Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 54: for better of the Scyl

Chapter 54: for better of the Scyl

King Ivar stood in the center of the grand hall, his piercing gaze fixed on the two guards before him. The flickering torchlight cast long, dancing shadows across the stone walls, but the heat of the flames did little to thaw the icy tension that gripped the room.

"Where is my brother?" Ivar demanded, his voice sharp and commanding.

The guards exchanged uneasy glances, their armor clinking softly as they shifted nervously. One of them, a younger man with sweat beginning to bead on his brow, stepped forward hesitantly. "Your Majesty, we... we don’t know. He hasn’t been seen since earlier today. He left the castle grounds after speaking with some villagers."

Ivar’s jaw tightened as he took a slow, deliberate step closer. "You don’t know," he repeated, his tone low and brimming with menace. "And yet you stand here, claiming to guard this castle? My brother, the Prince, is missing, and this is all you have to offer?"

The guards stiffened, their eyes dropping to the floor in shame. The older of the two finally broke the silence, his voice steady but cautious. "Forgive us, Your Majesty. Prince Erling often moves among the people without informing us of his whereabouts. We will send word to the search teams to include him in their patrols."

Ivar turned away from them, his fists clenching tightly at his sides as he stared out of the tall windows that overlooked the village. Cold air seeped through the stone walls, but it did nothing to cool the fire of frustration burning within him. The weight of responsibility and the tension between him and Erling simmered just below the surface.

As the guards stood in uncertain silence, unsure if they had been dismissed, Ivar’s thoughts began to drift. The present faded as a memory from the past surfaced with vivid clarity—the day of their father’s funeral.

(12 years ago.)

The world seemed to hold its breath as the pyre was lit. The flames rose hungrily, crackling and hissing as they consumed the body of the former king. The square, usually bustling with life, was silent and heavy with grief, broken only by the sound of the fire and the occasional muffled sob from the crowd.

Villagers gathered in droves to pay their respects to a ruler who had commanded both their loyalty and admiration. His death had left a void felt deeply—not just by the royal family, but by every soul in Scyl. As the fire grew brighter, its orange glow illuminated the tear-streaked faces of the mourners, their grief almost tangible in the stifling stillness of the evening.

Among the royal family, Erling wept openly, his shoulders shaking as he clung to the edges of his ceremonial robe. Their mother, usually a figure of unshakable composure, leaned heavily on one of her daughters for support, her tears falling freely. The weight of loss pressed on all of them like a suffocating shroud.

All except for Ivar.

He stood apart from his family, his posture stiff and his expression unyielding as he faced the pyre. His face was devoid of emotion, a mask of stone betraying none of the turmoil inside. His sharp eyes never left the flames, even as the heat and light washed over him. Where others wept, Ivar remained silent, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

Erling turned toward him, his grief momentarily replaced by disbelief and frustration. Seeing Ivar’s stoicism amidst the sea of mourning left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Ivar," Erling whispered, his voice trembling. "Don’t you feel anything? Father’s gone, and you just... stand there?"

Ivar didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the flames. The crackling fire seemed even louder in the heavy silence that followed. Erling looked away, his lips pressed into a thin line, hurt and disillusioned.

The villagers, too, mourned their king in their own ways. Some wept openly, clinging to one another for comfort, while others stood motionless, their faces lined with sorrow. The loss felt deeply personal, as though the king had been more than just a ruler—a father figure to them all. Even the air seemed heavy, as if the very skies mourned his passing.

As the flames consumed the pyre, something shifted deep within Ivar. Beneath the stony facade, a storm brewed—a volatile mix of guilt, anger, and resolve. He blamed himself for not being able to save his father, for failing to do more to prevent the illness that had taken him. The rumors of a spreading virus beyond Scyl’s borders gnawed at him, fueling his growing paranoia.

The days that followed were colder—not because of the weather, but because of Ivar. The loss of the king weighed on everyone, but for Ivar, it became a festering wound that refused to heal.

