Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 55: Ruthless

Chapter 55: Ruthless

The people in Scyl started getting more and more restless as months ticked by behind the huge walls that boxed in their village. What used to be a lively community had turned gloomy and frustrated. The King’s orders had cut the village off from the outside world, and most families couldn’t make a living anymore. Quiet complaints spread around like sparks, threatening to light up into full-blown rebellion.

Dads, husbands, and sons who had been working outside the village before the walls came up were heartbroken when they tried to come home. At the gates, desperate to see their families, they were stopped cold by the guards, who blocked their way with sharp spears.

"You can’t come in," one guard said firmly, though the unease on his face showed he wasn’t happy about it.

The men begged, their voices full of emotion. "We’re from Scyl! Our families are in there! You can’t just lock us out!"

Even though the guards looked like they wanted to help, they stuck to their orders. "The king made it clear," one explained. "No one who’s been outside the walls can come back in. It’s to keep the village safe."

The workers were devastated. Their cries rang out, bouncing off the cold walls, and people inside the village heard them. Wives and kids rushed to the gates, shouting their loved ones’ names, their voices breaking with tears. But the guards stayed strong, following orders despite their personal feelings.

Inside, the village was boiling over with anger. Families being split apart only made people more furious about King Ivar’s rule. In every corner of the village, complaints grew louder. People doubted the king’s reasoning, his fear of outsiders, and his cold-hearted decisions.

Those walls, meant to protect Scyl, had turned into a prison, dividing the king from his people. But King Ivar stayed holed up in his castle, sure he was doing what was best for the kingdom.

The scene at the gates was heartbreaking as the workers kept begging the guards, their voices thick with desperation. "Please," one pleaded, his eyes full of pain. "Our families are in there—our wives, our kids! We’ve been gone for ages. We just want to go home!"

Another man stepped forward, fists clenched. "You can’t lock us out! This is our home. We’ve lived here all our lives!"

The guards, looking more uncomfortable by the second, still didn’t budge. One motioned for the men to back off. "King Ivar ordered this," he said firmly. "No one gets into Scyl unless he approves. You have to leave."

Those words hit the workers hard. Their protests got louder, their voices cracking with emotion. "Leave?" one of them shouted, his voice breaking. "Where are we supposed to go? There’s nothing for us out there! Our lives are here!"

The guards gripped their spears tighter, shifting nervously as the men pressed closer. "These are the king’s orders," the lead guard repeated, his voice sharper now. "Staying here puts the village in danger. Back away, or we’ll have to act."

The men froze for a moment, stuck between anger and despair. The guards standing firm, ready to fight, reminded them how helpless they were against the king’s commands.

One young worker stepped forward, his voice shaking. "My daughter’s inside," he said quietly, barely heard over the murmuring crowd. "She’s just a baby. She doesn’t even know who I am."

The guard paused, sympathy flickering on his face for a second. But he quickly pushed it aside, his voice colder now. "I’m sorry," he said. "But the king’s orders can’t be broken. No exceptions."

Defeated, the workers slumped, their anger fading into silence as the guards started pushing them away. Watching fathers and husbands being forced to leave was painful for everyone—families inside the walls could only stand helplessly behind the gates.

People crowded near the gates, their faces sad and anxious. Moms hugged their kids tightly, tears streaking down as they watched their loved ones disappear into the distance. When the heavy gates slammed shut, the echo was almost unbearable, sealing the villagers’ isolation and deepening their bitterness toward the king.

The scene at the gates was absolutely heartbreaking. The guards held their ground, refusing to let the tired men back into the village after months away. On the other side of the gates, wives and kids were crying out in anguish, their voices mixing with the frustrated protests of the workers stuck outside. It was a gut-wrenching mix of sadness that weighed heavy on everyone.

And then, Erling showed up. He moved quickly through the crowd, his tall figure catching everyone’s attention. People started whispering, their hope rekindled as he approached the guards. Calm but determined, he stepped right between the guards and the men.

"Let them in," Erling said, his voice steady and commanding.

The guards glanced at each other nervously, gripping their spears tightly. One tried to speak up, his discomfort obvious. "Your Highness, we have orders—"

"I’m royalty," Erling cut him off sharply, his tone brooking no argument. "And as royalty, I expect you to do as I say. These men belong to Scyl. Their families are inside, waiting for them. Don’t stop them."

The guards hesitated, Erling’s words clearly weighing on them. After a tense moment, they backed down, letting the gates creak open. The men didn’t waste time—they rushed through, tears in their eyes as they reunited with their families. Wives and kids ran to meet them, their cries of happiness filling the air and washing away some of the sadness from earlier.

The villagers looked at Erling with gratitude and respect, but his expression stayed serious. He knew his brother wouldn’t be happy about what he’d done. Without lingering, Erling turned away from the emotional reunions and headed toward the castle, his resolve hardening with every step.

