What Justice Must Accomplish | Leo & Ragnar

Ragnar Lothbrok

Bjorn Ironside had to take a few hits when his father woke from his months-long sleep. Ragnar was displeased about Floki’s public punishment. Displeased about Rollo being left at the head of their Paris stronghold. Displeased about the trading of a potential asset in a man named Leontios. It caused such a torrent of emotions to rip through the young man. A part of him was angry at his father. But he was more angry at himself, because with but a few words from his father, he saw how wrong he’d been. How little he knew and understood. So when Ragnar trusted him to help right at least one of his wrongs, he was very grateful. And he would prove himself to Ragnar.

Bjorn entered on the day of the supposed trade for Leontios — gold to the three greedy men in exchange for him — and he finally asked a question Ragnar had expected him to ask, frankly, days ago. “Why is this man so important to you, father?”

Ragnar sat so informally on his throne, leaned over with his elbows on his knees and his fingertips pressed together. He smiled wide. Better late than never, he supposed. “His armor, for one. He may have been fighting for the Franks, but he wasn’t just one of them. He fought differently. Intelligently.” Ragnar tapped his temple. “And I heard him speaking our language.”

“And you saw all that in the heat of battle?” Bjorn had entered the hall with a defensiveness, it seemed, and now it was only becoming more evident.

Ragnar wasn’t smiling now, nor losing his temper. “It is not unwise to question, I suppose,” was all he said about that. “Do you not think we should save him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Ragnar’s calm, parental tone managed to get through to Bjorn. At least a little. He confessed, “I just want to understand.”

Ragnar rose and put a hand to his shoulder. “Then stop talking. Listen. And watch.”

And Bjorn did watch. He watched as Ragnar divided their ample forces to surround the small house. Some neighbors were under siege in their own homes, others weren’t willing to interfere whatsoever, and Ragnar knew who was who, because he was a King who knew his people — who had an idea of each of the families, at least. These three greedy men, Asalf and his two sons, Vyk and Harsalf, didn’t have many allies. They were more of a drain on Kattegat than anything. Ragnar had to judge each of them more than once for petty crimes, even violence. A more ruthless King would hang them before the Great Hall for their many infractions, but Ragnar was always eager to listen and learn from his people, so they’d get another all too fair hearing.

But it would be Ragnar, of course, to decide the punishment once the people proclaimed them guilty. And though Ragnar didn’t show his anger to Bjorn, he was livid. Leontios was his. Now, for all he knew, the man was soured on Kattegat and the Norsemen, and there would be no changing his mind. Ragnar had to be careful how he played this. Not overly eager but wanting to ingratiate this man who seemed strong, smart, capable. He knew all too intimately how special, how rare, certain people were. He’d had that same instinct with Athelstan. Leontios caught his attention in a similar way.

Ragnar gave a loud whistle from outside the small house, his hands on his hips, a carriage carrying a chest of gold behind him, his King sword gleaming on his hip. He stayed out in the open, away from the door to avoid a potential sudden attack. Meanwhile, his men were out of sight, just waiting when the door cracked open and a man with stringy black hair poked his head out. “I did not think you would come yourself, King Ragnar!”

Softly spoken, “You have my prisoner. Deliver him to me and all this..” He stepped aside, giving a wave at the gleaming gold. “.. is yours.”

“No,” he growled. “You might give us gold today, but you have the resources to hunt us down when we run!”

A pitying expression crossed Ragnar’s face, head cocking to one side. “I cannot be faulted for your poor planning, Asalf.” He looked around him then, eyes narrowing as he attempted to peer into the darkness. “How do I even know he is still alive?”

Asalf glowered… then reluctantly turned and summoned his sons to haul the crudely chained and gagged man into view. Vyk and Harlsalf seemed to throughly sandwich Leontios where he was, and Asalf seemed ready to slam the door closed at a moment’s notice.

Ragnar looked covetous. But angry. Because Leontios looked like he’d been harmed. He hoped that, just maybe, it was all from the fight in Paris, but.. the King doubted it. His blue eyes grew unnervingly icy as he regarded Asalf now. “If you hand him over now, you collect your gold. If you hurt him, kill him, or keep him, you forfeit your right to all your property. You forfeit your right to live and your place in Valhalla if you die doing such dishonor to me and to your people.”

