The words hung in the air like thick smoke, heavy and acrid, clinging to the vaulted ceiling of the throne room. For a heartbeat, there was stunned silence then the murmurs erupted anew, louder this time, sharpened with outrage and disbelief.
A lord draped in velvet coat leaned toward his neighbor, muttering something about "the demon spawn being a scourge upon the land," his lip curling with open contempt. Nearby, a lady pressed a lace handkerchief to her mouth and fanned herself dramatically, as though the revelation alone might rob her of breath.
Ragnar forced himself to remain still.
He made a deliberate effort to ignore one particular presence in the chamber, a man whose cunning stare bored into him more keenly than the shackles biting into his wrists.
