The celebration in Ragnar's honor unfolded with all the grandeur fitting a champion. Held in a grand hall overlooking the city lights, it was a scene of glistening chandeliers, tables laden with lavish spreads, and a crowd eager to toast his latest victory. Music played, laughter echoed, and drinks flowed freely. To any observer, it was a night of triumph.
But for Ragnar, the celebration felt hollow. Despite the congratulations, the handshakes, and the pats on the back, an underlying unease gnawed at him. There were too many familiar faces hiding behind forced smiles, too many cryptic glances exchanged between people he once considered friends. Their voices lowered in hushed conversations as he approached, and though he couldn't make out their words, he sensed that he was the subject of their whispers.
As he stood at the edge of the crowd, his gaze fell on his father, who was watching him from across the room. Their eyes met, and Ragnar felt a chill run through him. His father crossed the room, his expression unreadable, and approached Ragnar with an almost imperceptible smile.
"Congratulations, Ragnar," his father said, the words rolling off his tongue with an edge that seemed far from genuine.
"Thank you," Ragnar replied, his voice cautious. He braced himself, knowing that any exchange with his father came with unspoken weight.
"Thirteen championships, and you still have so much to learn," his father continued, a strange glint in his eyes. "Power is a delicate thing, son. Hold onto it too tightly, and you'll find it slipping through your fingers."
Ragnar felt his jaw clench. "Are you here to lecture me or to celebrate?"
His father's smile flickered. "Just making an observation. You have the skill and the glory, but glory attracts shadows. You'd do well to remember that, especially after tonight."
The words hung between them, heavy and unsettling. Ragnar searched his father's face for some clue, some hint at the true meaning behind his words, but found only that familiar, cold mask.
"Goodnight, Ragnar." His father's voice softened, almost wistful, as he turned to leave. "Enjoy your victory while it lasts."
---
The Assassination Attempt
Later that night, Ragnar slipped away from the celebration. He needed fresh air, a chance to clear his mind from the heavy conversation and the gnawing tension that had shadowed him all evening. The streets of the city were quiet as he wandered, allowing him a rare moment of peace.
As he walked, however, a strange feeling crept over him. The air felt colder, heavier. He glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing, only the faint glimmer of streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. Still, he felt watched, followed even. His instincts, honed from years of battle, were suddenly on edge.
A subtle movement in his periphery made him stop. Shadows flickered down the alleyways, darting too quickly to be mere tricks of the light. Heart pounding, Ragnar picked up his pace, now fully aware that something sinister was lurking close by.
Then, it happened. Shadows converged on him from all sides, figures clad in dark cloaks, their faces hidden beneath hoods. Before he could react, beasts emerged beside them—hulking creatures with eyes that glinted in the darkness, their bodies poised to strike.
Ragnar cursed under his breath, his hands instinctively reaching for the small knife hidden at his side. He whistled sharply, summoning his beast, which emerged from the shadows, ready to defend him.
The battle was immediate and brutal. Ragnar moved with the precision of a champion, dodging and weaving as he directed his beast in counter-attacks. His beast fought ferociously, tearing into the enemy creatures, their snarls and roars filling the night. Yet, the attackers were well-prepared, their beasts strong and relentless, their movements perfectly coordinated to wear him down.
One assassin lunged forward, his blade flashing in the dim light. Ragnar barely dodged the attack, only to be struck from behind by another assailant. Pain flared through his side, and he stumbled, blood dripping onto the cobblestone.
His beast roared, leaping to shield him, but even it was struggling under the relentless onslaught. Wounded and exhausted, Ragnar fought on, refusing to let the attackers gain the upper hand. Yet, deep down, he knew he was outnumbered, overpowered.
The tide turned swiftly. One of the attackers commanded their beast to pin Ragnar's creature, subduing it with a bone-crushing bite. Ragnar's beast let out a final, desperate snarl before collapsing, leaving him defenseless.
Breath coming in shallow gasps, Ragnar staggered back, his vision blurring as blood continued to pour from his wounds. He looked up just as a hooded figure stepped forward, the leader of the group, a tall figure whose presence emanated a cold authority. The figure knelt beside him, and though their face was obscured, their voice was chillingly familiar.
"This was never your title to hold, Ragnar," the figure whispered, their tone laced with contempt. "You rose too high, too quickly. The throne belongs to someone else… someone you trusted."
Ragnar's mind reeled. Someone he trusted? His thoughts scrambled, reaching for clarity, but his strength was fading too fast. The realization hit him like a final, fatal blow. His father.
"Tell… me… why," he choked out, fighting the darkness closing in around him.
The figure leaned closer. "Power is a gift, but also a curse. You forgot your place. And for that… you pay the price."
With one last surge of rage, Ragnar tried to rise, to fight back, but his body refused. The assassin's blade glinted as it rose, and he felt the searing pain as it plunged into his chest, driving away any lingering doubt.
---
Final Moments
As his life ebbed away, Ragnar's mind drifted, pulling him through a haze of memories. He saw himself as a young tamer, full of ambition and fire, with his beasts by his side. He saw his victories, each one a testament to his hard work, his devotion. And then he saw his father's face, the cold gaze that had watched him rise to greatness with silent disdain.
Regret and anger tangled within him. He'd trusted his father, looked up to him, fought with every ounce of strength to live up to his expectations. And yet, it was his father who had orchestrated his fall, jealous and bitter, waiting for the right moment to strike.
His body grew colder, his vision dimmed, and a single thought lingered in his mind—a vow, born from his final breath.
This isn't the end. I'll return. And I'll find the truth.
With that last promise burning within him, Ragnar's world faded into darkness.