The guards shoved the prisoner down into the chair before the desk. Ragnar did not move to sit; he remained standing, arms loosely folded, a silent overseer of every breath the man dared to take.
"Before you begin," Ragnar said, his voice as calm and still as a frozen lake, "tell one more thing."
The prisoner stiffened, his fingers tightening against the edges of the chair.
"How does this Jorrit deliver his notes?" Ragnar’s tone was deceptively soft, but it still carried a weight heavier and louder than if he had shouted.
The prisoner blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in questioning. "Deliver? He never gives the notes. Not directly, at least."
Ragnar tilted his head just fractionally, a subtle movent that sohow managed to be both casual and predatory. "Explain."
The prisoner drew a shaky breath, eyes darting toward the shadows that seed to cling to Ragnar’s form. "He uses interdiaries. Always a different person each ti. Street urchins, traveling rchants, low-level servants, stable boys, whoever he believed to be more convenient at the mont. They never know who they are delivering for, or at least that’s what they always said whenever I asked. They just hand the note and leave."
Ragnar’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of sharp interest cutting through the mask of calm. "And how does he recruit them?"
"I don’t know. Truly. But I think he slips them coins or does small favors, then leaves the notes where he knows they will be picked up. He has reach. A startling kind of reach. It never mattered if I was in my estate, a tavern, or traveling on the road, his ssages always found ."
"Does he use a particular establishnt?" Ragnar pressed, his voice quiet yet insistent. "A tavern known for passing information? A courier house?"
The prisoner shook his head, fear and frustration coiling in his expression. "No. That’s the point. There was no pattern to it. The mont you think you have discovered one, he shifts tactics."
Sotis the notes appear in places where he thought no one would recognize him. Sotis they would slide it under his door or leave it between docunts on his desk. His face flushed with sha. "There were nights I wondered if he had a key to my own ho."
Ragnar’s expression did not change, yet sothing in his gaze sharpened, a hint of sothing more dangerous. His interest in the matter only heightened with every information the prisoner divulged.
"And yet, you claim you know nothing about him." Ragnar said slowly, his words laced with skepticism.
The prisoner’s voice cracked. "I swear it. Jorrit is very elusive. But he works for Narfor. He is loyal to him in a way that frightens Narfor’s other allies. That is all I know."
Ragnar studied him for a long, suffocating mont. He knew there was so much that was left unsaid.
Then, without warning, his tone shifted. It was still calm and asured but now edged with sothing colder.
"I examined the weapon," Ragnar said.
The prisoner’s head snapped up, eyes wide.
"The one the assassin had with him when he tried to harm my wife," Ragnar continued, as if discussing the weather, "was remarkably made. The blade looked elegant yet was very durable. Whoever forged it is no ordinary blacksmith."
The prisoner’s mouth went dry, a lump forming in his throat when he realized where conversation was going.
"And I found sothing etched on the blade’s hilt," Ragnar went on, pacing slowly behind him. "A blacksmith’s stamp. It was faint, but unmistakable. If I follow that mark, I can trace it back to the forge where it was made. And if I find the blacksmith, I can find the one who commissioned it."
The prisoner felt his blood run cold.
Ragnar was not rely hunting Jorrit. He was unraveling the web behind him, strand by strand, until he could see every hand that fed Narfor’s machine. Every ssenger, every enforcer, every hidden ally.
Ragnar circled back to stand in front of the desk, his gaze locking the prisoner in place.
"So," he said softly, "we return to the matter of delivery. Narfor’s envoy may be elusive, but surely he has people working for him that are not. The mont one link is found—"
"—the rest can be traced," the prisoner whispered, almost involuntarily, finishing Ragnar’s thought.
Ragnar’s lips curved into the tiniest hint of a smile.
"You’re beginning to understand," Ragnar said. "Good."
He gestured to the paper before the prisoner.
"Now write." Ragnar’s voice carried the deadly finality that sent bolts of panic through the man. "In the letter, make it clear that you are unhard and far enough away from my reach. Then request a eting with the envoy near your residence in Jireh."
"But Jorrit will know that sothing is amiss if I don’t et him as intended," the prisoner stamred, staring down at the blank sheet.
"That is not for you to worry about," Ragnar said, his tone unyielding. "Focus on making your requests sound believable."
The prisoner hesitated. Every instinct scread that this plan would harm his family. If Jorrit saw through the ruse, Narfor would know too, and there would be no hiding the prince’s involvent.
With trembling fingers, he picked up the quill. He glanced up at Ragnar, eyes wide and voice cracking. "My family—"
Ragnar cut him off callously. "—are your problem. Not mine."
A heavy weight settled on the prisoner’s chest, pinning him to the chair. Seeing no other options, he began to scribble down words on the paper, each scratch of the quill yet another a reluctant step further into Ragnar’s orchestrated web.
He wrote everything Ragnar asked, knowing the man would review it later and he was right.
Ragnar read both letters carefully. Once the ink had dried, he folded them neatly, sealed them, and handed them to one of the guards.
"Return him to his cell," Ragnar commanded, then left the room without glancing back.
***
From her bedroom window, Circe watched them mount their horses and ride out with the single-minded focus only n on a mission seed to possess.
She recognized them as guards, n she had seen posted at various exits of the manor before. But today, they were no longer in uniform. They rode dressed as wealthy rchants or minor lords, an unusual sight that imdiately drew her attention.
Her boredom must have been reaching new heights if this was the sort of detail she now found noteworthy.
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