Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 119: Where the Frost Meets the Wild

Chapter 119: Where the Frost Meets the Wild

The forest hadn’t changed much.

Same slope of silverleaf trees. Same patch of smoothed stone where they used to rest—sometimes bruised, sometimes bleeding, but always together. But tonight, the silence felt heavier. Not hostile. Just hollow.

Apollo lay on his back, arms behind his head, watching branches shift above him. "Three years," he said quietly. "Feels longer, doesn’t it?"

Conrad sat beside him, legs crossed, a crystal of frost slowly spiraling around his palm like instinct. "It does."

"You think we’ll see him again?"

Conrad didn’t look over. The frost paused mid-air. "I don’t know," he admitted. "But I hope so."

Apollo closed his eyes, the tiger inside him rolling beneath his ribs. That deep low hum of waiting. "I still see him in dreams sometimes. Usually mid-fight. That half-smile he wore after every bruise. Like he knew we’d survive it."

Conrad smirked faintly. "He used to say our bond wasn’t born in battle—it was burned into us."

Silence settled again, broken only by soft wind sliding between roots and bark.

Then Conrad looked over. "I heard you joined the Wachter’s Guild."

Apollo opened one eye, groaning. "Yeah. Nothing flashy. I’m still on basic rounds. Guard detail. Surveillance sweeps. Barely scratched past surface missions."

Conrad’s voice carried more weight than the compliment needed. "Doesn’t matter. You’re one of the youngest to join officially. That’s no small thing."

Apollo stretched lazily. "Guess. Doesn’t feel like much when you’re stuck circling the same parts of the city like a domesticated cat."

"Even apex predators learn patience," Conrad replied, frost curling off his fingers, sketching quiet edges into the night. "Your time’s coming."

Apollo sat up now, tossing a twig across the clearing. "Feels like everything’s shifting. The council chambers get louder each week. Soldiers move in new patterns. Even Hans seems different—less prince, more..." He paused. "Something else."

Conrad nodded slowly. "Father’s been meeting quietly with military tacticians again. Hans isn’t just shaping alliances—he’s laying foundations. Algoria won’t look the same by next year."

"Think it’s for the better?"

Conrad didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the frost still hovering in his palm. "I think change doesn’t ask for permission. Just leaves a mark."

Apollo didn’t press.

Instead, he leaned back again, curling a fist beneath his jaw. "I miss him."

Conrad exhaled. "So do I."

And for the rest of the night, they sat without words. Because some bonds didn’t need them. The cold between them was familiar.

...

The chamber was dim, lit only by the soft burn of amber lamp-light pooling over stacks of parchment. Hans sat at the wide desk, coat shrugged off his shoulders, sleeves rolled, pen gliding with eerie precision. The room felt more like a war strategy gallery than a royal suite—maps folded, letters scattered, seals awaiting pressure.

Conrad stepped in with slow grace. No knock. Just quiet familiarity. The floor didn’t creak beneath him—his presence didn’t need to announce itself.

Hans didn’t look up immediately. His quill traced the last few strokes with deliberate care before setting it down with a satisfying click. Then he glanced over.

"Conrad," he said, voice warm but clipped by focus. "You look troubled. Join me. I was sealing a request for audience with Archeon’s court. They’ve softened recently. I intend to make sure it wasn’t accidental."

Conrad stepped closer, eyes sweeping across the organized chaos. "So the circle grows," he murmured.

Hans smiled, folding the letter. "The circle deepens. Width can be broken. Depth buries resistance."

Conrad didn’t answer right away. Then:

"There are rumors," he said softly. "Whispers that not everyone agrees with the pace... or the method."

Hans turned fully now. That soft smile never wavered. But his eyes sharpened—not with anger. With assessment.

"Of course they don’t," Hans said quietly, stepping around the desk. "You see, people cling to familiarity because it offers them the illusion of certainty. They don’t reject change because it is wrong—they reject it because it reminds them they aren’t in control."

He walked toward the window, drawing it open just slightly. The wind pressed against velvet curtains like a breath from the outside world.

"They resist the process not because it breaks them—but because it doesn’t consider them first. That’s the nature of leadership. You guide not where they ask you to go, but where you know they must be when the tide finally rises."

Hans turned, resting against the frame.

"History doesn’t favor the most agreeable monarchs, Conrad. It favors the ones who built while being judged, and ruled while being hated. Because those are the kings who understood that popularity is a currency far weaker than vision."

He stepped forward again.

"Do you know what the greatest illusion of progress is?" Hans asked, voice like velvet dragged across glass. "The belief that it must feel good while it happens."

Conrad didn’t reply. But something in his posture shifted.

Hans crossed to him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder.

"We’re not here to be liked. We’re here to be remembered. And when this age is looked back on—they won’t speak of hesitation. They’ll speak of how we shaped what was coming. You’re part of that shape."

Conrad looked over slowly.

"I just worry the fractures will outgrow the foundation," he said.

Hans nodded. "Then we build deeper. And when the storm hits, those who scoffed will find shelter in the very walls they doubted."

The silence returned again. But this time—less heavy.

Conrad inhaled. Not with conflict. Just quiet recalibration.

Then he nodded once, respectful, composed. "Good night, Hans."

Hans smiled again. "Sleep knowing you stand where kings learn how not to flinch."

And Conrad left. The door clicked gently behind him.

The corridor was quiet.

Torches flickered in carved alcoves like memories refusing to dim. Conrad’s boots pressed soft steps into polished stone, but his mind was louder than anything around him.

Hans’ words kept unraveling in his head—not harsh, not desperate, just clear. Too clear. Too precise. The kind of clarity that didn’t feel like truth... it felt like design.

"We build deeper.""History favors those who are remembered.""Let the storm rise—we’ll offer the shelter they doubted."

And suddenly, Conrad remembered the night two years ago.

The rain tapping against the balcony windows. Hans—his older brother, crownless at the time—had stood by the fire with a chalice half-drained and eyes lit with something stronger than ambition.

"I don’t want to protect this world, Conrad.""I want to shape it.""Algoria won’t remain a banner—we’ll become the page they all write on."

Conrad hadn’t taken it seriously then.

Not because Hans was joking—he never joked—but because back then, it had felt too far away. Too large to be real.

But now...

Now diplomats came in waves. Maps were redrawn in corridors not open to the public. And Hans had just spoken of resistance like a forecast. Like opposition was expected and already accounted for.

The plan wasn’t just moving forward.

It was steady.

Conrad stopped mid-hall, resting a hand against the cold stone. His frost curled gently around his fingers—not summoned, just responding to his mood. Quiet warning. Quiet grief.