Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 51: A goal to be a Destroyer.

Chapter 51: A goal to be a Destroyer.

Tobias leans back in the small, dimly lit room, pulling a worn pipe from his coat pocket. He frowns as he notices it’s covered in dust, then wipes it off with a deliberate, unhurried motion. His hands, despite the roughness of his work, handle the pipe with a certain care.

He strikes a match and lights the pipe, puffing a few times until a soft ember glows in the bowl. The familiar aroma of tobacco fills the air, and Tobias exhales a plume of smoke, his eyes never leaving the boy. The child remains frozen in place, clutching his book tightly against his chest.

"Now, listen here, kid," Tobias begins, his voice calm but firm. He gestures loosely with the pipe in hand. "I ain’t here to hurt you, or your folks. You keep quiet, and I’ll be gone ’fore you even notice I was here. Fair enough?"

The boy nods hesitantly, his wide eyes glistening with fear. Tobias leans forward slightly, his tone softening.

"Look, all I need is a place to lay low for a few hours. Nothin’ more. Maybe some new clothes, and, if you can swing it, a bit of help with this here scratch." He gestures toward the injury on his side, the blood seeping through his shirt now dark and sticky. "It don’t look too bad, but I figure it’d heal faster with a little fixin’ up."

The boy swallows hard, his voice barely audible. "I... I don’t know if I can help."

"You can," Tobias assures him, his expression serious yet oddly reassuring. "A smart kid like you? You can handle this. Now, go fetch me somethin’ for this wound—and maybe somethin’ I can wear that don’t scream ’outlaw.’ No tricks, though, you hear me?"

The boy hesitates, but the weight of Tobias’s calm yet commanding presence compels him to comply. He sets his book down and scurries off to gather what was requested.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the village, Fjorn and Rurik stride purposefully through the streets, their faces etched with determination. The night air is thick with tension as they encounter a group of castle guards fanning out across the area.

"Any sign of him?" Fjorn asks the nearest guard, who shakes his head grimly.

"Not yet," the guard replies. "But we’re certain he’s still within the village walls. No one gets in or out without us knowing. We’re checking every building, every house. He can’t hide forever."

Rurik crosses his arms, his sharp eyes scanning the darkened streets. "He’s desperate, no doubt. That makes him dangerous—and clever. We need to be thorough. Leave no stone unturned."

The guards nod in agreement, their swords glinting faintly in the torchlight as they disperse. Fjorn and Rurik linger for a moment, exchanging uneasy glances.

"You know what bothers me most?" Fjorn mutters, his voice low.

Rurik arches a brow. "What’s that?"

"That boy," Fjorn replies, his jaw tightening. "He saw his father killed. He’s just a kid, but he wants vengeance. What kind of world is this, where a child feels he has to take up a fight like this?"

Rurik exhales slowly, his expression hardening. "It’s the world we’re in, Fjorn. But we can’t let him carry that burden. If we don’t put an end to this now, it’ll only get worse—for him and everyone else."

The two men nod to each other, resolute. They head off to join the search, their steps heavy with the weight of what’s at stake. Their voices rise as they call out to the scattered guards, organizing efforts to sweep through the village methodically. The name Tobias Creed echoes through the alleys, each mention drawing closer to the outlaw’s hiding spot.

...

The dim light filtering through the cracks of the prison barely illuminates the bleak surroundings. Apollo, locked in one of the cells, paces back and forth like a caged lion. His fists clench and unclench as anger burns through him, refusing to dissipate. Every few steps, he slams his hand against the cold, unforgiving walls, the sound echoing through the narrow halls. The frustration boils over, and he punches harder, his breathing uneven.

In the cell across from him, Amari sits calmly, his back against the wall and his head tilted upward as he lets out a deep sigh. The contrast between them couldn’t be more apparent—Apollo’s fury versus Amari’s collected demeanor. Amari finally speaks, his voice steady yet firm enough to cut through Apollo’s anger.

"Stop it, Apollo," Amari says, his words carrying weight. "Hurting the wall isn’t going to change our situation."

