Two weeks earlier.
The café on the corner smelled like burnt sugar and strong coffee always the same, always familiar. Ragnar slipped inside without a word, shrugging off his cloak and taking the usual table in the window, the one Queen always preferred. He didn't order. He only waited, fingers drumming a restless, nervous rhythm on the tabletop.
Queen arrived fifteen minutes later, like he always did, sliding into the seat opposite with that lazy, crooked smile that made everyone feel like a secret was being kept from them. He ordered a coffee with a flick of the wrist, watched the barista, then turned back to Ragnar and brightened.
"Why hello there, Ragnar," he said, sounding far too pleased to be human.
Ragnar offered a faint wave. "Hey, Queeny."
Queen eyed him properly then noticed the heaviness in his shoulders, the way his jaw was tight enough to hurt. He set his mug down and rested his head on a knuckle, a bored pose that always looked half theatrical. "What's wrong?"
Ragnar's hands found the table's edge and gripped it until his knuckles went white. He looked down, voice small at first. "School problems."
Queen leaned forward. "Do tell."
Ragnar let it spill out in a rush, words tripping over each other. "People praise us loud as if they admire us, but there's sneers beneath every word. They blame us for their failures. They whisper. They act like we just... like everything was handed to us. Like we didn't claw for anything."
He laughed bitterly. "They disguise cowardice as moral high ground."
Heat rose to his face. "They talk like our lives were easy. Like we never got cut or tired. They call us different names behind our backs, like we're monsters. They look at us like we're the problem. And I... "
He stopped, throat moving. For a second his eyes glazed over with something too fierce to be only anger. "Every time I think about it a rage builds. It's like a pressure. Queen I want to—"
He choked on the sentence, eyes shining. "I want to kill them. I know it's wrong. I don't want to be that. I can't tell anyone. They'll call me insane. A killer."
Queen's smile didn't vanish. He shuffled a pack of cards slowly between his fingers, the sound almost soothing. "And what's wrong with that?" he asked, voice soft as silk.
Ragnar blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"
Queen's eyes were curiously bright. He cut the deck and let a few cards fall in a casual fan. "Those murderous thoughts? That's your body telling you you're not weak. Why should you be weak because some people refuse to face their own frailty?"
He pushed a card toward Ragnar, then dragged it back across the table as if drawing a line. "In this world, Ragnar, it's kill or be killed. That's the truth people pretend not to hear."
Ragnar's hands trembled. He looked up at Queen like someone who had been given a map in a maze. "So… you think I should—"
Queen shrugged, slow and indifferent and chilling all at once. "I think you should stop feeling guilty for wanting to survive. They named you something they didn't understand. They handed you a crown and expected you to be a saint. Saints get blamed when the world crumbles. Killers get remembered."
He pushed his coffee cup aside and leaned in, the motion quiet but deliberate. "If they call you weak, remind them you aren't. If the world thinks you're a monster, be the monster that makes them honest."
Ragnar's breath hitched. Tears pooled at the edges of his eyes and he wiped them away with the heel of his palm, embarrassed. "But I don't want to be a monster," he whispered. "I don't want to be alone."
Queen's hand came across the table then just a touch on Ragnar's wrist, casual, possessive. The contact anchored him like a tether. "You're not alone," Queen said, and his smile was half-warm, half-razor. "I'm here. I'll always be here. And if you need to do things others won't, if you need to show them then do it. Don't let them think they can break you because they lack the courage to lift a hand."
Ragnar let out a laugh that sounded like it might split. It was raw and relieved. "You always make it sound easy, Queeny."
Queen shrugged again, eyes crinkling. "That's because I'm honest. Honesty is rarer than mercy. Mercy is what got us trapped in this mess." He tapped the table with two fingers, casual as a coin flip. "Anger is useful. Rage tells you where the world is sore. Use it. Don't let it use you."
Ragnar's breath hitched. The words were dangerously simple, like a key turned in a lock. He laughed a short, broken sound part relief, part disbelief. "You make it sound easy," he said, trying to shake off the tremor in his voice.
Queen didn't look away. He watched Ragnar as if cataloguing a rare specimen, eyes quiet and interested. He toyed with a sugar packet between two fingers and then, with slow deliberation, crushed it into a neat powder on the tabletop. "Easy isn't the point," he murmured. "Honest is. Mercy is fashionable. Strength is honest. When people tell you not to hurt them, they mean they don't want the cost of their cowardice to be paid."
Ragnar's shoulders curled inward. Tears pricked but he blinked them back. "I don't want to lose myself," he whispered. "If I do something…if I cross that line, what if I can't come back?"
Queen's thumb brushed the back of Ragnar's hand in a motion that felt more like ownership than comfort. Then don't come back to the person they expect," he said softly. "Come back to yourself. The old rules are for small men. You were never made for smallness. He leaned forward, voice dipping. "If you must hurt someone, do it with intention. Make it mean something. Make them remember why they feared you."
There was a dangerous tenderness in the way Queen spoke as if he admired orders of destruction the way other men admired art. Ragnar swallowed. The storm inside him burned hotter now but no longer blind; it had a target and a shape. "And if I can't, if I lose myself?" he asked again, this time steadier, testing the cruel map Queen was drawing for him.
Queen's eyes softened for the briefest second before the smile slid back on, sharp as a blade. "Then I'll be there to keep watch," he promised. You won't be alone in the fall. We'll make sure the fall finishes something."
He tapped the table once, the sound a small punctuation. "You're not a child, Ragnar. You don't need someone to scold you for dark thoughts. You need someone to teach you how to use them."
Ragnar let the words sink in. In Queen's presence the shame that had ached in his chest unspooled a little less like forgiveness, more like authorization. The loneliness that had gnawed at him for months felt edged with purpose now. He pictured faces from the academy: sneers, whispered hours. His fists clenched without conscious thought. The desire to answer violently, finally hovered like a promise.
Queen rose then, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape. He gave Ragnar one last look, a featherlight salute that felt like a benediction. "You're learning," he said quietly. "When it's time, don't waste the moment by hesitating. Hesitation is a kindness you don't owe to cowards."
Ragnar stood as well, hands still trembling but steadier now. He slid into his cloak and, before he left, leaned over and kissed the back of Queen's hand an odd, reverent gesture that was half-gratitude, half-oath. "I'll try," he said, and he meant it with a terrifying sincerity.
Two weeks later, when the mock battle with Thane came, whatever restraint remained in Ragnar would be tested. He walked back into the field feeling lighter and more dangerous than he had in months—armed not only with power, but with a philosophy quietly supplied and fiercely endorsed by the only person who never looked away.