It had been over a week since the prince last ca to his cell, and the prisoner wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified by that fact. During their previous encounter, he had felt fear, true visceral fear as he stared up into the prince’s rage-filled expression, blood still pouring warm and thick down his face from his broken nose.
Prince Ragnar rarely lost his temper, but people still feared him regardless. They feared the shadows he could summon, command, and mold to his will. They feared him because they were taught to. They feared him because they believed they should.
But that day, he looked less like a vampire and more like a creature from innermost. His shadows had swirled around him nacingly, coiling and twisting with a life of their own. His eyes had darkened to that terrifying pitch-black shade, the inhuman void that sent grown n scrambling away from him.
Most of them didn’t know what it was like to stare into the furious eyes of a demon. If they even did, they would know that there was far more to fear about Prince Ragnar than his shadows.
His eyes had burned with such potent hatred that looking into them had felt like staring into death’s open maw. The prisoner had expected Ragnar to kill him then and there. He had even hoped for it. He was marked for death regardless and dying in that mont would have been far more rciful than this constant state of limbo the prince seed intent on keeping him in, a perpetual uncertainty where every day might be his last.
Still, whatever Ragnar could do to him would pale in comparison to what Narfor was capable of. Everyone that knew about Narfor, knew of his cruelty. No one crossed him and survived unscarred. The man hunted down traitors like prey, tracking them with unyielding determination and cruelty. There was nowhere to hide. No one to bargain with. Once Narfor set his sights on soone, they inevitably broke, mind, body, or spirit, long before death finally ca.
It had been over a week since Ragnar returned to the cell, and a cold pit of dread had lodged itself deep in the prisoner’s gut since dawn, refusing to loosen its grip. Sothing was coming. He could feel it in his bones.
As always, the guards assigned to watch him said nothing. They never did. They stood in silence like carved statues, unmoving, not even speaking among themselves.
When the cell door finally creaked open, the prisoner looked up, expecting either the guard who delivered his als or the prince himself. But it was neither. Two other guards stepped inside, their expressions blank and unreadable. Without a word of warning, each man seized one of the prisoner’s arms and yanked him upright. Their grips were harsh, fingers biting into the tender skin beneath his elbows.
The prisoner did not yell or protest. It would do nothing to help, and it would not spare him from pain. Protesting would only irritate the guards, prompting them to be rougher. Better to conserve his strength for whatever ca next.
They dragged him from the dank cell, the chains at his ankles scraping the ground as they hauled him through a series of unfamiliar corridors. The further they went, the more unease pooled in his stomach. He didn’t recognize these hallways, brightly lit, well-kept, clean. He had no reason to be brought to this part of the manor.
The guards stopped before a closed door. One of them pushed it open, and they forced him inside.
The room beyond was sparsely furnished, just a desk, a simple settee, and an empty side table. Yet compared to the darkness of his cell, this space felt foreign. The two wide windows were thrown open, warm sunlight spilling into the room and brushing across the walls in soft, golden strokes.
But none of that mattered. None of it held the prisoner’s attention.
It was the man behind the desk who did.
Prince Ragnar sat in a high-backed chair, posture relaxed, expression eerily neutral. As the prisoner was dragged inside, Ragnar’s gaze tracked him with a cold, detached calm that was sohow more unnerving than his fury. When the guards shut the door behind them, sealing all four inside, only then did Ragnar speak.
"Now that you’re here," he said, voice flat and devoid of warmth, "we can begin."
He rose from his seat in one fluid motion and circled the desk until he stood directly in front of the prisoner. Up close, the prince’s presence was suffocating, lethal in its restraint. He looked down at the filthy dignitary without a flicker of emotion.
There was sothing cold and calculating in Ragnar’s eyes, sothing that put every nerve in the prisoner’s body on high alert. Fear spiked violently through him. Instinct urged him to step back, not to run, but simply to put distance between himself and this dangerous man. But the guards flanking him held him fast, their hands clamping down like shackles.
"Why did you bring here?" the prisoner rasped, jaw clenched. The guards’ grips only tightened, sending sharp jolts of pain up his arms. His nose, which had healed poorly during Ragnar’s absence, crooked and swollen from the inadequate attempt to set the bone, throbbed with each breath. It would never look the sa again, but that hardly mattered. He would be dead soon, one way or another.
Ragnar didn’t answer imdiately. When he did, his tone remained maddeningly calm.
"I want you to write a few letters for ."
There was no rage this ti. No swirl of shadows. Only a cold, dispassionate tone, and sohow, that was infinitely more terrifying.
"But before that," Ragnar continued, tilting his head slightly, "remind of the na of the envoy you told about before. The one Narfor always sent in his place."
The prisoner swallowed hard, eyeing the prince with a type of wary dread one reserved for a feral predator, one that could strike at any mont without warning.
Fear seeped from his pores like cold sweat.
And Ragnar simply waited.
The prisoner swallowed the thick lump forming in his throat.
"Jorrit," the man stamred. "His na is Jorrit, Your Highness."
"No last na?" Ragnar asked, his voice calm but laced with scrutiny.
The prisoner shook his head quickly. "He never offered a last na when I asked, so no. And I doubt ’Jorrit’ was even his real na, but it was the only one he was willing to give."
A flicker, subtle yet unmistakable, passed through Ragnar’s eyes. The first true sign of emotion the prisoner had seen.
"And how do you usually et this Jorrit?" Ragnar pressed.
"He would send notes with directions on where and when he wanted us to convene," the prisoner answered truthfully, because lying now felt pointless. "It was always a different location each ti. He picked the place, always. I never knew where he ca from because whenever I arrived, he was already there. Every single ti."
He hesitated, sha creeping into his expression.
"There was a ti I sent two n to follow him. Discreetly, or so I thought. I shouldn’t have tried. A day later, their bodies were found. He must have noticed."
Ragnar humd thoughtfully, his gaze dropping to the stone floor for a mont. Silence stretched, heavy and unnerving, until he finally spoke again.
"You will write two letters," he said, his tone shifting into sothing resolute and unmovable. "One addressed to whoever manages your residence in your absence, and the other to the envoy."
The prisoner’s entire body went rigid at that.
"But Your Highness, I told you already, I know nothing about him apart from his na and the fact that he works for Narfor," he protested, struggling against the guards’ iron hold as panic edged into his voice.
Ragnar lifted his head, his expression darkening in a way that chilled the room.
"I do not believe there is anyone under the sun who cannot be tracked down," he said. Then he levelled the prisoner with a look so cold and rciless that it made the man’s blood turn to ice. "And if I discover that you lied to today, a broken nose will be the least of your concerns."
He gestured toward the desk. The prisoner followed the motion and spotted the neatly stacked sheets of paper and the quill arranged beside them.
"The sooner you start, the sooner you may return to your cell," Ragnar added, as though returning to the damp, miserable pit where he was watched every hour of the day were any kind of rcy.
"Why don’t you just forge the letters like you did the last ti?" the man blurted, still tense, calculating every possible escape even though none existed.
Ragnar nodded to the guards, and they began pulling the prisoner toward the desk.
"Because the last one did not matter half as much as this," Ragnar replied. "If you and the envoy are accustod to exchanging notes, it would be far more difficult to fool him with a forgery. And as for the first letter, the one to your residence, you will include instructions that soone will be coming to retrieve your late father’s old ledgers and private correspondence, as you are unable to do it yourself."
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