Still, Bjorn was struggling to understand. But at least he was learning to trust. And more than that, he was learning, seeing the way his father wielded his diplomacy and his anger so effectively. It was quite the variable that these men seemed so thoughtless. They had no plan. They were in danger of acting dangerously, without thinking. And that was precisely why Bjorn was ready when Asalf went for it. Asalf let out a battle cry and threw open the door to reveal an ax he’d been hiding.

The whole thing happened so fast. Bjorn subdued Asalf as he swung for Ragnar, and since Ragnar didn’t have to defend himself, he was able to help subdue Vyk and Harsalf as they tried, belatedly, to defend their father. Mere seconds. “Take them to the prison cell,” Ragnar told his men, re-sheathing his sword.

“And what about him?” asked Bjorn.

Ragnar looked to another one of his men. “Get him out of those chains. Get his wounds treated. Give him food, a bath, a bed. Whatever he needs.”

Ragnar set eyes on Leontios now, and he looked remorseful as he stepped to him and carefully used his knife to remove his gag. “I will repay you for what you’ve endured you’re welcome in my hall, and..” A look over his shoulder to the chest of gold and back. “.. that gold is yours.” He gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes before the pair had to part for the moment. Leontios needed relaxation. Care. Ragnar, however, had to smooth things over with his sieges, had to talk and charm and drink with these people to make sure no poison of doubt was spreading.

Behind Ragnar’s Great Hall was his own home and several places — one place was Bjorn’s. Another had been given to Leontios for the night. It was late when Ragnar got back, and instead of going home and going to bed like a part of him wanted to, he went to where Leontios was staying and knocked quietly on the door. Maybe all the ale had softened him. Made him less Kingly and more considerate, because he was hoping not to wake him if he was asleep. But if he was awake, he knew he had to extend his care, not just by lending servants and beds and gifts of gold but by his presence. His time. For a King’s time was his most precious resource.

Leontios Katakalon

The fire was low, banked under ash and left to smolder. Its light stretched long over the timbered walls of the small guest hall, flickering across surfaces that had not been his, but for one night pretended to be. Soft pelts lay beneath him on the bed, the linen unfamiliar but clean. A basin steamed near the hearth where the healer had left it, its surface dusted with crushed marjoram. Somewhere deeper in the compound, music drifted like a ghost, a drum’s heartbeat under the murmuring of half-drunken voices.

Leontios had not touched the gold.

It sat in the corner, unopened, silent and accusing. A symbol too loud in a room so quiet.

His wrists ached where the irons had chafed. His lip bore the split of someone’s elbow, and his ribs sang with a deep bruise. But it wasn’t the pain that kept him upright, sitting rigid on the edge of the bed with a fur drawn across his shoulders. It was the anger, slow-burning, banked like the fire. It was calculation. The sound of chains still ghosted in his ears, as if the memory of them would take longer to shed than the bruises.

They had not broken him.
But they had tried.

He could still see Asalf’s smirk, the sloppily hidden envy in Vyk’s eyes, the way the younger one, Harsalf, flinched every time Leontios met his gaze. They had struck him not for answers but for sport. For fear. For ignorance.

And then Ragnar had come. Not a blade in hand, but diplomacy sharpened to a spearpoint. And gold. And concern. Too much concern.

That was the most dangerous part.

The knock came softly, like a stone tapping glass, and it startled him despite himself. His fingers reflexively reached for the dagger at his belt, except, of course, there was none. He was unarmed. A guest. A patient. A rescued man.

He did not rise immediately.

His eyes wandered the space again, struck by how very far he was from the world that had shaped him. In Constantinople, his sleeping chamber had been tiled and cool, walls painted with saints and mathematics, the air perfumed with oils and old scrolls. In Paris, his quarters had been cold, yes, but appointed with care. Pillowed seats, polished ironwork, the enforced civility of politics.

Here, there were furs. Smoke. Stone bowls. Everything warm but feral. Nothing disguised itself.

Even this act of comfort carried no pretense. It was not cloaked in ceremony, not wrapped in velvet diplomacy. Ragnar had offered him gold plainly, like tossing meat to a wolf. No speeches, no oaths. And perhaps that honesty, more than anything, disoriented him.

His eyes flicked toward the door, the wood too fine for a prison, too plain for a court. The only other opening in the room was a small wooden shutter set high in the wall, propped slightly ajar to let the smoke out and the cold in. It was not meant for escape. Only breath.

