Chapter 34. The Prisoner and the Caretaker
The silence in the corridors of the Crimson Manor became different by nightfall — thick, ringing, inhabited by the ghosts of their own imagination. It was into this silence that I went out in the dead of night, leaving Yuki sleeping in our room.
I couldn't sleep. Thoughts whirled in my head: Solomon's calculated moves, Ragnar's venomous hatred, Quinn's unexpected malleability to learning... and her. Yuki. A fragile point in this equation that I couldn't afford to lose.
I walked silently, like a shadow, blending into the dark walls. My footsteps didn't make a sound—the "Killer Skill" worked on an autonomous level, suppressing any noise. I wasn't pursuing a goal. I was just... patrolling. I studied the maze I had voluntarily forced myself into.
That's how I ended up at the heavy, iron-clad door in the very heart of the east wing. The door was ajar. A gap the width of a finger, from which dim light poured and came... the scratching of a pen on paper.
Curiosity, cold and distant, made me slow down. I clung to the crack.
Inside, in a small, austere room, Ragnar was sitting at a table. He was without armor, just wearing a simple dark shirt. His usually fierce face was now focused, almost... vulnerable. In his hand was not a weapon, but a pen. He was painstakingly writing something on a yellowed piece of paper.
I froze, watching. The Clan's strongest swordsman, a creature of flesh and fury, practiced calligraphy. It was so unexpected that for a moment it knocked me out of the usual rut of analytical perception.
And at that moment, he raised his head. His scarlet eyes, sharp as blades, darted to the door and met my gaze through the crack.
He didn't flinch. He didn't cry out. He just froze, and such a bottomless, such primal rage slowly appeared on his face that the air in the corridor seemed to thicken.
With one movement, he crumpled the piece of paper in his fist, and the paper burst into a short scarlet flame, turning into ashes. He stood up, and his shadow, huge and menacing, filled the entire room.
"Are you peeping, ghost?" His voice sounded low, hoarse, as if through clenched teeth. — Are you looking for weaknesses? Do you think you'll find something here that you can use against me?
He took a step toward the door, and I stepped back, taking up a position in the center of the hallway. The door swung open and he went out, closing it behind him. Now we were standing opposite each other in an empty, dark hallway. Two predators in the night.
—Calligraphy," I said without emotion. — I didn't expect it.
"It's none of your business,— he hissed. His fingers curled into fists, but he wasn't carrying a weapon. — What happens behind closed doors…
"Everything that happens behind closed courtyards becomes my business if it threatens me or mine," I retorted. "You hate me." You're watching me. Now I know you have a secret. A secret that you fiercely defend. It makes you unpredictable. And unpredictability is a threat.
He snorted, but there was concern in his eyes, well hidden under the mask of anger. "A threat?" Are you the one hiding behind the child? Who teaches a girl to listen to dust instead of wielding a sword?
"I'm teaching her to see,— I replied. "And you...I'm beginning to understand." You're not just brute force. There's something else about you. Something that requires... control. The very control you lack in battle.
I took a step forward. He didn't back down, but his muscles tensed to the limit. "Your rage is not power, Ragnar. It's a prison. And you're her supervisor. And a prisoner at the same time.
His face contorted. My words hit the mark, at the very core of his inner conflict, which I guessed from the way he burned his creation — as if ashamed of it.
"Shut up,— he hissed. "You don't know anything.
"I know that art requires patience and concentration,— I continued without looking away. — The same qualities that you lack in combat. You're rushing into battle like a blind bull because you're afraid of silence. You're afraid to be alone with what you're hiding inside.
He lunged forward. Not to attack, but to grab me by the breasts and pin me against the wall. But I was ready. I didn't resist, I let him do it. His face, distorted with rage, was inches from mine.
His breath, smelling of smoke and anger, burned my face.
"So what?" I asked calmly. "Will you kill me?" And prove that I'm right? That you're an animal that can't control its anger?
His fingers gripped the fabric of my cloak until my knuckles turned white. He was trembling from the tension, from the struggle with himself. He could have killed me. Here and now. And maybe he could have gotten away with it.
But he didn't do it. With great effort, he released his grip and pushed me away from him.
—Get out," he breathed, his voice hoarse and tired again. "And if you tell anyone about what you saw... I'll find a way to get to your girl." Trust me.
I adjusted my collar. "Threatening her is a sure way to end up on the floor again,— I reminded him. —But don't worry. I'm not interested in your secrets. As long as they don't threaten us.
I turned around and walked away, feeling his burning, hating gaze on my back. But now there was a new note in that hatred—fear. Fear of being misunderstood.
I went back to my room. Yuki was curled up asleep. I sat by the fireplace, looking at the fire.
Ragnar wasn't just an enemy. He was a complex figure. And, paradoxically, his internal struggles made him... predictable. As long as I didn't touch his sore spot, he was manageable. But if I needed to... now I had the key.
I looked at the sleeping Yuki. I drove us into the wolves' den to protect her. But to survive here, I had to become a wolf myself. A predator who sees the weaknesses of others and exploits them.
And the scariest thing was that I was starting to like it.