The shadow cast by the candlelight in Ragnar's study made Master Varus look like a creature of ink and parchment. The diplomat stood with his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his gray robes, a posture that signaled both humility and a hidden, lethal readiness. In the North, a man showed his intentions with the weight of his axe; in the South, intention was buried under layers of subtext and polite smiles.
Ragnar let go of Elara's wrist, but he didn't sheathe his dagger. He stepped back, his eyes moving between the woman who had become his reluctant shadow and the man who claimed to hold the keys to the Empire's undoing.
"A bargain," Ragnar repeated, the word tasting like copper. "You speak of crowns and puppets while my walls are still smoking from the blood of your countrymen. Why should I believe a man who sneaks into a fortress like a thief?"
"Because a thief is exactly what the Empire needs right now, 'Sir Alaric'," Varus replied, his voice a silken purr. "The Emperor, may the Saints preserve his failing mind, is obsessed with the Northern border. He pours gold into the Legions while the granaries of the South rot and the merchants of the coast are bled dry by taxes. We represent the 'Silken Circle'—the men who actually keep the gears of civilization turning. We want stability. And stability requires a ruler who understands that war is a business, not a holy crusade."
The Web of the Silken Circle
Varus reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small, rolled parchment sealed with blue wax—the mark of the Imperial Treasury. He laid it on the desk over Ragnar's war map.
"The 1st and 2nd Legions, the Iron Guard, have already left the capital," Varus continued, his finger tracing the Great Southern Road. "They are the Emperor's personal hammer. They do not lose. They do not retreat. If they reach this castle, they will not siege it; they will dismantle it stone by stone until they find the man who shamed the 7th."
Ragnar looked at the map. The Iron Guard was a different beast entirely from the vanguard he had incinerated. These were professional killers, equipped with heavy scorpions and siege engines that could crack a fortress like a nut.
"And your proposal?" Ragnar asked, his mind already spinning through a thousand tactical permutations.
"Sabotage," Varus said. "The Iron Guard relies on a massive supply train—grain from the Reach, oil from the coast, and thousands of remount horses. We can ensure that those supplies... encounter difficulties. A bridge 'collapses' here. A granary 'accidentally' burns there. We can slow them down, weaken them, and leave them starving in the snow before they even see your walls."
"And in exchange?"
"In exchange, you will not march on the capital," Varus leaned forward, the mask of the diplomat slipping to reveal the cold eyes of a shark. "You will remain the 'Barbarian Scourge'. You will continue to threaten the border, keeping the Emperor's focus—and his remaining Legions—pinned here in the North. While he is distracted by you, we will move our pieces in the capital. When the time is right, the Emperor will suffer a 'sudden illness', and a new, more... reasonable regent will be appointed. You will be granted 'autonomy' over the Northern provinces. A King in all but name, paying a nominal tribute to the Empire to keep the peace."
The Wolf's Internal War
Ragnar turned away, walking to the window that looked out over the darkened inner bailey. Below, his tribesmen were sharpening spears by the firelight.
It's a trap, his instincts screamed. They want to use me as a bogeyman to scare the Southern populace into supporting a coup. Once they have their new Emperor, they'll turn on me and claim the glory of finally 'slaying the beast'.
But the logic was equally sharp. His people were tired. The winter was coming, and the Iron Guard was a threat he couldn't face in a straight fight—not yet. He needed time. He needed to train the White Wolves in the Southern formations he had envisioned. He needed to build the 'Wall of the Mountains'.
"You want me to be a monster," Ragnar said, turning back to face Varus. "To be the nightmare that keeps the children of the South awake, so your Circle can play politics in the dark."
"A monster with a crown is a god, Ragnar," Varus smiled. "Is that not what every barbarian dreams of?"
"Don't mistake me for a dreamer," Ragnar growled. He stepped up to the desk and picked up the blue-sealed parchment. "I will agree to your 'difficulties'. Slow the Iron Guard. But if I see a single scout from the 1st Legion within five leagues of my border, I will send the Baron's head to the capital in a crate filled with Northern lye. And yours will follow."
The First Payment
Varus bowed low, his gray robes sweeping the floor. "A pleasure doing business with a man of such... clarity. Elara will remain as our conduit. She knows how to reach us."
As Varus vanished back into the shadows of the corridor, Elara remained. She leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her leather-clad chest.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Wolf," she said. "The Silken Circle has strangled better men than you with a single thread."
"I know," Ragnar said, sitting back down at the desk. He didn't look at her; he looked at the signet ring on his finger. "But they think I'm playing for a crown. They think I want to be a King in their world."
"And what do you want?"
Ragnar looked at the fluted steel armor of Sir Alaric, still standing on its rack in the corner like a hollow ghost.
"I want a world where there are no more 'Alarics'," Ragnar whispered. "I want to burn the map, Elara. Not just change the lines on it."
The Rising Storm
The next morning, Ragnar did not wait for the Iron Guard to arrive. He called Hrolf to the tactical room.
"We are changing the plan," Ragnar said, his voice echoing with a new, dark authority. "We are not just defending Valerius. We are going to strike their supply lines before the Silken Circle even has a chance. We will use their 'sabotage' as a cover for our own raids."
Hrolf grinned, a savage expression of teeth and scars. "Now that sounds like a wolf's work. Where do we start?"
"We start at the Oakhaven Bridge," Ragnar said, pointing to a vital chokepoint on the map. "But we won't be wearing furs. Half the men will wear the captured surcoats of the 7th Legion. We're going to make it look like the survivors of the 'Fire' have turned rogue and are pillaging their own lands. Let the Empire's citizens fear their own protectors."
Ragnar realized then that the 'Serpent's Tongue' worked both ways. He would take the Circle's help, but he would sow so much chaos that when the dust settled, there would be no 'stable' Empire for them to inherit. He was no longer just a barbarian, and he was no longer a fake knight. He was something new. Something the world hadn't seen yet.
The Warlord of the North had truly begun his reign.