The light from the chandelier overhead bathed them in warm golden light, the sound of clinking silverware intermingling with male voices as the vampires dining with her conversed with one another.
It was the longest Circe had ever heard him speak. Locked in conversations with Casilo, Ragnar was an entirely different person. Mirth lingered in his tone as he spoke with his comrade, downing cups of mead as the night went on. His eyes no longer held the shrewd look she was used to.
Circe kept her gaze lowered, careful not to meet the eyes of any around her, lest they sense how intently she listened. While feigning disinterest, she gleaned a name from their hushed exchange: the man seated at her brother's left was called Kostia, a royal guardsman sworn to the crown.
When the final course had been cleared, three serving girls swept into the dining hall, swiftly stacking the soiled plates and utensils into neat piles before bearing them away with practiced ease.
Casilo and Kostia rose from their chairs, and Circe followed suit, her eyes fixed on her brother as she began to make her way toward him. But before she could take more than a step, a hand closed around her wrist. The touch was like ice against her skin, halting her mid-stride. Slowly, she looked down at the tawny fingers wrapped around her arm, then lifted her gaze. His eyes met hers, warm, the color of liquid bronze, burned with quiet intensity, a stark contrast to the chill of his grasp.
" Where are you going?" It wasn't a demand. There wasn't a hint of authority in his tone, just naked curiosity.
" I wish to escort Rowen to his rooms." It felt like she was asking for permission and Circe hated it. She hated how, with every day that passed, she felt less in control of her life and actions.
She expected a refusal. Instead, Ragnar eased his hand away.
" Very well. Don't take too long." He said before looking away. Dismissing her.
Circe gritted her teeth throughout the time it took her to cover the distance between her and Rowen. She placed an arm around his shoulder as she led him out of the dining hall.
Rowen's room was on the second floor, a large furnished space, painted in shades of browns and grey. An ornately carved wooden bed with a high headboard sat as the room's centerpiece. Atop the plush mattress was a rich, beige coverlet that blended with the muted tones of the space. Matching wooden nightstands flank the bed, and perched on top were lamps and delicate trinkets.
With a sudden burst of energy, Rowen dashed forward and flung himself onto the bed, his small frame bouncing slightly as it met the mattress. The sight made Circe's heart flutter. He so often carried himself with the sternness of someone far beyond his years, moments like these, when he allowed himself to be a child, never failed to coax a smile from her lips.
Circe's feet sank into the soft carpet as she followed him. The room was better than the one they were given in the palace.
She sat on one side of the bed, her legs dangling from the edge.
" Where will you be sleeping tonight?" Rowen asked, rolling to sit beside her.
" In the Master's suite. But I'll be fine. You have no reason to worry." She added hastily when she saw the horrified expression on his face. She hoisted the hem of her dress, revealing the steak knife she hid within. Lamplight glinted off its polished surface as she brandished the blade. " He only has to make one wrong move and I will bury this in his chest."
Her certainty seemed to soothe Rowen's worries, easing the furrow that had crept between his brows. Yet deep down, Circe knew it would not be so simple. She recalled the night of the wedding, how effortlessly Ragnar had pinned her down, the iron strength of his grasp unyielding as chains. She might be able to fight him off but the chances of succeeding were slim.
Still, she would not speak of such things to Rowen. He was still too young to be burdened with such heavy thoughts.
She put an arm around him, pulling him closer. He came willingly, leaning his head on her shoulder.
" I miss home. I miss watching the palace guard patrol from my room window." Rowen said, turning his face to stare up at her. " Is it wrong that I don't miss our father?"
Emotions burned the backs of Circe's eyes. The silence that engulfed them was fraught with shared memories and unhealed wounds.
King Valik of Westeria bore the crown of a king far more readily than the mantle of a father. Aloof and unyielding, even in their earliest memories. Their mother's passing only deepened the rift, hollowing what little warmth remained in him. Though he had sons and a daughter, he was never truly a father to any but it was Rowen who suffered his absence the most.
"No," the words were a whisper on her lips. " You are not wrong."
The thunder of hooves shattered the veil of stillness that had settled over the chambers. Circe hastened to the window, her gaze sweeping the dusken path. Two riders galloped toward the manor with urgent purpose, their cloaks billowing like storm clouds in their wake. Below, she glimpsed Casilo and Kostia emerging to meet them, their figures framed by the fading light. Though the words exchanged were lost to distance, the stiffness in their postures betrayed the gravity of the news they bore.
As Circe stood before Ragnar's chambers, she noticed the heavy oaken door left slightly ajar, its iron hinges creaking softly in the silence. With a tentative push, she widened the opening, and her breath caught. There, bathed in the pale light of the hearth, was Ragnar's naked back, scarred and sculpted like marble hewn from war. It was only a fleeting glimpse, for in the next moment, he drew a white tunic over his shoulders, veiling the sight as though it had never been.
She entered on soundless steps, gliding past him without a word as she made for the grand bed nestled at the far end of the chamber.
"The handmaids can draw you a bath, if you wish," Ragnar said. He spared her a glance as she circled the bed, but his gaze did not linger.
"I only seek rest." Her voice was faint, dulled by weariness that clung to her like a heavy cloak. Her thoughts drifted to the riders who had come thundering to the manor gates. What tidings had they brought Casilo and Kostia? What grim words had passed between them?
She wished to ask Ragnar, but her tongue refused to shape the question. From her seat upon the edge of the bed, she cast sidelong glances at him. He lounged in the armchair, head tilted back, eyes closed. His face bore the weary etchings of strain, with dark shadows pooling beneath his eyes.
The candlelight flickered, its glow waning as the wispy shadows in the corners of the chamber stretched longer, as though drawing breath.
"The Queen has sent her heralds. She demands we stand before the court," Ragnar murmured at last, turning his head to meet her gaze. "I cannot deny her summons, not so openly. But I swear this to you: I will not let harm befall you. You have my word."
His eyes shone with the sincerity of his words beneath the guttering flame. But his words meant little to Circe. He may have given her his word, his protection but who would protect her from him?