A frown had already ford on Rowen’s face by the ti she reached him, his posture stiff as if he was carved from stone.
"I got this today," she said brightly, forcing a lightness into her voice. She lifted the sword just enough for him to see it properly, angling the polished blade so it caught the sunlight. "Isn’t it pretty?"
Rowen didn’t even glance at the weapon.
His attention remained solely on her.
He was quiet for a long mont, brows furrowing as he studied her intensely.
"I saw you two just now," he said, his voice low and serious as he tried to make sense of the scene he just witnessed. "Only husband and wife kiss like that."
A small smile tugged at Circe’s lips. "But we are husband and wife."
"But your case is much different," Rowen replied sharply. "And you know it."
The scowl he leveled at her was so achingly familiar—so much like her own—that Circe bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
She did know what he ant. And she also knew this was likely the first ti he had ever seen her and Ragnar be so openly affectionate with one another. She couldn’t bla him for being startled by it, not after how vocal she had been about her disdain for Ragnar when they first arrived in Lamora.
Rowen’s expression shifted again, becoming more solemn, more thoughtful. For a fleeting mont, he looked older than his years.
"You couldn’t stand him when we ca here," he said.
"You’re right. I couldn’t even stand to be next to him." Her voice was honest, her expression open as she held her brother’s gaze without flinching.
"Then what changed?" Rowen asked, confusion threading through his words. "Do you even trust him?"
Circe had to remind herself that, despite living under the sa roof, there was so much Rowen hadn’t seen. So much he didn’t know.
He hadn’t witnessed the countless tis Ragnar had placed himself between her and danger without hesitation. He hadn’t seen Ragnar bleed for her, fight for her, or shoulder burdens that were never his to bear. He didn’t know the quiet monts, the stolen glances, the surprising gentleness beneath Ragnar’s gruff exterior, the heart of gold hidden behind tough edges.
Rowen’s uncertainty was understandable.
Circe barely had to think before the answer settled firmly in her chest.
"Yes, I trust him" she said, her voice steady and unwavering. " With all my heart."
Rowen had always looked up to her. By saying this, she wasn’t only reassuring him, she was giving him permission to trust Ragnar as well, to finally let his guard down around him.
And Circe knew she had nothing to fear in doing so.
Rowen continued to study her, that assessing look still lingering. Then he asked quietly, "Do you love him?"
Circe opened her mouth then closed it again. No words ca.
It was astonishing how a question of only four words could take her so completely by surprise, rendering her mute.
Did she love her husband?
She didn’t recoil at the question and that realization lodged itself in her mind, sothing she would examine later, when she was alone.
She thought of the way feeling always stirred in her chest whenever Ragnar was near—sothing warm and intimate. But she had no way of truly knowing if it was love or sothing else entirely. And if it was, she believed it would only be right for Ragnar to be the first person she ever told.
"I care for him deeply," she said at last.
She reached out and gently cupped Rowen’s cheek, her thumb brushing across his skin. "And I know he cares for as well. We are happy with each other." Her lips curved softly. "I am happy."
In the end, that was all that mattered.
Rowen’s questions, his worry—he only wanted to know that she was happy and content.
Circe pulled him into a tight embrace. "I’ll be back as soon as I can," she promised. "And I’ll tell you everything about the trip."
"Okay," he murmured, his voice muffled against her dress.
She released him and ruffled his hair affectionately, smiling when he grimaced in protest.
When she returned to Ragnar, he was already holding the carriage door open, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he gestured for her to climb inside.
She did and he followed imdiately after her.
The journey was long. The steady clopping of hooves and the gentle rocking of the carriage slowly lulled Circe into a state of drowsiness hours into the ride.
They had been seated opposite each other at first, but when Ragnar noticed her eyelids beginning to droop, he shifted across to her bench and sat carefully at the very edge. With deliberate gentleness, he guided her until she was no longer sitting upright but curled on her side instead, her head resting comfortably in his lap.
Circe sighed contentedly as she settled deeper into the cushions. The gentle sway of the carriage and the muted rhythm of hooves against the road lulled her senses, until the rest of the world gradually dulled and faded away. Before she fully realized it, sleep claid her.
His fingers slid through her hair in slow, soothing strokes, each one pulling her deeper into slumber and she slept peacefully, safe in his care.
She wasn’t sure how much ti had passed when she felt a soft, insistent touch against her shoulder. Slowly, she stirred.
Ragnar’s voice sounded in her ear a second later.
"Princess, we’re here."
Her lashes fluttered open and she blinked against the dim light, disoriented for a mont as she pushed herself upright. Her eyes felt dry and scratchy, her limbs heavy with the pleasant weight of deep rest.
"At the capital?" she asked, her voice thick and groggy, barely more than a murmur.
"Not yet," Ragnar replied. "But we’ve found an inn along the road. To be safe, we’ll rest here for the night and continue the journey tomorrow."
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