The Vetrulfr and his men had long since vanished into the swirling dark, but the stench of blood still lingered in the great hall.
Duncan stood over the scattered heads, now covered by a draped hide, his eyes unreadable. The fire crackled behind him, but no warmth touched his face.
The thanes had gathered hastily, their woolen cloaks soaked from the night air, their voices heavy with unease.
The hall buzzed with low arguments, but none dared speak above the rest until the king raised his hand.
"Speak your minds," Duncan said flatly. "He has made his offer. What say you?"
The first to rise was Murchad of Moray, silver-bearded and blunt.
"The Norse bastard is mad, and he brings madness in his wake. He speaks of vengeance, but brings war. Give him passage, and he’ll treat our glens as his own. You saw those heads, today English, tomorrow ours."
Domnall of Fife, younger, sharper-eyed, stepped forward next.
"And if we deny him, he’ll return with his wolves regardless. But this time with our lands as the target. The Anglo-Saxons never defended us. They only demanded tribute and men. Why should we bleed for them now?"
Murmurs followed. The thanes were divided. Some had long memories of Saxon raids, burned villages, stolen cattle.
Others feared inviting wolves into the sheepfold, no matter how charming their leader.
Eochu of Atholl, lean and pale from too many winters, looked to the king.
"He claims to want only passage... but what army marches without feeding? They will raid, whether we bless it or not."
King Duncan exhaled slowly, then walked to the high seat. He stood instead of sitting.
"Every spring," he began, "we pay silver to the Saxon kings for peace. Every harvest, we send grain south while our own bellies grow lean. And still they send war bands north to plunder the isles."
He looked to the curtained sacks.
"Now one of their own has broken the yoke. And he asks us to turn a blind eye."
"He is dangerous. But so is complacency."
Then he spoke again, quieter.
Shock rippled through the thanes.
"But he will not march unchecked. I will send my own men to shadow his trail, not to aid, but to observe. If he turns his sword against Alba, we’ll know before the blood dries."
Murchad frowned. "You would let this white wolf roam your borderlands, then?"
Duncan’s voice hardened. "No. I would let him bleed my enemies for me."
He turned to the fire, watching the flames climb. "But if he turns north instead of south... then we shall see how a son of Ullr fares when hunted through the highlands."
The hills rolled like the backs of slumbering giants, cloaked in early frost and veiled mist.
Vetrulfr stood at the crest of one such hill, eyes fixed southward as his white wolf cloak stirred gently in the wind.
Below, his warband quietly broke camp, tents folded, horses saddled, blades sharpened not with haste, but with the quiet precision of men who had done this a hundred times before.
Gunnarr trudged up behind him, jaw tight against the cold. "Word from Duncan. He’s agreed. Safe passage. But... only that."
Vetrulfr didn’t turn. "Only that," he repeated, a half-smile curling on his pale lips. "As if wolves honor fences drawn in the snow."
Gunnarr frowned. "He’s watching us. He sent riders to shadow our movements."
"And they’ll find little to worry over," came Armodr’s voice, approaching with a handful of ravens’ feathers tucked in his belt. "We’ve raided no Scottish village. Touched no herds. Left their stones unturned."
"Yet," Vetrulfr murmured.
Gunnarr narrowed his eyes. "You plan to break the truce?"
"No," Vetrulfr said coolly. "I plan to let the Anglo-Saxons break it."
Both jarls went still.
He turned to face them now, his expression calm and calculating.
"Cnut grows desperate. His men chase shadows through ash and ruin. He will send more green boys from Denmark, weather-beaten huskarls from Norway. They march north hoping to catch us unguarded."
He stepped down toward the firepit, crouching to stir the embers with a stick.
"And when they see no banner but ours in the misty woodlands of the border? When they hear whispers of wolf raids in Scottish garb?" He tapped the stick against a stone. "They will act without thinking."
Armodr’s grin widened slowly. "You would make them the aggressors."
"Let the Anglo-Saxons trample Duncan’s pastures. Let them burn a village chasing ghosts." Vetrulfr stood once more. "Then we’ll come to him, outraged. Wounded. Asking if these are the men he shelters in his friendship."
Gunnarr shook his head slowly, a smirk forming. "And he’ll either join us in vengeance... or watch as his people turn against him for inviting Saxon wrath."
Vetrulfr spread his arms to the wide grey sky.
"We don’t need to invade Alba. We need only let Cnut do it for us."
Silence stretched for a moment, broken only by the howl of a distant winter wind.
Then Armodr laughed, sharp and cold. "You are the serpent in the snow, old friend."
"No," Vetrulfr said, gaze turning northward, where Scottish forests waited in silence. "I am the winter itself. Let them chase footprints in the frost... and find only death."
The Saxon warband moved like ghosts through the trees, tired ghosts, clad in rough furs, faces red with windburn and raw cold.
Their captain, a grizzled thegn named Osric, squinted at the forest ahead as the morning mist curled low over the frosted earth.
"Scouts say they moved through here last night," one of his huskarls muttered. "Light-footed, carrying little, but the same pagan standards."
Osric grunted. He didn’t need scouts to tell him what his gut already screamed: Vetrulfr had passed through. The trail was too clean. Too obvious.
Smoke curled lazily into the sky just over the next rise, not thick like from a razed village, but thin and pale... inhabited smoke.
"A hamlet," said another huskarl. "They’ll be hiding there."
"They won’t hide long," Osric growled.
He waved his arm, and the column picked up speed.
They broke the tree line into the outskirts of the village, a small cluster of stone-and-thatch cottages nestled by a stream. Chickens scattered. A dog barked. And then came the first scream.
Not Saxon. Not Norse.
A woman in a wool cloak, hands raised to shield her face, fell sobbing to the ground as a Saxon rider bowled past her.
Osric blinked. "Stand down! STAND DOWN!"
But it was too late. The huskarls had already surged forward, a reflex born of weeks of chasing shadows, of finding only ruins and corpses.
One cottage went up in flames, another door was broken open. A child cried out. The villagers, Highland folk of Alba, fled or cowered.
By the time order was restored, it was a massacre.
Six dead. Dozens wounded. Blood in the stream. And silence from the woods beyond.
A scout rode in minutes later, white-faced and shaking. "Captain... that wasn’t them. They’re gone. The tracks turned northwest hours ago. This place... it’s Scottish."
Osric stared blankly at the bodies. One of them was a priest.
Then, from the edge of the woods, came a sound... low, deep, and cold.
Not Saxon. Not Norse. But Alba’s.
A second scout galloped in. "Riders seen leaving Dunfermline. Armed. Fast. Duncan’s men."
The blood drained from Osric’s face. "God help us."
From the treeline above, hidden in brush and snow, Vetrulfr watched it all unfold, stone-faced, arms folded.
Beside him, Armodr smirked. "They took the bait."
Vetrulfr’s gaze stayed fixed on the ruined hamlet. "And soon, Duncan will take the sword."