Ragnar's Doubt

The air in the Grand Hall of Ravenwolf Hold was thick with the scent of pine and the low murmur of worried voices. Even the hearth, usually a roaring beacon of warmth, seemed to cast a dimmer, more anxious glow. Ubbe stood by the massive stone fireplace, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames, each spark a fleeting echo of the life that was draining from his lands. The blight, a creeping shadow that stole the vigor from leaf and fur alike, had become a constant, gnawing presence.

Ragnar entered the hall with the heavy tread of a man carrying more than just his own weight. His usual boisterous presence was muted, his brow furrowed deeper than the ravines that marked their mountain territory. He stopped a respectful distance from Ubbe, his hands clasped behind his back, the knuckles white.

"Ubbe," Ragnar began, his voice rough, like stones grinding together. "We need to speak."