The knock had not come from a servant. He already knew that. Servants did not hesitate. Servants did not knock like they were not sure they should.

Only one man in Kattegat would.

Leontios stood slowly, legs stiff from inaction and healing bruises. The fire cracked. A gust of wind slipped through the shutter and stirred the smoke.

Then he crossed the room and opened the door.

Ragnar Lothbrok

Ragnar gave a friendly smile when he locked eyes with the interesting man. His eyes gave a slight drunken gleam, but Ragnar was not a typical drunkard. Probably just a little more honest about his thoughts, which were, in this case, well-articulated. He wanted to get to know Leontios. Make a friend of him.

True sympathy shined in his eyes the next moment to see the man so hurt. Such a far cry from that glorious fighter he’d observed in Paris. “I came to see if you have been well tended to. May I come in? I won’t keep you long.” He held up a little satchel in his hand. “I brought herbs that will help with your pain and help you to sleep.”

Ragnar was eager to know everything about Leontios’s world. He’d never even heard of Constantinople, but he was sure that he’d forced this man to their more primitive corner of Midgard. He liked to think they could learn from each other, though. After all, Ragnar Lothbrok’s favor was more valuable than it appeared as he stood there offering pleasantries and medicines as though he were a normal man.

Leontios Katakalon

The door opened only partway at first, as though the man behind it needed a moment to decide whether the world on the other side had changed.

Smoke curled lazily from the hearth. The fire was low but steady, its light stretching unevenly across timber walls and the fur-draped bed he had not yet convinced himself to lie fully upon despite his exhaustion. For a breath, he said nothing. He simply looked. First at the man before him, then at the satchel in his hand, and finally at the way the night pressed around them both like held breath.

“You may come in,” he said at last, voice quiet but clear, the Latin shaped carefully. He wasn't sure he knew enough Norse to converse with the likes of a king. “If you can sit beside someone who does not yet know where he stands.”

He stepped aside, not out of habit or obedience, but because he chose to. That mattered.

The door shut behind Ragnar, and for a moment there was only the sound of the wind against the shutter and the soft crackle of the coals. Leontios looked toward the pouch again.

“Marjoram and yarrow,” he observed, with a flick of his fingers toward the scent. “You are either better read than most kings or you keep a clever woman nearby.” He said it without mockery, only quiet interest. The scent stirred something familiar in him, something monastic, far from here.

He stayed standing, posture upright out of pride more than comfort. A sharp breath reminded him of the bruising along his side, faint now but still answering to motion. He did not wince. Instead, his gaze slid toward the fire.

“I do not remember the final blow,” he said, as if continuing a thought Ragnar had not voiced. “I remember fighting in the smoke. So much smoke. Then the screaming. Not in Greek, not in Latin. A rougher tongue, half-broken from Latin’s spine. The voice of the street, the market, the dying. I never learned its name, but I knew it by its fear.”

His fingers curled faintly, like they still held the handle of a tool. He watched Ragnar’s face as he spoke, measuring the small delays between words, the flickers of comprehension. The King understood him. Enough, at least. Perhaps more than he let on. Or perhaps he simply liked the sound of intelligence and claimed it by proximity.

“I awoke with salt in my mouth and blood on my skin, and heard your men speak. Not to me, but around me. As if I had already been reduced to coin and cargo.”

He drew a breath that felt like it scraped something loose inside him, then lowered himself onto the edge of the bed with slow, deliberate grace. One hand rested on his thigh. The other reached toward the satchel but stopped short.

“You say you want to know me,” he said, looking up at last, eyes shadowed but steady. “Is this how your people begin such things? With gentleness after thunder? With gold after blood?”

There was no accusation in it. Not exactly. Only the quiet edge of a man who had been thrown into a new world and was still deciding whether he would shape it or merely survive it.

