The shift was quick. His smile melted off his face as soon as he stepped out of Circe's room, donning on an armor of stern stoicism that was all too familiar. It was one he had forged for himself as a child after one too many encounters with the queen.
He moved with the awkwardness of a newborn fawn, each step uncertain and sluggish as he struggled to find his balance. His legs trembled beneath him, as though the very act of standing was a battle he had yet to win. Casilo followed a short distance behind, silent and observant. He made no move to assist him. It wasn't out of cruelty, but because he understood Ragnar far too well. Stubbornness ran too deep in the prince's blood. Even if he were collapsing, he'd sooner grit his teeth and stumble forward than accept a helping hand.
