Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 122: Between the Spite and the Stone

Chapter 122: Between the Spite and the Stone

The tent swallowed light like a grave that refused a funeral.

Inside, the air reeked of iron and cracked skin. Soot from old torches settled across the canvas like forgotten ash. The only sound was breath—uneven, strained, laced with pain.

Amari sat bound to a splintered chair, wrists tied so tight the rope had worn through two layers of skin. Shylo was beside him, chest rising with quiet steadiness. Both were upright. Still. Silent.

The others had already been worked over.

Maverick’s head hung low, blood smearing his jaw and temple, each breath rattling in his chest like thunder that had lost its roar. Kenneth had one eye swollen shut, and when he inhaled, it was shallow—like every rib protested movement. Milo twitched faintly, but hadn’t spoken in hours. Johnny barely responded when Kael passed by—his gaze fixed forward, his silence total.

Kael stood at the center of the tent like the eye of a brutal storm. His coat brushed the dirt floor softly, almost ceremonial in its stillness. Beside him, a metal table waited—lined with tools that didn’t shine, didn’t gleam. They dared.

Hooks dulled from overuse.

Blades crusted with dried blood.

Aura extractors, vibrating faintly, calibrated to strip pain from the deepest pulse.

He sighed once and looked to the prisoners.

"They all broke," he said, gesturing toward the others. "Eventually. Whether with screams or silence. But they gave us nothing."

He turned to Amari.

"You will."

Amari said nothing.

Kael knelt.

"Who sent you?"

Silence.

He glanced at Shylo.

"You went willingly. You didn’t hesitate. That means belief. So who gave you the order?"

Nothing.

No shift.

No fear.

Kael stood slowly, then nodded once to the retrieval soldiers. Two stepped forward, fists charged with light. One placed a hand on Amari’s shoulder—tight grip, hard pressure. The other pressed fingers to Shylo’s temple, a faint hum rising from the interaction.

Pain surged.

But neither flinched.

Amari’s body trembled for a breath, but his eyes never left Kael’s. Shylo winced once, then anchored himself in silence, jaw locked, gaze downward but unbroken.

Kael’s lips curled into mild frustration.

"Even the girl," he murmured, pacing. "She was never meant to be touched. She’ll return. And you two will be nothing more than reminders of what happens when hands reach too far."

He picked up a blade from the table—a thin, serrated hook.

Walked behind Amari.

And whispered again, soft enough to threaten.

"Speak. Or bleed. Both teach the same lesson."

Amari exhaled once.

...

The firelight inside the tent flickered low, painting amber across the folds of royal fabric. The princess sat on a cushioned bench near the far side—shoulders tense, fingers gripping the edge of the blanket pulled around her. Her crown lay discarded on the table beside her, like it weighed too much for tonight.

Kael entered softly, without armor, just the quiet echo of his boots against canvas and dirt.

She looked up fast—eyes wide, breath caught—but relaxed when she saw him. Still, her voice came shaky.

"They said the attackers were caught. Are you sure?"

Kael crossed the space slowly, the curtain falling closed behind him. "I watched it myself."

Her gaze dropped to the floor. "I didn’t think they’d come this far. Not for me."

Kael crouched beside her, one knee balanced just enough to meet her eye. "It wasn’t about distance. It was about belief. People move mountains when they think you mean something."

She swallowed. Her hands trembled slightly as she pressed the blanket tighter around her.

"I’m not used to feeling... vulnerable."

Kael studied her closely. The fear in her voice wasn’t dramatic—it was honest. It sat behind her words like a shadow she hadn’t learned to live with yet. He lowered his voice.

"I won’t let them touch you. Not now. Not ever."

Her breath hitched. "You sound certain."

"I am."

The torchlight flickered again—casting golden arcs across the side of her face. She looked at him then, really looked. And her expression softened—not into ease, but into something wary. A kind of trust with jagged edges.

"What if they come again?" she asked quietly.

"They won’t get close," Kael said. "Not while I’m breathing."

A pause settled between them.

Then she reached out, barely, fingers brushing his wrist—just enough to linger, not enough to hold. It was instinctive. A gesture not rehearsed.

She pulled back fast, cheeks coloring. "I’m sorry."

Kael straightened slowly, but his gaze didn’t shift.

"You don’t have to be."

She nodded. Then whispered, "Thank you. For choosing me."

Kael didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. The silence between them had a pulse.

The tent’s quiet pulse was broken by a sudden shift—the flap pulled open, letting cold air spill across the canvas.

Kael and the princess jerked apart just as a soldier stepped inside, brows raised slightly—not with surprise, but recognition. Their hands had been touching. Lightly. Briefly. But the moment was clear enough that silence became its own truth.

The soldier cleared his throat, eyes flicking between them without judgment.

"Sir," he said, tone neutral, "what are your orders for the prisoners?"

Kael didn’t answer.

He lingered for just one beat more, eyes locked on hers. Her fear hadn’t faded, but something in her gaze had changed—something fragile, quiet, like trust trying to lift its head.

He turned without a word and walked past the soldier, boots grinding soft against canvas floor.

"Follow," Kael said.

The soldier obeyed, casting one last glance toward the princess—who sat motionless now, eyes stuck on the empty space where Kael had stood.

Outside, the night pressed closer.

Kael walked in silence through rows of tents and shadows. Somewhere not far, the wind dragged faint groans from the prisoner camp. Torches flickered as he passed, outlining the ghost of his expression—not anger. Not doubt.

Only certainty.

They arrived at the interrogation tent. The soldier waited. Kael looked toward the entrance, where the captives remained slumped and broken in their chairs.

"They’ve said nothing," the soldier offered. "Even after seeing the others bleed."

Kael’s voice was ice.

"Then give them until sunrise."

A pause.

"If they haven’t spoken by then... end it."