When the performance ended, the children erupted into applause and laughter.

Circe found herself clapping softly as well, a genuine smile on her face. Though she had begun to learn about the kingdom’s history, seeing it retold in such a lively way made the story feel different.

Ragnar stood beside her, his gaze resting not on the puppet stage, but on her.

"You approve?" he asked quietly.

She glanced up at him. "It was well done."

Ragnar’s eyes shifted briefly to the single upright puppet still standing in the center of the stage. A stern look passed through his expression before he looked back at her.

"The children enjoy it," he said.

"Yes," she replied. "And they will remember it."

"Is there anything else you wish to see?" he asked.

The puppeteer did not wait for the last of the applause to fade. With a quick flourish of his hands, he cleared the fallen figures from the stage and replaced them with new ones, older carvings, darker wood, their features sharper and more severe. The red curtain trembled as he leaned forward.

"And now," he announced, voice already deepening, "we go further back. Before kings fought brothers. Long before this kingdom became what it is today."

The children hurried closer again, forming a tight semicircle around the little stage.

"Because our kind claimed this land," the puppeteer began, lifting a tall puppet crowned with jagged antlers, "we used to roam the faelands. We were bound under the selfish rule of ruthless fae monarchs that saw our kind as unruly savages, no different from mindless beasts like the Fenrar."

A second puppet appeared—slender, elegant, its carved face tilted in disdain. The puppeteer gave it a sharp, cold voice. The children reacted at once, a few hissing softly as though they understood the insult.

Circe watched them, surprised by how absorbed they were.

The story moved swiftly. The vampires grew tired of being treated as abominations. Tired of bowing. Tired of being confined to forests and edges of courts where they were summoned only when needed and dismissed just as quickly.

Then came another puppet, broad-shouldered, sword at his side.

"Marzen the conqueror," the puppeteer declared, lifting the figure high. "The one who would not kneel."

Marzen gathered the others. He preached about leaving the faelands. Of carving a place where their kind would rule themselves. The puppeteer’s hands moved faster now, the figures clashing together. One by one, the smaller puppets gathered behind Marzen.

"They tore through the magical veil that separated this realm from the faelands," the puppeteer said, dragging a strip of dark cloth across the stage to represent it. "A moment in history that would be known as the Great Departure."

He pulled the cloth apart with a sharp motion.

Several children gasped.

"They crossed into the human realms. And here, under Marzen’s rule, Lamora was born."

The tall puppet stood alone in the center of the stage, sword planted firmly before him.

But the puppeteer did not end there.

His voice dropped lower.

"Yet the magic of the veil was never the same after that. The tear that was left behind never truly healed."

He brought the dark cloth back into view, this time frayed at the edges.

"And every year, during the winter solstice, the magic weakens. Almost anything can pass through it. Wild beasts, especially. They slip through. They terrorize towns in violent rampage, leaving destruction and death in their wake."

The children were silent now.

"The time is soon going to be upon us once more," he continued ominously. "Beasts will slip through the veil. And the cycle will begin again."

A few of the younger ones clutched at each other’s sleeves, though their eyes remained fixed on the stage.

Circe’s smile had long since faded.

She listened intently, but her posture had stiffened. Slowly, she turned her head to glance at Ragnar. He was watching the stage with mild interest, his expression composed.

She leaned closer to him.

"Isn’t this a bit too much to be sharing with children as young as these?" she whispered, gesturing subtly toward the gathered crowd. "They are going to go home scared that a beast will attack them."

Ragnar’s mouth curved faintly.

"They will be fine," he said, amusement threading through his tone. "This is their history, after all. Best they hear it now. Most of us grew up listening to stories like this when we were their age."

She studied his face for a moment longer before looking back at the stage.

The performance concluded with Marzen standing victorious. The children burst into applause once more, their earlier unease already shifting into excitement as they began arguing over which part of the performance was the best.

Ragnar extended his hand without looking at her.

"Come with me," he said quietly.

Circe placed her fingers into his palm. He closed his hand around hers and guided her away.

"Let’s finish up here," he added. "I have somewhere else to take you."

She nodded, curiosity flickering through her again as they moved back toward the cluster of stalls. But instead of stopping at any of them, he steered her past the merchants and toward the line of stone buildings that bordered the square.

Only when they halted before a polished wooden door with gilded lettering did she understand.

A seamstress shop.

Circe turned to him slowly, incredulous. "I still have dresses I haven’t worn from the last time you got me dresses."

But Ragnar didn’t want to hear it.

"And it is only right that you, as my wife, have more," he replied evenly.

He pushed the door open and motioned for her to step inside first.

Warmth wrapped around them at once, along with the faint scent of pressed linen and perfume. Bolts of fine fabric lined the racks on the walls, silks, velvets, delicate lace arranged by color. A large standing mirror reflected the room in soft golden light.

The seamstress, who had been bent over a worktable, looked up at the sound of the door.

She moved forward at once with a welcoming smile then stopped short when she saw the prince following close behind Circe.

Her mouth parted in visible shock.

For a brief second, she seemed uncertain whether to speak or bow first. She chose the latter, dipping into a deep, respectful curtsy.

"Your highness," she greeted quickly. "Welcome. It is an honor."

Her eyes darted around the shop as if assessing it anew, already calculating what might best impress them.

She straightened and hurried to retrieve a large bound catalog from the counter. The book was thick, its pages carefully preserved, filled with detailed sketches of gowns, and evening wear.

"If you would be so kind," she said, offering it with both hands, "please have a look. I would be delighted to create anything you desire."

Ragnar took the catalog from the seamstress, and the both of them settled down on the empty cushioned settee, placing it on his lap as he flipped it open. His gaze, however, remained on her rather than the pages.

"Choose whatever you want," he said simply.