds loomed ahead, vast and imposing, illuminated by rows of flickering lamps that cast wavering shadows across the stone path. One by one, they dismounted.

Ragnar had followed them without further protest, though that obedience seemed to count for nothing. The moment he stepped down from his massive warhorse, more royal guards surged forward, closing in around him with swift, practiced efficiency. Cold iron shackles were clamped around his wrists before he could so much as straighten, the metal biting into his skin.

"There is no need for all this," Ragnar drawled, his voice calm but edged with irritation. "I followed you here quietly, just as you demanded." He was already sick of their theatrics, their exaggerated show of authority and superiority. He had no doubt this was another of their fear tactics, an opportunity to wield the little power they had been given against a prince. They enjoyed it far too much.

"If I had intended to evade capture or even attempt to escape, I would have done so long before now. It makes no sense for me to wait until we reach the palace before trying something." His gaze shifted to the guard who had fastened the shackles, fixing him with a stare sharp enough to make even a seasoned soldier falter.

It was a look Ragnar had perfected over years in the army, a silent promise of violence.

The guard was young, barely more than a boy, likely a fresh recruit. Ragnar had learned that those were often the most dangerous, reckless in their cruelty as they were eager to impress their superiors.

Ragnar’s eyes never left the young man’s face as he spoke. "Do you enjoy shackling princes?" he asked, his voice low, measured, and laced with warning.

The guard swallowed hard. "I’m simply following orders, Your Highness."

Ragnar did not relent. "Whose orders?"

"The queen’s," the guard forced out. Once the chains were secured, he stepped back quickly, as though Ragnar were some enraged beast poised to tear him apart.

The confirmation aligned neatly with Ragnar’s suspicions, though the knowledge did nothing to improve his situation.

They led him down into the dungeons, past rows of occupied cells filled with murmurs, groans, and the stench of despair. The air grew colder and heavier the farther they descended. At last, they stopped before a cell tucked far from the main entrance. It was small, empty, and shrouded in darkness. So distant that the corridor’s light barely reached.

It was less a cell and more a cage, fit for animals rather than men. And that, he suspected, was precisely the point. Another humiliation. Another quiet cruelty from the queen.

The barred door was unlocked, and Ragnar stepped inside without resistance. There was no point in arguing further.

Keys clinked together as the guards locked him in, offering no further words. One of them leaned forward, pressing his face between the iron bars, peering in as though waiting for something, any reaction at all. Anything other than the calm compliance Ragnar presented.

Surely, the guard thought, a man of Ragnar’s rank had to be simmering with unbridled fury. Even a minor lord with barely any land would have bristled at the insult of a night in such a cell. And yet Ragnar had uttered not a single complaint.

Seconds passed. Ragnar did nothing.

When it became clear that no reaction would be forthcoming, the guard huffed in irritation and straightened. A moment later, their footsteps faded, leaving Ragnar alone in the oppressive dark.

The cell held little more than a narrow cot, scarcely large enough to accommodate his frame no matter how tightly he curled himself. He lowered himself onto it now, muscles aching as the events of the day replayed relentlessly in his mind.

The darkness pressed in from all sides. Ragnar reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded handkerchief, the same one Circe had given him. The guards had searched him thoroughly for concealed weapons, and he knew without question that he would have fought them had they tried to take this from him.

He unfurled the cloth and stared down at it. The demon blood running through his veins granted him clear vision even in the dark, and the sight of the misshapen bird she had embroidered tugged a faint smile from him even with dread settling heavy in his chest at the thought of what awaited him come morning.

Hours passed, yet sleep refused to come. When dawn finally crept in, he heard the murmur of voices as guards changed shifts. The handkerchief still clutched tightly between his fingers, Ragnar stared unblinking at the cell bars until the guards from the previous day returned.

The door was unlocked once more, and they flanked him on all sides, guiding him out of the dungeons and toward whatever fate the palace had prepared for him next.

Today, he was meant to stand trial. The royal guards were likely taking him there right now, iron and authority hemming him in on all sides, and all he could do was follow as they led him toward what might very well be his condemnation.

By the time Ragnar was escorted into the throne room, the courtiers had already gathered. Lords and ladies crowded the space in silks and furs, their conversations dying the moment he appeared. They gawked openly, expressions ranging from sly, anticipatory smirks to poorly concealed horror, but they all shared one thing in common: a hunger to hear the king’s final verdict.

The king did not often preside over trials himself. He had magistrates and councils for such matters. He only took the throne in judgment for crimes of the gravest sort like treason, or the murder of a noble in cold blood. Only one of those accusations was truly laid at Ragnar’s feet.

Now the king sat upon his massive throne atop the dais, staring down at Ragnar with an unreadable expression. The queen sat beside him, perfectly composed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her pale blond hair was arranged in an elegant coiffure, every strand meticulously placed, and her emerald gown, woven from the finest silks caught the light like the surface of still water.

It was a bitter thought, knowing that the decision of whether he lived or died rested in the hands of a father who had been unreliable for most of his life. Still, Ragnar held his head high, spine straight, even as he endured the prodding stares of the onlookers.

The heavy doors of the throne room thudded shut behind him with a finality that echoed through the vaulted space. The sound swallowed the murmurs of the assembled court, reducing them to a low, expectant hum, like flies circling a wounded animal.

Ragnar halted precisely where the royal guards positioned him, at the center of the polished marble floor, directly beneath a grand chandelier of blackened iron and crystal. The chains around his wrists clinked softly as he squared his shoulders and dropped into a low bow before his father.