Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 52: Interrogation

Chapter 52: Interrogation

The iron doors let out a loud groan as they opened, the sound echoing down the cold, damp halls of the dungeon. King Ivar stepped through, his figure big and intimidating, framed by the flickering light of the torches on the stone walls. Two guards followed behind him, each carrying trays of food. The smell of roasted meat and stale bread tried—but failed—to make the grim atmosphere a little less suffocating.

Apollo and Amari were in separate cells, both silent. Apollo wasn’t taking it well—he was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his fists clenching and unclenching as though he didn’t know where to channel all his frustration. Amari, on the other hand, sat cross-legged on the floor, looking calm enough on the surface but rigid, bracing himself like he knew something was coming.

The guards approached without care and practically threw the trays through the bars. One tray skidded right to Apollo’s feet. He stared at it for half a second before kicking it back toward the bars, sending food flying everywhere. Amari didn’t even flinch, his eyes just locked onto the tray sitting in his own cell, untouched.

"Eat," King Ivar said, his voice cutting through the heavy tension like it had blades on it. "You’re going to need your strength."

Apollo shot him the meanest glare he could muster but stayed silent. He clenched his fists tighter, letting his anger speak for itself. Amari didn’t break eye contact with the king, meeting his intimidating stare with a calm, steady look.

"I know who you are," Ivar said, his tone carrying a mix of judgment and disappointment. "Erling let you into my village, even though I specifically ordered him to send you away. Why are you still here?"

Amari took a breath, got to his feet, and dusted himself off before answering. His tone was measured and deliberate—he wasn’t about to lose his cool. "We didn’t know, Your Majesty. Erling never said anything about being sent away. Freyr took us in because we were hurt—on the verge of dying. We needed help."

For a second, something flashed across Ivar’s face. Was it doubt? Curiosity? Annoyance? Hard to say. He crossed his arms, studying Amari like he was trying to figure out if the boy was lying or just stupid.

"Injured or not, that doesn’t explain why everything’s gone to hell since you got here," Ivar said, his voice sharp. "My village is hanging by a thread, my people are restless, and now you sit in my dungeon, asking for sympathy."

Amari didn’t budge. His back straightened, and his tone grew even calmer. "We didn’t mean for any of this to happen. We came because we had no other options. We were desperate."

"And what exactly were you running from?" Ivar shot back, his words landing like punches. "Where are you from?"

Amari hesitated, just for a moment. Then he said, "Algoria."

That did it—something in Ivar’s face hardened immediately. He stepped closer to Amari’s cell, and suddenly his presence felt bigger, heavier. "Algoria," he repeated like it was venom. "What business do two boys from Algoria have here in Scyl? Why travel so far just to end up in my territory? What are you after?"

Amari opened his mouth to answer, but Ivar wasn’t about to let him. "Spies," Ivar barked, cutting him off before the words could leave his lips. "Messengers, maybe? Sent to gather secrets about my village while I hear rumors about your king meeting other leaders. If you think you can sneak into Scyl and meddle in my affairs, you’re gravely mistaken. Speak up, boy, and don’t waste my time—or things will only get worse for you."

His accusation hung in the air like a heavy weight, pressing down on both boys. Apollo stopped pacing and turned, his jaw tight as he looked between Amari and the king, his anger barely contained. Amari stayed focused on Ivar, choosing his next words carefully. He knew the wrong move here could cost them dearly, but he wasn’t going to let himself be bullied into silence.

Amari raises his voice slightly, his tone steady but firm. "We’re not spies, Your Majesty. We have no intention of harming your village or your people."

Apollo, still simmering with anger, steps forward, gripping the bars of his cell. "He’s right. We came here because we had nowhere else to go—not because we’re here to spy or cause trouble. You think we’re here for some king’s agenda? That’s not why we came."

King Ivar’s piercing gaze shifts between the two boys, scrutinizing their every word, every movement. His silence is heavy, like the storm clouds gathering outside the castle walls.

Amari continues, drawing a deep breath. "Our grandmother... she was kidnapped by men who worked for the same people behind all of this chaos. The same people who sent that man to kill in your village. She was taken from us and killed. We were left with nothing—no family, no home. All we wanted was safety."

Apollo’s fists tighten as he adds, his voice trembling, "Those people—whoever they are—they’ve ruined lives, including ours. We didn’t come here as enemies, we came here as survivors."

The king’s expression remains unreadable, but there is a shift in his posture—a slight relaxation of his shoulders, though his tone stays stern. "Survivors, you say," Ivar mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. "Perhaps. But survivors can become threats if given enough reason."

Amari meets Ivar’s gaze, unwavering. "We didn’t ask for this, Your Majesty. We never intended to bring trouble here."

The silence stretches as King Ivar processes their words. The tension in the room is palpable, and even Apollo’s anger simmers into quiet anticipation. At last, Ivar speaks, his voice heavy with authority.

"You are lucky," he says, his tone deliberate and measured, "that the fate of this village ends in peace after this ordeal. Chaos like this can ignite war if unchecked. And if it did, it would not matter whether you were spies or survivors—it would swallow everyone whole."

Ivar steps back, his gaze lingering on the boys. "But you speak truth—or perhaps you are simply clever. Time will tell. For now, you remain my prisoners."

With a swift turn, Ivar strides toward the door, the guards falling into step behind him. The iron doors close once again, leaving Amari and Apollo alone in the dim cells, their fates intertwined with the turmoil unfolding outside.

...

The search party had grown larger as word spread across the village. Fjorn and Rurik now marched with a company of men, their torches lighting up the shadowed streets. The chill of the night settled over Scyl, but the searchers moved with purpose, their collective determination cutting through the cold like a blade.

The guards were vigilant, scouring every corner of the village and venturing into the surrounding valleys. They peered into barns, storage sheds, and under carts, seeking any trace of the fugitive. Despite their thoroughness, frustration began to set in as the search yielded no results.

Fjorn signaled for the group to stop, his breath visible in the crisp night air. He turned to Rurik, his expression tense. "We’ve combed through the open areas. If he’s still within the village walls, there’s only one explanation—he’s taken shelter indoors."

Rurik frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You’re suggesting we start searching people’s homes?"

Fjorn nodded, though his face betrayed his reluctance. "I don’t like the idea any more than you do, but we don’t have a choice. If he’s hiding among us, the only way to find him is to look everywhere."

The men around them exchanged uneasy glances. One of the guards spoke up, his voice tinged with hesitation. "Invading people’s homes—it goes against our principles. The villagers trust us to protect them, not to violate their privacy."

Fjorn’s jaw tightened as he glanced at the men. "I understand your concerns," he said firmly, "but think about what’s at stake. This man has already killed, and he’s left Erling barely alive. If we let him escape, what’s to stop him from doing worse? We need to act now, for the safety of everyone in Scyl."

Rurik stepped forward, his voice gruff but steady. "No one here likes this, but our duty is to the people. If this fugitive is hiding in someone’s home, we’ll search quietly and respectfully—but we will search."

The men murmured their agreement, though their faces remained grim. As the group split into smaller teams, they moved with purpose, knocking on doors and announcing their intentions before entering. The villagers, though initially startled, complied hesitantly, their trust in the guards outweighing their discomfort.

Fjorn and Rurik took the lead, their torches casting long shadows as they worked their way through the village. Each step they took, each door they opened, brought them closer to uncovering the truth—or so they hoped. The weight of the task bore heavily on them, their thoughts lingering on the lives already lost and the danger that still loomed.