Ragnar Lothbrok

Ragnar didn’t care for the sound of intelligence. Quite the opposite, actually. There was no shortage of men seeking the right combination of words, stories, opinions, advice, that might make them wise, and many attempted to appeal to the King as if his approval counted most of all. But Ragnar knew, and had seen, that wisdom was born not from forming opinions and talking about them but from listening. Silence. Observation. And those were the guiding principles he applied now as he listened to Leontios and watched him closely. Ragnar smiled a little when he took note of the herbs. His wife employed many wise women, and though Ragnar was a busy man, that particular night he’d stood over the woman who crafted the medicine he brought, asked a few questions… He was no expert, but he liked to learn where he could, and he believed in having due reverence and respect for those who could be experts in any one thing, whether it was medicine magic, boat-building, blacksmithing… He wonder what Leontios’s strengths were. He seemed well-traveled, he knew several languages, fought extraordinarily…

Ragnar’s expression was careful. He’d gone there to ask Leontios what happened and how, exactly, he’d faired, and he was relieved it didn’t seem to take any coaxing. He looked angry, though. Indignant on the man’s behalf, his eyes burning, his jaw clenching to hear how he’d been utterly overlooked and treated like a slave in his absence. He tensed with the urge to help the injured man as he lowered himself. It was a travesty to see such a fate befall someone like him — to see him so hurt, so beaten down. The Viking King felt a fierce sort of protectiveness over him, but what could it mean after all he endured? So his questions were fair ones.

Best to answer honestly. “No. In my world, it is only blood after blood. Thunder upon thunder. I lay dying since we arrived here from Paris, so you were taken from me, but the truth is, I coveted you that day because I saw what you did in battle. Not just with your body but with your wit. I wanted to bring you here because I did not want to see you die that day.” That irritation resurfaced now, shoulders tensing to think of what his good intentions had resulted in. He stared bitterly into the fire. “The gold is no symbol,” he assured. “I want you to survive here. You were meant to come here, free to move about this world as you please.” A smile his way. “And, as King, I can bring that about for you. Or.. I could gift you a boat for your travels elsewhere.”

… He could. He didn’t say that he would, necessarily.

Leontios Katakalon

The firelight flickered across the sharp lines of his face as he listened. For a moment, Leontios said nothing, just watched Ragnar in profile, the way the man’s gaze stayed fixed on the flames like he was trying to burn his own regret into them.

Then, quietly, “Coveting is a strange way to save a man.”

He let the words hang, not harshly, but with the weight of something worn thin.

“I recall little of that day, but I remember the moment I knew I would not die quickly. Not by the sword, at least. That moment was not a kindness.” He reached finally for the satchel, thumbed it open, inspecting the herbs with the quiet expertise of someone who had once mixed such things himself. “Survival, I’ve found, is rarely a favor. It’s a transaction.”

There was no venom in it. Only fact.

“You say I was meant to come here. That I may move freely, or sail away if I choose.” He glanced over, the barest flicker of a smile curling one corner of his mouth. “Do all your guests require rescue, chains, and gold before they are welcome?”

The smile faded, leaving something more tempered behind.

“I do not mock your offer. Nor your concern. But the truth is this: I do not know what freedom looks like here. Not yet. And I have never been fond of gifts that come wrapped in silence.”

He looked back to the fire, voice quiet again.

“Freedom begins not with open doors, but with unguarded speech. Let me begin there.”

Ragnar Lothbrok

Ragnar visibly, dramatically tensed, his spine and shoulders straightening as he was called out for his... lack of tact? He shuddered to think of someone like Leontios dying that day, and with his aim to conquer all of Paris he could hardly leave the man to his own retreat with the enemy, where any unwitting viking might slay him. No, in such a perilous situation, being taken into the Viking King's protective custody had been best, Ragnar thought.

Ragnar held his hands out over the fire, turning to look at Leontios -- strange, long name, that; hard to pronounce, soft as it was on Ragnar's nordic tongue -- and his stare failed to settle. There was something turning, swirling behind his eyes as he thought back to that day, and while his guest was clearly exhausted, he was very well-spoken. His words were sharp and provoking, and it was this and nothing else that Ragnar wanted. The fact that he was magnificent at defending himself was just essential. So Ragnar happily lapped up what he had to say, knowing that the man was unconscious of the gift he was already giving, and relented a little in his harshness as he responded.

Unguarded speech.

