The hour had long since slipped past midnight, and the manor sunk into a calm silence.
Quiet pressed in from every corner, broken only by the rhythmic sound of guards patrolling the outer corridors.
Even that sound felt muted, as though the night itself conspired to keep Ragnar alone with his thoughts.
In his study, lamplight pooled warmly over the broad oak desk, casting long shadows across the walls and illuminating stacks of ledgers spread open like dissected secrets. The scent of old paper and lamp oil hung in the air.
He had lost track of how many pages he had turned.
The books his guards had procured from Jireh lay before him, records salvaged from the estate of the imprisoned dignitary. Their leather bindings were worn smooth with age, ink faded in places, margins crowded with careful, almost frantic notations. These were not merely about household accounts or estate expenses. They stretched back years, decades even, into the era of the man's late father.
