The banquet hall glowed with firelight and the low hum of goblin voices.
Long tables groaned under platters of roasted meat, spiced roots, and steaming bowls of thick, dark soup.
Ragnar sat beside Aria at the high table, their shoulders almost touching.
He lifted the wooden spoon, brought it close to his lips, then froze.
The soup was wrong.
Not the deep beet-and-bone colour everyone else was eating.
His soup shimmered with a sickly violet at the edges, like oil spreading across poisoned water.
Aria noticed his hand go still. She leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.
"What's wrong?"
Ragnar tilted the bowl toward her just enough for her to see.
"Is this soup… supposed to look like that?"
Her golden eyes flicked down. They widened. A sharp, hissed curse slipped between her teeth.
"Close the hall!" she barked, her chair scraping loudly as she shot to her feet. "Now!"
Guards snapped into motion. Heavy doors slammed shut. Confused voices rose around the room.
Aria was already moving, fast, predatory, toward the young maid who had placed the bowl in front of Ragnar only minutes earlier.
The girl's face was drained of colour. The tray slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor.
Aria's hand closed around the maid's wrist in an iron grip.
"Talk. Who sent, "
The maid twisted violently. Her teeth flashed. She bit down hard on her own tongue. Blood sprayed in a bright arc.
Her body jerked once, then collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Silence slammed down over the hall.
Aria stared at the dead girl, chest heaving.
"Damn it," she whispered. "We lost our only lead."
Ragnar rose slowly. He stepped behind her and laid a careful hand on her shoulder, thumb brushing the tense muscle there.
"We'll find another," he said quietly. "We always do."
She exhaled hard through her nose. Her shoulders dropped the smallest fraction under his touch.
A guard burst through the side door, breathless.
"Lady Aria, we know her. She was one of Elder Bruuk's old helpers. Before his treason. Before… everything."
Aria's jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.
"Then Bruuk's rot runs deeper than we thought." She dragged a hand down her face.
"We need to burn every last root of his corruption out of the tribe. No exceptions."
Ragnar gave one grim nod.
They returned to the high table in heavy silence. The food still steamed on the platters.
Ragnar picked up his spoon again, this time slower, every bite deliberate, every swallow tight with the fresh knowledge that death had just sat inches from his mouth.
When the last plate was finally cleared, Aria touched his elbow.
"Come with me."
She led him through a narrow corridor to a small chamber tucked behind the hall.
One door. One wide bed piled high with furs. One oil lamp burning low.
She shut the door. The bolt clicked firmly into place.
"There's only this room tonight," she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
"After what just happened… I can't let you out of my sight. For your safety."
Ragnar studied her profile, the stubborn set of her mouth, the faint tremor in her fingers as she adjusted the lamp flame.
He could have argued. Could have pointed out the dozen other places he could sleep.
Instead he stepped closer.
"Of course," he murmured. "Safety."
The air between them thickened.
Aria turned. Their eyes locked.
She reached up, fingertips brushing the scar along his jaw, gentle, almost reverent.
"You almost died tonight," she whispered. "Right in front of me."
He caught her wrist and pressed her palm flat against his chest so she could feel the hard, fast thud beneath skin and bone.
"I'm still here," he said.
Her breath hitched.
She rose on her toes and kissed him, fierce, desperate, tasting faintly of wine and smoke and fear.
He answered like he was starving, hands sliding into her hair, tilting her head so he could take more. She made a small, broken sound against his mouth.
They stumbled backward. Her spine met the wall.
His body pressed her there, solid, warm, alive. Her claws pricked lightly through his shirt, not breaking skin, just reminding him she could.
She broke the kiss long enough to drag her lips along his throat.
"Ragnar…" Her voice cracked on his name. "I can't lose you."
"You won't."
He lifted her. Her legs wrapped around his waist like they belonged there.
They crossed the room in three strides. Furs sank beneath them as he laid her down.
She pulled at his shirt; he yanked it over his head. Her hands roamed the hard planes of his chest, tracing scars, mapping him.
He kissed the hollow of her throat, felt her pulse hammer against his tongue.
Her fingers found the ties of his trousers.
He found the laces of her tunic.
Clothes fell to the floor.
Skin met skin, hot, urgent.
She arched under him, breath ragged.
"Stay with me," she said, half plea, half command.
He braced himself above her, forehead pressed to hers.
"Always."
Their mouths crashed together again.
Hands slid lower.
And the lamp flickered as the night narrowed to nothing but heat, heartbeat, and the promise of what came next.