Ragnar looked back to the fire with a stubborn jut of his chin and an impish smile on his face. "I will speak unguarded then. People I can trust are seldom-found, and even more seldomly those who can grasp what it means to be a King without being greedy for it. You don't appear greedy to me, for I have offered you gold twice now, and still you won't take it." He sounded impressed, because he was. Then his smile fell. His tension returning as he looked at him now. "Your captors will be judged tomorrow. Whether they live will not be up to the people. Only the manner of their deaths, for I regret what happened to you." Now more honest still as he leaned toward him, voice softer. "I believe you to be of a rare sort. Brave and wise. On the battlefield I had no time to conjure any means of use for you. All I could think was that you had a fire in you I did not want to see snuffed out."

Leontios Katakalon

The fire crackled, filling the silence like breath in a chamber too used to stillness.

“I believe you,” Leontios said at last, voice low, the syllables unhurried. “Not because you swore it, or offered gold, or looked like a man carrying guilt. I believe you because you listened. Most men flinch in the face of pain. You watched.”

He didn’t look at Ragnar directly when he said it, but the words were not evasive. Just thoughtful. Measured. Earned.

“I’ve known many kings,” Leontios added after a pause. “Some in name, some in ambition, some in the way they demand the air change when they enter a room.” A flick of his eyes now, sidelong. “Few who understand what it costs to look beyond their reach. Fewer still who ask if the fire they admire is burning something down.”

His fingers brushed the edge of the satchel, not out of need, but habit. Something to keep the hands occupied while the mind worked. A thing to do while thinking.

“You believe I’m rare. That may be true. But rarity tends to attract chains before it earns respect. You ask me to live freely here. Then tell me... what would you ask of such a man? If I remain, who do you mean for me to become?”

He finally turned fully toward Ragnar, not as a subject, not as a guest, but as a man trying to decide whether to build something or walk away.

“Because no one offers freedom without purpose. And I have been shaped too carefully to be used blindly.”

Ragnar Lothbrok

An echo of that covetousness entered Ragnar’s gaze when Leontios asked him point blank, what he wanted. He subdued that longing expression with a deep breath that came out like a blasè sigh as he looked back to the fire. No longer faced him so blatantly, his hands on his knees now.

Ragnar did not always have the best of intentions. The ruler was quite unruly with his power now that all his good intentions gave way to ashes. Darkness. He’d led his own warriors to Valhalla to prove a point to those he actually cared about. Those who betrayed him. Didn’t believe in him. The defeats they suffered would be the stuff of legend of all time. All because he held a grudge. So he doubted he could be considered a good man anymore. And he didn’t much care… until this moment. Oh, it made him smile to care about such a thing again. The last time he had had been under Athelstan’s pure and trusting expression. Ah, but he was dead. And just like that, his smile was gone as quickly as it had surfaced, an unbidden sadness taking its place. A slight dejection, the smallest of pouts. A resentful furrow to his brow. No one was usually privy to this. Maybe it was the ale.

“That’s the point,” he spoke softly. Then his eyes returned to the man with kind eyes and wise words. His own gaze was intense, his words fervent when he told him. “All I want from you.. is your advice. I want you unfettered in every way you or I could imagine. I have the means to foster your talents, your devisings, your dreams. I want to do whatever it takes to keep you sharp. Happy and, perhaps, obliging so you might tell me your thoughts about the things you see around here.” He smiled. And it was clear that the King was lacking in people he could trust. “I am a King and you have known Kings, and you are smart. I trust you can understand that riches and power are only cared for by those who don’t have them. That once you do, you learn that what really matters is entirely different.” A challenging, wild gleam in his eye. “Or am I wrong, Leon-tee-os?”

Leontios Katakalon

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, not quite disbelief. Something smaller. Something private.

He looked down toward the satchel now resting between them, fingers idly tracing its folded edge. “That’s a rare kind of ambition,” he said after a long pause, voice low, almost thoughtful. “To want only a man’s mind. No blood oath. No servitude. No price. Just perspective.”

Another silence followed, sharper this time. Measured. He eventually looked back at Ragnar, gaze steady, words cooling into precision.

“You say you want me unfettered. That you would have me content, sharp, and generous with what I see. But even generosity has a cost. And you are not the first king to seek counsel dressed as companionship.”

He let that sit before continuing, tone not unkind, but unflinching.

“I’ve given advice before. To emperors. To generals. Some paid well and listened. Most paid more dearly for refusing to. And I have no desire to offer insight to a man who only wants his instincts confirmed.”

The edge faded slightly. His voice softened with thought.

“But if you mean it, if you truly want the shape of my thoughts as they are, not as you wish them to be, then yes. I can offer that.”

