Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 127: Dirt Beneath

Chapter 127: Dirt Beneath

The sun hadn’t yet climbed far enough to matter, but the estate was already moving—quiet steps echoing across hallways and courtyards, servants brushing ash from the marble threshold where strategy had once been whispered too loudly. In the southern wing, the boys had gathered again, standing not as warriors prepared, but as survivors pretending to be.

Weapons rested where they had been placed the night before, gleaming faintly beneath low light that refused to settle. The chamber smelled of oil and polished steel, like readiness had a scent, and it followed them.

Milo pulled the last wrap across his forearm, gaze flicking toward Amari who stood near the open archway.

"So," he said, voice dry but expectant. "Do we have a target? Or are we improvising until someone screams?"

Amari didn’t look back.

"I have someone."

He spoke without weight, almost conversational—like the name didn’t carry consequence.

Maverick stepped in, strapping his tonfa across his back. "Who?"

Amari turned slowly.

"The daughter of Lionel Xavier. South ridge province."

There was a pause.

Milo blinked. Johnny straightened slightly. Kenneth looked up from tying his coat. Even Shylo raised a brow, though he said nothing.

Milo spoke first.

"That doesn’t exactly make her a princess."

Amari’s stare lingered—not sharp, just fixed.

"She doesn’t have to be," he replied. "She’s close. Accessible. Protected enough to matter. What we need is leverage, not royal blood."

Johnny nodded quietly.

Maverick grunted.

"She’s in neutral territory. If we’d taken Algoria, we’d be halfway done by now."

"No," Amari said, voice clipped. "If we’d taken Algoria, half of us would be buried by now."

The silence after that wasn’t awkward—it was thoughtful.

Milo shrugged, trying to dissolve the tension. "I suppose ’wardlord’s heir’ sounds noble enough. You can spin a title out of it."

"She’s valuable," Amari said. "That’s all they’ll care about."

Preparation unfolded like habit.

Weapons were checked, fastened, cradled. Blades tested against leather. Rope darts coiled with care. Every movement felt heavier than usual—not because the gear weighed more, but because the mission now carried consequence again. The kind that couldn’t be solved with victory. Only with completion.

...

They ran through dusk.

Feet striking branch, bark, soil. Motion carried by pain and purpose. There had been no pause—no break in stride, no rest beneath trees with low-hanging fruit or rivers that threatened cool relief. Their journey stretched beyond exhaustion, legs aching against terrain that didn’t care how far they’d come or what they hoped to find.

By nightfall, the kingdom had emerged through the forest canopy like a wound in the landscape—fierce, jagged, unapologetic. It wasn’t marked by banners or spires or ceremonial stone. It loomed rough and raw, buildings stacked upon each other without symmetry or logic. Palisades built from bone-colored timber ringed the perimeter, and from a distance, the settlement looked like it had been assembled from survival and kept warm by violence.

People filled the exterior—men and women pacing with the restless energy of those who didn’t need orders to kill. They weren’t barbarians, not by title, not by creed. But their posture suggested brutality lived just beneath skin. Clothes were tattered and thick with grime. Hair braided like war had taught them how. Eyes sharp. Hungry. Watching.

Maverick slowed near a stone ridge, crouching behind a tall root twisted like a shield, gaze fixed on the nearest patrol.

"Doesn’t look subtle," he muttered.

Amari crouched beside him, scanning the settlement without flinching. "Stealth’s not going to serve us here."

Maverick frowned. "That’s not what I meant."

He gestured toward the people—toward the ones sharpening blades on their porches, the women adjusting armor while gripping iron clubs, the children chasing each other with sticks carved like daggers.

"They don’t walk like townsfolk," Maverick said. "They walk like they’ve all buried someone by hand."

Amari nodded slowly, his grip tightening around the Kusarigama wrapped at his side.

"There are fewer of them than Algoria," he offered. "Easier entry. Less resistance."

"Numbers were never the problem," Maverick replied. "It’s what those numbers want that gets us killed."

They both fell silent.

Because what waited ahead wasn’t just territory—it was temperament.

A kingdom that didn’t need walls because the citizens were walls. A settlement ruled by Lionel Xavier, a man whose reputation stretched far enough to bend borders, but whose presence remained elusive even to those who sought blood from it.

Johnny crouched behind the others, whispering to Kenneth beneath breath. "They look like they’d eat each other just to stay entertained."

Kenneth gave a small nod, eyes sharp beneath the low tree cover.

The shadows didn’t follow them into the kingdom—they swallowed them whole.

They slipped past the ridge under moonlight fractured by canopy, boots pressing against uneven stone paths slick with damp moss and the quiet reek of something not-quite-natural. No alarms. No sentries that raised voice. Only stares from civilians with knives beneath coats and children who watched them pass with expressions that didn’t fit their age.

Amari didn’t flinch.

He had seen this before.

But for the others, the deeper they went, the colder the silence grew—and the louder every footstep felt.

The center square offered no doubt about how Lionel Xavier ruled.

Bodies hung from timber frames, skin pale beneath dried streaks of crimson, some gagged, some smiling, all suspended like warning signs carved from breath. Flies drifted lazily across exposed limbs. Blood had dried into patterns beneath them, puddles that led outward in branching rivulets—like the kingdom itself bled from the middle.

Milo turned away slightly, one hand pulling at his collar.

Johnny muttered something beneath his breath that sounded like a prayer meant for soil.

Kenneth didn’t speak, but his grip tightened around the staff—twice, fast.

Shylo’s eyes traced not the bodies—but the expressions of those watching them from nearby rooftops. He was reading intent. Threat. Permission.

Maverick paused beside Amari.

"You sure we push forward?" he asked, voice low, knuckles resting against the hilts at his hips.

"They’re fewer," Amari replied.

"That’s not the point," Maverick said. "Numbers don’t matter when no one here’s afraid to die."

Amari didn’t answer right away.

He was looking beyond the square—beyond the blood and ropes and barely flickering torchlight—toward a building that stood taller than the rest. Its exterior wasn’t polished or reinforced. It didn’t need to be. It was the only structure without residents loitering near the stairs.

Stone walls.

Iron-locked doors.

Lanterns in windows that never flickered.

He raised a hand.

Pointed.

"That’s where Lionel Xavier and his family sleep."