Inside the castle, Ivar was in the grand hall, staring out the window like he often did. The cold, silent walls echoed faintly as Erling walked in, his steps firm and deliberate. Ivar turned slightly, his expression unreadable but cold.

"Erling," Ivar said calmly, but there was a warning in his voice. "I hear you’ve gone against my orders."

Erling stopped a few steps away, his eyes blazing with determination. "Yeah, I did. Because what you’re doing is wrong, Ivar. Those men have families—kids. You can’t just lock them out like this."

Ivar’s face hardened as he turned fully toward his younger brother. "I make these decisions to protect our people," he said coldly. "The risks outside the walls—disease, threats—they could destroy everything our father built. I won’t gamble it on emotions."

"Emotions?" Erling shot back, his voice rising. "This isn’t about emotions, Ivar. It’s about doing what’s right. These walls aren’t protecting anyone—they’re tearing people apart."

Ivar narrowed his eyes. "You think you know how to rule, Erling? You don’t. You don’t understand the weight of these choices. That’s why Father chose me."

Erling stepped closer, his tone quieter but no less fierce. "Father might have chosen you, but he never wanted you to rule like this. He taught us to care for the people, to lead with compassion. You’ve lost sight of that."

Ivar clenched his fists at his sides, his voice full of frustration. "Father’s ideals were naive," he said through gritted teeth. "Following his way would’ve made us weak, vulnerable. I’m protecting Scyl the only way I know how."

Erling shook his head, disappointment clear on his face. "You’re not protecting anyone, Ivar. You’re imprisoning them. You’ve broken the promises you made when you took the throne—to uphold Father’s legacy and care for the people. This... this isn’t what he would’ve wanted."

The brothers stared at each other in silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, Ivar’s voice broke through, sharp and final. "Get out, Erling. I don’t need your interference anymore."

Erling hesitated, searching Ivar’s face for any hint of understanding. Finding none, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing through the hall. Before he stepped out, he paused and looked back.

"You can call this strength, Ivar," he said quietly, "but it’s not. It’s fear. And it’s going to destroy everything Father worked for if you don’t stop."

With that, he left, the heavy doors slamming shut behind him. Ivar didn’t move, his eyes drifting back to the window. But his reflection in the glass looked like a man burdened by his choices.

The memory of Ivar’s coronation ceremony was burned into his mind—a moment he couldn’t shake, one that was both a victory and a heavy weight on his shoulders. It stood in sharp contrast to the chaos and misery now consuming Scyl, yet it lingered like a ghost from his past that refused to leave him.

The day had been warm, the square filled with an energy that masked the bittersweet truth of the event. The old king, once a powerful and commanding figure, was now barely able to stand. His robes hung loose on his fragile frame as he leaned heavily on his advisors for support. Every step he took toward the ceremonial platform looked like a battle, his labored breathing echoing the silent worries of the crowd.

Even in his weakened state, the old king held his head high, determined to see his final duty through—for his village and his family. His tired eyes, still bright with trust, rested on Ivar. The young man stood tall, his ceremonial robes spotless, his chin high as he prepared to take on the throne.

The villagers went quiet, sensing how monumental the moment was, as the old king lifted his trembling hand and placed the crown on Ivar’s head. His voice was frail but carried the weight of his authority as he spoke to the crowd.

"My son," he said, each word slow and strained. "I leave... Scyl in your hands. Protect it. Lead it... with strength... and compassion."

The villagers broke into cheers, their voices rising like a wave as Ivar stepped forward to address them. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from a fierce determination that fueled every word he spoke.

"My people!" Ivar’s voice was strong and confident as it echoed through the square. "Today begins a new Chapter for Scyl. I promise to lead you with unwavering strength and to protect our village with everything I have. Together, we will prosper. Together, we will thrive!"

The crowd roared, their love for their new king flooding him like a tide. They chanted his name, their faith in him unmistakable. In that moment, Ivar felt unstoppable. He had vowed great things, and they had believed him without question.

But now, standing alone in his cold, empty castle, surrounded by the walls he had ordered built, Ivar replayed that day in his mind. What once made him proud now felt like a cruel reminder of how far he’d fallen. The cheers that had lifted him up now seemed to mock him.

His fists clenched, his breathing grew uneven as the weight of his choices crashed down on him. He had promised prosperity, but the people’s lives had only grown harder. He had promised unity, but the walls had only divided them. He had promised strength, but whispers of rebellion now threatened his rule. Unspoken doubts ate away at him—not anger at his people, not even at Erling, but at himself.

He shut his eyes tight, trying to push the memory away, but it stayed. It was a brutal reminder of the promises he’d made and how far he was from keeping them.