He leaned back slowly, drawing a breath that no longer caught against his ribs, but still ached. “And if the name comes out unfamiliar on your tongue, that’s no offense. I’ve heard far worse from better-dressed men. No offense.”

A flicker of dry humor surfaced. Not unkind. Simply real. He met Ragnar’s eyes again, not as a challenge, but as a quiet offering.

“You want my thoughts. Ask.”

Ragnar Lothbrok

Ragnar couldn’t help but smile, finding himself entertained, invigorated to hear Leontios speak. Something in his every word did, indeed, tell Ragnar Lothbrok that his instincts were right. He’d found a glorious treasure. What made him smile most of all, though, was the man’s cynicism. Ragnar wanted to tell him with a burst, but I DO want your companionship! There was a joy in the Viking’s eyes that he kept subdued with effort since he didn’t want to look too proud. After all, a person was not like a place to be conquered. He didn’t want to insult the person whose generosity he now relied upon.

And Leontios’s words were fair. Most men did want to have their thoughts validated, but this was never Ragnar Lothbrok. He liked odd, worldly people. Travelers. Always looked for people on the edges of things to talk to, always sought that perspective that went beyond what his one mind and two eyes could contain. His quest for new knowledge had always bordered on madness. And here, with Leontee— by all the gods, to even think the name was laborious, thought Ragnar. For the sake of clarity, it might need to be shortened. But whether it was Leon or a wanderer gifting him a sun stone, he felt an echo of that wonder in his very spirit, for the unknown was what gave life meaning now, according to Ragnar. And here Leon was, offering him a wealth of it with his fresh eyes. A new world in a man’s perspective.

“I should like to call you Leon,” he confided with a playful smile. Then his expression grew scrutinizing as he turned toward him fully now, elbows on his knees, pointer fingers steepled into a point as he wanted to further test his revelations that Leon was, most certainly, a man worth his precious time. “If you were in my position, seeking to win the favor of someone who’d been hurt under your rule” — there was a tender regret in his eyes, his tone. He saw how sore the man was. Such a beautiful man to be so hurt. There was this impulse to tend to his wounds, examine his bruises. Oh, but that was neither here nor there for the moment. Ragnar meant business now. “… what would you do to punish his captors? What would you do to make things truly right, if you were me?” In his passionate speech, his hand went to the man’s knee.

Leontios Katakalon

The answer mulled over in his mind for a good while with nothing said but a nod of acceptance of the new nickname. The fire crackled in the background, its glowing warmth bathing them both.

Leontios sat still, not in tension, but in thought. His fingers brushed the edge of the bench, slow and rhythmic, as though mapping the question in silence before he spoke. When he finally did, his voice was quiet, even.

“If I were you, King Ragnar,” he said, “I would begin by asking what justice must accomplish. Is it punishment alone, or prevention? Is it meant to restore balance, or to reassure your people that you rule with both strength and care?”

His eyes moved to the fire, then back to Ragnar. The King’s hand still rested lightly on his knee. Leontios hadn’t flinched. It was the first kind touch he’d received since Paris: unexpected, unforced. Warm through the fabric. Even for a man as bruised as he, the awareness of it was keen.

And Ragnar, for all his roughness, was not unpleasant to look at. Handsome, in a way that made sense in this place. Like a wolf in good health. Fierce, not mindless. Alive.

“I would ask,” Leontios continued, “what these men mean to Kattegat. Are they merely criminals, or once-useful tools turned dull? Have they paid for their violence before, or do they simply pass it around like a torch?”

His posture shifted slightly, but not away. Still upright. Still composed.

“As for the offense itself... what matters most is not what it cost me, but what it cost you. They held me in defiance of your rule. That affront must be answered. Not for my dignity, but for the health of your reign.”

He paused, letting that land before adding, more softly, “The law is yours to enforce. The symbol is yours to shape.”

His tone did not waver.

“I do not require suffering to feel whole. There is no debt I need repaid in pain. But I would advise this: make it impossible for them to do harm again. Whether by exile, humiliation, or a clean death, choose the method that strengthens your hold on this place. Not your anger.”

Then, with a level gaze, he met Ragnar’s eyes directly.

“Because what they did was not just a crime against one man. It was a challenge. And control, I think, is something you already understand better than most.”