With the massive fortified quarantine infrastructure in City Titan fully completed and actively staffed, Ragnar had deemed it mathematically acceptable to return to the northern front.
Ragnar stood at the reinforced iron helm of his royal flagship, which now sat safely at anchor within the freezing waters of the Scottish lochs.
In his right hand, he cradled a heavy silver goblet filled with warmed, spiced cider. He took a slow, methodical sip, allowing the rich cinnamon and clove to ground his highly calculating mind against the biting chill of the highland winter.
The war had already been won a week prior with a single artillery barrage. He was here strictly as an administrator, waiting to collect the broken, bleeding remnants of a shattered foreign workforce.
Beside him stood Gyda, she was wrapped in a thick cloak of white dire-wolf fur.
Ragnar pulled her flush against his side, shielding her from the biting coastal draft.
