Carved wooden beams crossed the ceiling, their dark grain polished by time and care. The furniture was heavy and ornate, each chair and table etched with delicate patterns. A woven rug lay before the fire, its colors softened with age but still rich, threads of deep red and gold catching the glow of the flames.
Ragnar shut the door behind them, brushing snow from his coat. Melted flakes fell in quiet taps against the wooden floor.
"This was theirs," he said lightly, gesturing around the room. "Every piece."
Circe looked at him curiously. "Who?"
He moved past her, releasing her from his hold to run a hand over the back of one of the chairs as though greeting an old friend. "The cottage belonged to the couple who took me in when I was a baby. Faye and her husband, Edmund."
Her brows lifted in quiet surprise.