He withdrew from his family, his demeanor growing colder and more distant with each passing day. Laughter and camaraderie with his siblings became a thing of the past, replaced by clipped words and sharp commands. The warmth that had once defined him seemed extinguished, leaving only a hardened shell.

Erling tried to reach out, to remind Ivar that they were still brothers, still family. But each attempt was met with indifference or outright rejection. The bond they had shared began to unravel, strained by grief and the growing wall of cold resolve surrounding Ivar.

Whispers of a deadly virus spreading beyond Scyl’s borders only worsened the divide. Where others dismissed the rumors as baseless, Ivar clung to them, convinced they posed an existential threat to the village. His paranoia fed his determination, and his mind began to spiral.

One night, addressing his advisors in the great hall, Ivar’s voice rang out with grim certainty. "My father’s death was no accident. It was weakness—negligence. That weakness will not touch Scyl again, not as long as I stand as its king."

His gaze swept the room, challenging anyone to object. "The rumors of the plague can’t be ignored. If we do nothing, it will find us. It will destroy us. We must act to protect what my father built. No one else will."

Driven by his fear, Ivar summoned his advisors and issued an order that would alter Scyl forever. "The village must be fortified," he declared. "Walls, strong and tall, will protect us. No one will come in or out without my permission."

Though his advisors hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances, none dared to challenge him. The king’s orders were final: the village would sever its ties with the outside world, closing itself off in a bid for survival.

Days later, standing atop a platform in the square, Ivar addressed the gathered villagers. His commanding voice echoed across the crowd. "People of Scyl, the outside world is full of dangers—disease, chaos, betrayal. From this day forward, we will prioritize our survival above all else."

The murmurs of dissent rippled through the crowd, but Ivar’s resolve did not waver. "Trade with other nations is forbidden. Anyone who breaks this decree will face imprisonment—or worse. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good."

The protests from the villagers grew louder—voices filled with fear, anger, and desperation. But Ivar turned away, unmoved, and walked back to the castle. His mind was set, and nothing would deter him from the path he had chosen.

Back in the castle, the air hung thick with tension. Erling stormed into his brother’s chamber, his brows furrowed and his fists clenched tightly at his sides. Ivar stood by the grand window, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out over the village below. The faint outlines of villagers moving through the streets held his attention, but he made no move to acknowledge his brother’s presence.

"Ivar," Erling began, his voice sharp and steady, though frustration simmered beneath the surface. "What was that announcement in the square? You’ve decided to build walls around the village—cutting off trade, isolating the people. This won’t be good for them. How are they supposed to feed their families if you shut them off from the world?"

Ivar didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the village, his posture as rigid as stone. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold and dismissive. "You wouldn’t understand, Erling. There’s a reason Father preferred me over you. I was always meant to rule, not you."

Erling’s breath caught for a moment, disbelief flashing across his face. "Is that what you think this is about? That Father preferred you? Ivar, this decision—it’s reckless. It’s not how Father taught us to lead. He believed in taking care of the people, not turning his back on them."

Ivar turned slowly to face his brother, his expression hardening. "Father’s teachings were naive, Erling. He may have been a good man, but he was weak. He trusted too much, and look where it got him. Dead. The world outside these walls is a threat, and I won’t let that threat destroy what he built."

Erling stepped closer, his voice rising slightly as his frustration broke through. "You’re wrong, Ivar. Father wasn’t weak—he was compassionate. He understood the people, their struggles, their needs. You, on the other hand—you’re nothing like him."

Ivar’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as his lips pressed into a thin line. The air between the two brothers crackled with unspoken resentment. "Leave the room," Ivar commanded, his voice low and brimming with menace. "I won’t waste my time arguing with you."

Erling hesitated, his gaze locked firmly on his brother’s. "You’re wrong about Father," he said quietly, his voice heavy with disappointment. "And you’re wrong about the people. They deserve better than this. You may call it strength, but all I see is fear, Ivar. Fear that blinds you to reason."