Nieah hesitated only a mont longer before stepping into the room. The coppery scent that clung to the air made her throat tighten, but she forced herself forward. Ragnar straightened as she approached, though his attention never truly left Circe.
"She needs clean clothes," Nieah said quietly. "And water. I’ll have the servants warm the bath."
Ragnar nodded once. "No bath. Not yet." His gaze flicked briefly to Circe’s face. "Just clean her. Gently."
Nieah inclined her head and turned to do as instructed.
Within minutes, servants moved silently through the chamber, their presence subdued by the tension that radiated from their prince. Fresh linens were laid out. Basins of warm water were brought in and set beside the bed. No one spoke unless spoken to, and when they did, their voices were hushed.
Ragnar remained at Circe’s side throughout it all.
He sat on the edge of the bed as Nieah and another maid carefully removed the ruined gown, cutting away fabric rather than risk jostling her. His jaw clenched when pale skin was revealed beneath the blood and dirt, but he did not look away. He needed to see her. Needed to know she was alive and still there.
When the servants began to wipe the blood from her skin, Ragnar noticed it again.
No wounds.
Her shoulder was unmarred, so was her abdon. There was no trace of injury anywhere on her body, no bruise, not even the faint discoloration that should have lingered after such trauma.
His hands curled slowly into fists.
Once she was cleaned and dressed in a soft, loose nightgown, the servants withdrew at a single look from Ragnar. Nieah lingered, hovering near the foot of the bed as Ragnar settled Circe beneath the covers and pulled them carefully up to her chest.
Nieah lips parted. "Should I—should I send for—"
"The physician is already on his way," Ragnar cut in. His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it now. "You may go."
Nieah bowed her head and left without another word.
The room fell quiet.
Ragnar remained seated beside the bed, one hand resting lightly atop the covers where Circe’s arm lay beneath. Her skin was warm. Her breathing was slow and even. If not for the stillness of her body, she might have simply been sleeping.
But he knew better.
Minutes passed. Then more. Ti seed to stretch, thinning into sothing fragile. Ragnar did not move. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, counting each breath as though afraid they might suddenly stop.
His thoughts spiraled despite his efforts to control them.
What he had seen could not be ignored. No amount of rationalization would make it disappear. Humans did not heal like that. They never had.
As he kept watch over her, he still felt like he teetered over a steep ledge, still vibrating with the adrenaline that coursed through him from the ambush. His fingers shock slightly despite how hard he tried to stop it from doing so.
His thoughts were filled with how Circe’s attacker had stabbed her with his sword. Ragnar didn’t shut his eyes for even a second, afraid that if he did he would be forced to relive all that happened that night.
A soft knock sounded at the door, followed by the arrival of the physician—a grey-haired man with tired eyes who clearly had been dragged from his bed. Ragnar rose imdiately, stepping aside as the man approached.
The examination was thorough but brief. The physician checked her pulse, her breathing, her pupils. He pressed lightly at her abdon, frowned, then did it again.
"There is no sign of injury," he said at last, bafflent threading through his voice. "No fever. She appears healthy."
Ragnar’s expression did not change. "Then why hasn’t she woken?"
The physician hesitated. "Shock, perhaps. Or exhaustion. The mind sotis retreats when it has been overwheld." He straightened, smoothing his robes. "She should wake on her own. I would advise rest and observation."
"And if she doesn’t?" Ragnar didn’t an to voice that particular fear but he had and there was no taking it back.
"Then I will return and see what I can do to help." The physician said at last.
Ragnar dismissed him with a nod.
When the door closed once more, Ragnar sank back into his chair. The quiet pressed in around him, heavy and oppressive. He reached out, this ti allowing himself to touch her skin directly, his fingers brushing lightly against her wrist.
Her pulse beat steadily beneath his touch.
"You’re hiding sothing from ," he murmured, so softly it barely stirred the air. "And I don’t know whether to fear it... or fear what will happen if others discover it first."
Circe did not stir.
Outside the chamber, dawn crept slowly toward Lamora, pale light seeping through the tall windows inch by inch. Ragnar did not notice. He remained where he was, guarding her as though the world itself might try to steal her away the mont he looked aside.
***
It had been almost a full day since the attack, and Ragnar had barely done anything other than remain by her side.
The only tis he left her were to issue fresh orders to his n, his voice clipped as he sent them out to carry out his commands. So he dispatched back to the site of the ambush, ordering them to comb through the area thoroughly, every discarded weapon, every trace the attackers might have left behind.
He wanted their belongings searched and catalogued, any insignia, coin, or scrap of parchnt examined. Sowhere in the remnants of that violence lay the truth of who had orchestrated the attack, and he intended to uncover it.
Once he was finished addressing his n, Ragnar shut the door firmly behind him and returned to the bed where Circe still lay unconscious.
She had barely moved since he brought her back to the manor. Her chest rose and fell steadily, but she had given no sign of waking, no flutter of lashes, no restless shift, nothing to suggest that she was even aware of the world around her. Each passing hour carved deeper lines of worry into him, though he kept them hidden behind a rigid, controlled exterior.
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