Apollo stops mid-motion, his fist hovering inches from the stone surface. He turns to face Amari, his jaw tight and his eyes blazing with frustration. "Calm down? You want me to calm down? How do I calm down when we’re stuck here, powerless—again?"

Amari leans forward slightly, his tone unwavering. "Getting angry won’t change a thing. It won’t get us out of here, and it won’t fix what’s already happened."

Apollo laughs bitterly, shaking his head. "You always do this. Pretend like everything’s fine. But it’s not fine, Amari! We’ve failed. Again. Someone’s hurt—again—and we’re just sitting here, useless, watching it happen!"

The words hang in the air, thick with anguish. Amari remains quiet for a moment, studying Apollo. His silence is deliberate, measured, allowing Apollo’s emotions to spill out.

Apollo continues, his voice rising as he steps closer to the bars separating them. "I’m tired of this, Amari. I’m tired of being weak. Of not being able to do anything when it counts. I’m tired of watching people suffer because we can’t stop it."

Amari narrows his eyes, not in anger but in understanding. "And what are you going to do about it?"

"I’ll change," Apollo declares, his voice cracking but filled with resolve. "Even if it means forcing myself to grow up faster than I should. I’ll become stronger—strong enough to make sure no one gets hurt because of us ever again."

Amari tilts his head, his expression softening. "It’s not that simple, Apollo. Strength doesn’t come from forcing yourself to change overnight."

Apollo steps back, leaning against the wall, his fists still clenched. "I don’t care how hard it is. I don’t care if it’s too early for me to be doing this. I won’t be weak anymore. I’ll find a way—no matter what."

Amari takes a deep breath, his gaze steady and thoughtful. "If that’s what you truly want, I won’t stop you. But strength isn’t just about fighting, Apollo. It’s about control—knowing when to act and when to wait. Rushing in headfirst can make you stronger, sure. But it can also leave you broken."

Apollo doesn’t respond immediately. He stares at the floor, his expression conflicted. Though his anger hasn’t disappeared, there’s a flicker of understanding behind his eyes. The fire burning within him isn’t extinguished, but it begins to take shape, directed toward a goal rather than aimless fury.

In the grand dining hall, Ivar sits alone at the massive, ornately carved table. The fire in the hearth crackles softly, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Silver platters laden with roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and an assortment of fruits sit untouched before him. His expression is calm, his hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair as he gazes at the feast prepared in his honor.

The serene atmosphere is shattered when the heavy wooden doors creak open, and a pair of guards stride in. Their boots thud against the marble floor, echoing with urgency. Ivar looks up slowly, his piercing gaze locking onto them.

...

"Sire," one guard begins, bowing deeply. "We’ve captured two boys near the city—foreigners. They’re believed to be involved with the recent killings."

Ivar’s eyebrows lift slightly, though his expression remains composed. He leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping thoughtfully on the armrest. "Foreigners, you say?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," the guard replies, his voice steady but cautious. "They were apprehended earlier and are being held separately in the dungeons. One of them... he matches the description of someone who might have been let into the village by Prince Erling."

Ivar’s gaze sharpens, his jaw tightening slightly. "By Erling?" he repeats, his voice carrying a subtle edge. "And you’re uncertain if it’s the same pair?"

The guard hesitates, glancing briefly at his companion before responding. "We’re not certain, sire, but the timing and their status as outsiders raise suspicions."

Ivar exhales slowly, his gaze shifting to the untouched meal before him. For a moment, there’s silence, save for the faint crackle of the fire. When he speaks again, his tone is measured and deliberate.

"Very well. Let them remain in the dungeons until I am ready. I’ll question them myself—after I’ve finished my meal."

The guards bow in unison. "Yes, Your Majesty," they reply, backing out of the room with practiced precision.

As the doors close behind them, Ivar sits motionless for a moment, his thoughts churning behind his stoic façade. He reaches for his goblet, taking a slow sip of the dark red wine within. The flickering firelight dances in his eyes, revealing an intensity that grows with every passing moment.