A grand carriage rolled through the wrought-iron gates of Ragnar's manor the next day, its black surface gleaming beneath the bright afternoon sun. The clatter of hooves slowed to silence, and moments later Nieah swept into Ragnar's study to inform him about their guest's arrival.
She stepped inside and greeted him with a dipped her head.
"Your Highness," she said without preamble, her voice carrying the crisp tone of someone bringing important news. "Lady Maelis and her son, Ansel, have arrived. They are waiting in the parlour."
Ragnar, seated behind his broad desk, did not look up immediately. He was in the process of melting a stick of deep red wax over the seam of a folded document, the slow drip forming a glossy seal.
"Did they say why they came?" he asked, his tone measured, as he let another droplet fall onto the parchment.
