The moon hung high over the royal burial grounds, bathing the open field in pale silver light. Ragnar stood before his father's grave, head bowed in silence. The night air was cold and still. Circe stood a few steps behind him, giving him the privacy the moment demanded.
When a new king is crowned, it is customary for him to pay tribute to the king who came before him on the day of his coronation. It was a tradition upheld as a sign of respect for the rulers who had preceded him.
As Ragnar murmured the final words of tribute expected of a new king, Circe felt a cold, creeping sensation that had nothing to do with the night breeze. Her magic stirred on its own, reaching out like invisible fingers. Something dark and ancient pulsed in the distance, heavy and wrong.
She frowned, her gaze shifting past Ragnar toward the far end of the field.
"Ragnar," she said quietly, "what's over there?"
