The ride back to the main camp was silent. The only sounds were the steady clopping of horse hooves and the occasional creak of leather as injured and exhausted men clung to the reins of their mounts. The battle had drained them physically and mentally, leaving only the grim determination to reach camp.

Morana followed alongside Ragnar’s forces, flying ahead of the group but never straying far from Ragnar and his horse. Her wings remained fully visible for all of them to see. She had not drawn her glamour back over them to conceal their existence as she had done almost constantly since leaving Innermost.

By now, most of the soldiers no longer paid much attention to her presence. They had watched her tear through the enemy lines, destroy the archers on the ridge, and kill Remin herself. After witnessing that, a pair of wings and a display of magic were far less concerning than they might have been a few hours earlier.

They still looked at her from time to time and Morana was aware of every glance.

Some were wary. Some were curious. Others treated her with the respect soldiers gave to someone who had proven herself a formidable ally on the battlefield.

Twice during the journey back, Ragnar slumped forward slightly in his saddle, his breathing growing shallower.

It was not merely exhaustion from the battle or the strain of wielding his shadows with the intensity required to protect his soldiers. During the fighting, survival had occupied every corner of his mind. He had been too focused on keeping himself alive and getting his men out of the ravine to pay much notice to his injuries.

Now there was nothing left to distract him from them. As the adrenaline gradually faded, the pain began to assert itself.

Every wound seemed to awaken at once.

His side burned with every movement. His arm throbbed relentlessly. His ribs felt bruised and raw beneath his armor. He tightened his grip on the reins whenever another wave of dizziness threatened to wash over him.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to remain alert.

His condition was subtle enough that most of the soldiers failed to notice it.

Morana did.

Both times Ragnar sagged in the saddle, she flew a little closer without drawing attention to herself. She studied him carefully, searching for signs that his injuries were worse than she had initially believed.

She had examined his wounds earlier. None of them appeared immediately life-threatening, but they still required treatment. Untreated injuries had a way of becoming more dangerous when left to fester. Infection could kill a man just as surely as a blade.

Still, she kept her eyes on him. Just in case she had been wrong. Just in case there was internal damage she had failed to notice.

Ragnar noticed her attention but said nothing. He simply continued riding.

Every breath sent a sharp stab of pain through his side. Whenever he inhaled too deeply, it felt as though a knife had been driven between his ribs and twisted. The pain flared hot and merciless, growing worse whenever his horse shifted beneath him.

By the time the camp finally came into view, he was running almost entirely on fumes.

The moment Ragnar’s force crossed the perimeter, Casilo emerged running from the command area. Several military officials followed close behind him.

The sight of their battered king and his wounded soldiers erased any lingering uncertainty about what had happened.

Casilo’s eyes immediately began their assessment. They moved over Ragnar with the efficiency of a man who had spent years pulling his friend out of one disaster after another.

He spotted the blood on Ragnar’s side. The blood on his arm. The stiffness in his movements.

His gaze finally settled on Ragnar’s face, and an expression crossed it that communicated several things at once.

Casilo wisely refrained from voicing any of it while dozens of soldiers stood nearby.

Ragnar dismounted with a suppressed wince and walked directly toward him.

"It was a trap," he said. "But we fought the best we could. Gerard and his subordinates are dead and we can rest easy because their militia command structure is broken."

Without the rebels’ benefactors, it would be impossible for them to recover from this harsh loss. They were as good as finished now.

Ragnar paused briefly before continuing. "Brief me on the camp’s status."

Even injured, bleeding, and barely able to stand without pain, Ragnar remained focused on his responsibilities as king before his own well-being.

Casilo stared at him for several seconds. Part of him wanted to grab Ragnar by the shoulders and demand to know whether he had completely lost his mind. Another part wanted to remind him that kings could not lead armies if they bled themselves to death first. Unfortunately, neither option was particularly appropriate in front of half the camp.

Swallowing his irritation, Casilo settled for diplomacy.

"Your Majesty," he said carefully, "you just returned from battle and you’re injured. Allow the physicians to tend to your wounds first."

Ragnar responded with a low grunt as his attention drifted elsewhere.

Casilo followed his gaze and saw Morana.

She had landed among the soldiers only moments earlier and was already helping the wounded. One of Ragnar’s men was leaning heavily on her shoulder as she guided him toward the large medical tent near the center of the camp.

She had only just arrived, yet she had immediately thrown herself into assisting the injured.

Morana had no obligation to any of these men. She could have left after the battle.

She could have watched from a distance and ignored the ambush entirely. She could have allowed Ragnar and his soldiers to fight their way out alone. Instead, she intervened.

She had descended into the ravine when things were at their worst and had fought beside them. And now she was helping the survivors.

Regardless of how Ragnar had once felt about Morana’s sudden appearance in his life, he could not deny the truth. Without her, far more of his soldiers would have died. Without her, the battle might have ended very differently. Perhaps they would not have escaped at all.

Since learning that she was his mother, Ragnar had spoken very little about the situation to anyone besides Circe. Most people knew only fractions of the truth.

Casilo, however, had stood beside Ragnar for too many years to miss what others overlooked.

Ragnar rarely spoke about his feelings to others. He rarely explained what was going on inside his head. Circe was the only one he willingly opened up to.

But Casilo had long ago learned how to read the things left unsaid and as he watched Ragnar’s gaze follow Morana across the camp, he found himself wondering whether his king had begun to reconsider what he wanted from the woman who had suddenly returned to his life after so many years.

He knew that Ragnar and Morana were in a complicated situation. Ragnar was not yet ready to fully accept her as his mother, nor was he prepared to allow her a permanent place in his life. Too many years had been lost between them, too much pain left unresolved. Yet as he watched her now, a series of emotions stirred behind Ragnar’s eyes, emotions that were difficult to name and even harder to confront.