The ride toward the Valerius border was a lesson in pain. To a barbarian, a horse was a tool of war, ridden bareback or with a simple hide saddle. To a knight, a horse was a throne. Ragnar felt the chafing of the heavy leather against his inner thighs, the steel of his cuisses biting into his flesh with every gallop.
But physical pain was a familiar friend. The real enemy was the silence. Inside the helmet, the only thing Ragnar could hear was his own breathing and the frantic, rhythmic hammering of his heart.
Clop. Clop. Clop.
"Sir Alaric! Slow your pace, for the love of the Saints!"
The voice came from behind. Ragnar's hand went instinctively to the hilt of the longsword. He pulled the reins, the horse neighing in protest. Three riders were approaching. They weren't messengers. These were men-at-arms, their surcoats bearing the same gale sigil as his own.
Observation: Three opponents. One sergeant, two regulars. They are wounded—bandages on their arms, dented breastplates. They look at me with relief, not suspicion.
"We thought the wolves had dragged you into the trees," the sergeant panted, pulling his mount alongside Ragnar. He was an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard peeking out from a bascinet. "Where is your squire? Where is young Leo?"
Ragnar froze. Leo. That was the name he didn't have. He thought of the letter he had found—the one addressed to Elara.
"Leo is dead," Ragnar said. He kept his voice low, a rasp of steel on stone. "He fell protecting the flank. Do not speak of him. My heart is... heavy."
The sergeant bowed his head. "A brave lad. He deserved better than a northern dog's axe. But you, milord... your armor. It's a miracle you survived that charge. Your father, the Baron, has already called for the bells to toll."
Critical Information: The Baron is Alaric's father. Relationship: High expectations. Probability of discovery: Extreme.
"I need to reach the castle," Ragnar said, spurring his horse forward. "I have... reports. And my throat is parched."
The Gates of Valerius
The castle was a monster of stone. It rose from the cliffs like the tooth of a giant. As Ragnar rode through the portcullis, the sheer scale of the civilization he had come to destroy hit him. His people lived in huts of wood and bone; these Southerners lived in mountains they had built themselves.
The courtyard was a blur of activity. Servants scurried like ants. Grooms reached for his horse. Ragnar dismounted, his legs nearly buckling under the unfamiliar weight of the plate. He caught himself, turning the stumble into a deliberate, heavy stride.
"Alaric!"
A woman emerged from the great hall. She was dressed in deep crimson silk, her hair a cascade of dark curls. She ran toward him, her face a mask of grief and joy.
Elara.
The name from the letter flashed in his mind. Ragnar stopped. This was the most dangerous moment of his life. A mother knows her son; a lover knows her man. If he spoke one wrong word, he would be swinging from a gallows before sunset.
She reached for his helmet. Ragnar stood still as her soft fingers unlatched the chin strap. The visor swung up, and for the first time, the "Wolf" looked into the eyes of the "Sheep."
Elara gasped. She didn't scream. She didn't call the guards. She stepped back, her eyes scanning his face—the jagged scar on his cheek, the cold, predatory hardness of his blue eyes, the stubble that was too dark for a Valerius.
"Your face..." she whispered, her hand trembling. "Alaric, what did they do to you?"
Ragnar took a gamble. He reached out and grabbed her wrist—not gently, but with the firm, controlling grip of a man who had seen hell.
"The North happened to me, Elara," he hissed, leaning close so only she could hear. "The man you knew died in the mud. The man standing before you is the one who crawled out. Do you want the ghost, or do you want the survivor?"
He could see the terror in her eyes, but also a strange, twisted flicker of realization. Elara wasn't just a lover; she was a player in this court. She looked at the signet ring on his finger—the ring that gave him power over the lands.
"You... you are different," she breathed.
"I am the Lord of this House now," Ragnar replied, his voice a cold promise. "And you will help me remain so. For your sake as much as mine."
The Feast of Shadows
That night, Ragnar sat at the head of a long oak table. To his right sat the Baron—a man whose eyes were as sharp as the daggers he used to cut his meat. To his left sat Elara, her face pale but her composure regained.
"The scouts say the White Wolves are broken," the Baron said, his voice echoing in the hall. "But they also say a 'Ghost' has been seen among the dead. A man who kills with the efficiency of a Northern beast but wears the skin of a knight."
Ragnar felt the sweat cooling on his neck. He picked up a goblet of wine, watching the way the candlelight reflected in the deep red liquid.
"A ghost is just a man who refused to stay down, Father," Ragnar said. He used the word 'Father' like a weapon. "The North is not broken. It is changing. And we must change with it."
The Baron narrowed his eyes. "You speak with a strange tongue, Alaric. Since when did you become a philosopher? You were always a man of the lance, not the mind."
"A lance is easily broken," Ragnar said, setting the goblet down with a sharp clack. "A mind... that is where the real war is won. I intend to win it."
The Baron stared at him for a long beat. The silence in the hall was suffocating. Then, the old man let out a short, dry laugh.
"Perhaps the North was good for you. You finally have some iron in your soul. But remember this, Alaric: iron that doesn't bend, breaks. Tomorrow, you spar with Sir Julian. Let's see if your sword is as sharp as your tongue."
Ragnar nodded. He knew Sir Julian—the man who had led the patrol. He knew Julian suspected something.
As the feast ended and Ragnar was led to a room that was supposed to be his home, he looked out the window at the dark forests of the North. He was a wolf in a cage, but the cage was made of gold, and he had the key.
"Let them come," Ragnar whispered to the empty room. "I'll show them how a beast fights when he's learned the rules of the game."