The winds had not yet frozen, but the air bore the bite of oncoming frost. Snow flecked the cliffs that ringed the harbor, and the sea beyond churned as though resentful of the ships that crossed its belly.
From the prow of their longship, the envoys of King Cnut tightened their cloaks against the salt spray.
The banners of their realm, cross-marked and pale gold, snapped weakly in the wind.
Their ship bore no weapons, only trade goods and the royal seal. Still, they were met with spears.
Armed men stood waiting at the docks.
Hard-faced, wolf-eyed men. Men clad in leather lamellar and fur-trimmed mail, shields painted in ochre and earth, swords at their sides even in peace.
One stepped forward. His beard was silver at the edge and bound in a cord of braided seal-hide.
"You will come with us," he said. No flourish. No courtesy.
"To Jarl Gunnarr, I presume?" asked the elder of the envoys, a Dane named Eirikr who had served Cnut since the conquest of England.
The guard said nothing. Only turned.
They passed the outer market where traders paused their haggling to watch. Eyes tracked them. No one smiled. No one waved. Not even the children.
At the hall, they expected the seat of the local jarl, Gunnarr, famed for his disdain of priests and his brutal sense of justice.
Instead, the doors opened... and their breath caught.
There, seated at the high seat of Heimaey’s hall, was the White Wolf himself.
He did not stand. He did not rise to greet them. He only drank... mead in a carved horn, his crown of damascene steel resting atop pale hair bound in silver rings.
The fire behind him cast a long shadow that made him seem larger than life.
They bowed. Stiffly. Respectfully.
"My lord," began Eirikr, his voice carefully measured. "We come on behalf of His Majesty King Cnut, of England and Denmark, to —"
"I know why you’re here," Vetrúlfr interrupted.
He leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
"You seek grain. Timber. Salt. Fur. Maybe even iron, if you think your coin is good enough."
Eirikr swallowed. "Yes, my lord. The winter has been... unkind. Our silos suffered from rot. The Christian kingdoms are slow to respond. We were told you have —"
"I have what your king does not," Vetrúlfr said coldly. "Enough."
Eirikr nodded. "Then we come seeking trade."
"And what will you offer in return?" Vetrúlfr asked. "Silver? Wool? Promises?"
"All three," said the second envoy, a younger man named Alaric. "We bring contracts drawn by royal scribes. Cnut offers fair terms —"
The envoys fell quiet.
The king of the North stepped down from the dais, one slow stride at a time. Each footfall echoed like war drums in the hush of the hall.
He came to stand before them, towering, arms folded behind his back.
His voice was a low growl, almost amused. Almost.
"I wonder," he said, "how much grain your raids on the Manx provided you?"
"Or did you just burn their holds to the ground, as you burned their women and their gods? Did you kneel before your cross and tell it the slaughter was righteous?"
Eirikr opened his mouth, but no words came.
Alaric took a half-step back.
"I remember," Vetrúlfr said. "I remember what was done to the Isle of Mann. I remember the children dragged from shrines and the ashes of old oak trees soaked in blood."
"You think I forget?"
He leaned in, so close Eirikr could smell the wolf pelt, the iron, the salt.
"After what I did in Bobbio to avenge Charlemagne’s massacres, did you truly believe I would lose my memory of something that happened within the last five years?"
He paused before continuing.
"I was here, Ísland. Building roads. Raising towers. Teaching children how to read runes older than your crown. But I remember."
He turned slowly back to his throne.
"You came here thinking I would deal with you like a merchant. That I would weigh coin and crop and ignore the debt."
"You will not have your grain."
The words were final. But he did not stop there.
Vetrúlfr pointed to the door with the tip of his horn.
"You will return to your king. And you will tell him this: The North remembers. The gods remember. And I... I never forget."
He stood again, fully now. His voice was thunder.
"If the winter takes you before I arrive in the summer to claim the blood debt you owe to the gods, then count yourselves lucky. For when I do come, I will not come to trade. I will come to burn."
"Now leave. Before I decide to send your heads home in the same sacks your priests once used to carry our idols."
Outside, the wind howled down from the glacier-fed peaks.
The path back to the docks was long, but the escort made it longer.
The Norse did not jeer. They did not raise arms or mock. They only stared.
That silence was worse than scorn.
Eirikr stumbled once on the stone steps. Alaric caught him, but said nothing. Neither man dared speak until the hall was out of view and the salt of the sea masked the sting of the air.
"He knew," Alaric said, voice raw. "He knew everything."
Eirikr nodded mutely.
"He shouldn’t have. That raid was buried. The Manx have no scribes. No envoys. No bards. And yet... he knew."
"He remembers," Eirikr murmured.
Behind them, smoke curled from the high halls of Heimaey. Black, slow-rising. Not from fire, but from forge and hearth. Preparation, not destruction.
And above it all, the sails of their ship drooped like mourning banners.
As they stepped aboard, the wind shifted.
It carried no words. But the cold bite in the air seemed to whisper one thing nonetheless:
And in the holds of their ship, the coin meant to buy grain sat untouched.
No trade had been struck.
Only a reckoning promised.
The North would not forget.
And this time, it would not come with wolves alone... but with fire, steel, and the weight of memory.