The tall windows of Queen Nheera's chambers stood open to the evening air, gauzy curtains stirring softly as the sun set over the palace courtyard. She stood motionless at the center window, hands folded behind her back, her gaze fixed downward with unwavering intensity.
Ragnar had already mounted his horse when she spotted him.
His warhorse was truly an impressive sight, its breath puffing out in the cold air. Ragnar swung easily into the saddle despite the events of the day, posture straight, movements controlled. Even from this distance, there was no mistaking the ease with which he commanded attention. The guards parted for him without hesitation as the gates were drawn open.
Familiar hatred stirred in her chest. Not the hot, reckless kind but the cold, calculating sort that settled deep and lingered. He had slipped the noose again. Not by plain luck, but through his sharp wit. Through that infuriating cunningness that made him so difficult to crush outright.
