Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 69: Eye for an Eye.

Chapter 69: Eye for an Eye.

(The next day)

The thunder of hooves rolled through the valley as a dozen riders closed in on the towering gates of Algoria. Their cloaks whipped behind them, dust rising in their wake as they pulled to a stop. The men sat tall, backs straight, armor gleaming under the heavy afternoon sun.

The guards at the entrance stiffened. Spears held tight, eyes wary.

"State your purpose," one of them demanded.

The lead rider stepped forward, voice carrying with authority. "We’re from Scyl Village. We bring King Ivar Ragnarsson."

A murmur rippled through the guards at the name. The tension in the air shifted slightly, the weight of it settling in their expressions.

Then, from the center of the group, King Ivar emerged.

He pulled back his hood, revealing sharp, calculating eyes. His expression gave nothing away.

The guards exchanged quick glances before one of them turned sharply toward his fellow soldier. "Send word to the castle. King Josef needs to know—now."

The messenger didn’t hesitate. He broke into a run, weaving through the crowded streets of Algoria, past traders calling out prices and merchants haggling over goods. He pushed through the palace doors, rushing straight into the grand halls.

Inside, King Josef sat in deep discussion with an elder advisor, his focus sharp.

Then—

The doors swung open.

The messenger stepped in hastily, breath short.

"My lord," he said quickly, bowing. "King Ivar of Scyl Village has arrived. He’s asking for an audience."

Josef’s expression darkened, surprise flickering in his gaze before he masked it with calm neutrality. He exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair.

"Bring him in."

King Josef leaned back, gaze thoughtful as he spoke to Saint Laurant, who stood beside him. "If Ivar’s here," Josef murmured, "he either plans to challenge our moves or—he’s reconsidering."

Saint Laurant sighed, arms crossed. "Hopefully the latter," he muttered. "I don’t want a war."

Outside, the sound of hooves against stone echoed through the palace walls. The city streets stirred as King Ivar and his men rode through. Eyes followed them from alleyways, whispers passing between merchants and guards. Not hostility—just curiosity. Wariness. Expectation.

At the entrance of the castle, Josef waited.

He stood tall, unreadable. He didn’t move as the group pulled to a stop before him.

Finally, he stepped forward, giving a polite nod. "Welcome to Algoria, King Ivar."

Ivar, composed as ever, returned the gesture. His sharp gaze flicked from Josef to the man standing beside him.

Josef motioned toward him. "Saint Laurant."

Laurant offered a slight bow—respectful, but firm.

Ivar acknowledged him with a nod, then turned back to Josef.

Josef stepped aside, motioning toward the open doors. "Come in."

The grand dining hall was silent as Josef led Ivar and his men inside. The tension hung thick in the air, unspoken but heavy. Saint Laurant sat beside Josef, his posture sharp, his eyes carefully assessing every move.

Josef raised a hand, signaling for Godfrey, the palace butler. "Tell the chef to prepare a meal for our guests."

Ivar barely gave the request a second before shaking his head. "Not necessary," he said flatly. "We’re here for business, not hospitality."

Josef held his gaze for a moment before nodding. "Then let’s not waste time." He leaned forward slightly. "I assume this is about our world plan?"

Ivar’s fingers tapped against the polished table. His expression hardened.

"No."

Josef raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"I don’t care about your world plan," Ivar continued, voice sharp. "I care about what your people did to my village."

Silence dropped over the room.

Josef’s expression flickered—subtle confusion—before he glanced toward Saint Laurant. The seasoned warrior remained quiet, his gaze steady but slightly furrowed.

Ivar leaned forward, resting both hands against the table. His words were measured, but irritation bled through.

"There are two kids," Ivar said. "We suspected them of spying for Algoria."

Josef stayed calm, his voice neutral. "And you think they were working under my command?"

Ivar’s eyes darkened. "You’re denying it?"

Josef exhaled, leaning back, utterly unfazed. "If they were spies, I wouldn’t know. The people of Algoria move freely. I don’t monitor every person leaving and entering." He gave a slight shrug, casual but dismissive.

A subtle insult.

Ivar clenched his jaw. "So you have no control over your own people?" He scoffed. "No wonder they do whatever they want."

Josef smiled slightly, unreadable. "That’s called freedom."

Ivar slammed his palm against the table. "We lost soldiers because of this."

Josef remained still.

Ivar’s voice lowered, dangerously quiet. "I’m here to take an eye for an eye, Josef. For what was lost—for my people."

The weight in the room deepened.

Saint Laurant shifted slightly. Josef tapped his fingers against the wood, thinking.

This wasn’t just about those kids.

This was about power.

Josef exhaled slowly, meeting Ivar’s gaze head-on. "If you don’t have proof that these two did what you claim, then there’s nothing to discuss. I won’t hand over people I don’t know."

Ivar’s jaw tightened. "You’re making the wrong decision."

Josef sighed, tapping idly against the table. "I can’t just go around executing my own people based on suspicion." His tone sharpened slightly. "We’re not Barbarians."

Ivar’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. He leaned forward just slightly, voice smooth but sharp. "Are you calling us Barbarians?"

Silence stretched.

Josef didn’t waver.

Saint Laurant observed quietly, watching how the tension edged closer to something more dangerous.

Outside, the wind curled through the city streets, carrying whispers of Scyl Village’s riders still lingering at the gates.

Inside the castle, two kings sat across from each other—each waiting for the other to make the next move.

Josef remained seated, his gaze steady as he spoke, voice calm but firm. "We are not Barbarians," he said plainly. "But if we do barbaric things, what’s stopping us from becoming them?"

The words lingered, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Ivar’s expression darkened. Then, without a word, he stood.

His men straightened as he pushed his chair back, his movements slow, deliberate. His sharp eyes locked onto Josef, unreadable—but there was no mistaking the weight behind them.

"You’ll regret this decision," Ivar said, his voice cool, unwavering.

Josef remained still, unflinching.

Ivar turned without hesitation, striding toward the exit, his troops following him in perfect, disciplined formation. The sound of their boots echoed through the hall, growing distant as they left the castle.

Saint Laurant exhaled, watching the doors swing shut behind them.

Josef stayed silent, fingers tapping idly against the table.

Outside, the wind howled through the streets of Algoria.

Inside, the tension remained, heavier than before.