The doors to the royal hall of Winchester slammed open, the howling winter wind trailing in behind the grim-faced rider.
His boots echoed on the stone as he strode past the stunned courtiers, his cloak dripping sleet and mud, eyes locked on the dais where King Cnut sat slumped on his throne.
The rider bowed only briefly before extending the scroll, wax seal freshly broken, the parchment still damp.
Cnut stared at it without taking it. As though he already knew what it said.
"...It’s official then," he muttered, voice hoarse.
"Aye, Your Majesty," the rider said. "King Duncan’s declaration of war. Scotland stands with the Wolves of the North."
Silence blanketed the hall.
The King reached for the letter slowly, his calloused fingers brushing the seal. He read, eyes darting left to right, jaw clenching with each line. His face drained of color.
No demands. No conditions. No room for negotiation. Just a grim recitation of crimes, the border raid, the massacre, and the wolves at their gates. Then the cold, regal seal of Alba.
Cnut let the scroll drop. It landed limply on the stone floor.
He buried his face in his hands.
"...I waited too long," he said. "God help me, I waited. I thought I could buy time. I thought Rome would act swiftly."
One of his advisors stepped forward timidly. "We did send the plea. The Papacy may still—"
"Still what? Send parchment and prayer while the wolves bring fire and steel?!" Cnut’s voice cracked. "Scotland has opened its harbors. The Norsemen no longer defend scraps of burned English land... they’re guests now. They’ll never run out of food, or salt, or iron. They have shipyards. They have shelter."
"They have the freedom to strike anywhere they damn well please."
He turned and looked into the hearth’s fire, eyes glinting with grief and awe.
"We’re not fighting a band of raiders anymore. We’re fighting a force that breathes war like wolves breathe winter air. And now they’ve grown fangs made of Highland steel."
He looked to the court, to the earls and bishops, the warriors and scribes.
"Mark my words... the Northmen are no longer hungry. They are fed. And a wolf that does not hunger... hunts for pleasure."
The wind howled softly along the fjord, brushing salt and snow in equal measure against the stone and timber walls of Ullrsfjordr’s great hall.
Winter clung to the coastline like an old ghost, never hostile, merely ever-present. Even in spring, signs of frost remained in the Winter Wolf’s home.
On the high balcony overlooking the sea, Roisín stood wrapped in thick furs, a shawl of wolfskin draped over her shoulders.
In her arms, the baby whimpered softly, cradled close to her chest.
His pale lashes fluttered, and she hummed to soothe him, a quiet Gaelic tune, something from her homeland far away.
Beside her, standing still and proud, was her eldest, barely five, yet already carved from the same cold stone as his father.
Hair the same hue of Brigid’s fire that crowned his mother’s head, and eyes the color of frost, inherited by his father.
His tiny hands gripped the balcony’s carved edge as he stared out into the endless gray-blue ocean, watching the white sails vanish over the horizon days ago.
"He’ll come back," the boy said, his voice unshaken. "He always does."
Roisín looked down at him, brushing a hand through his wind-tousled hair. "You’re certain of that, my heart?"
The child nodded once. "Because the sea is afraid of him. And so are the men across it. Father isn’t like other men."
She gave a faint, sorrowful smile, pressing her lips to the crown of his head. "No... no, he isn’t."
They stood like that for a while, mother, son, and babe, watching the waves strike against the frozen rocks below.
Inside, the fires of the great hall roared behind them, and the sound of armor being hammered echoed from the lower forges.
The halls of Ullrsfjordr were never silent. Even in his absence, Vetrulfr’s realm breathed.
But here on the balcony, time moved slower.
And in her heart, Roisín whispered the same prayer she always did when the sails vanished into the horizon:
May the wolves of winter guard him, until the sea gives him back to me.
Roisín turned from the sea as the cold wind bit at her cheeks.
With one last glance at the water, she ushered her children back through the thick oak doors of the mead hall.
The warmth inside was immediate, firelight flickering on carved beams, the scent of pine resin and roasted barley thick in the air.
But peace did not wait for her.
Brynhildr stood by the long table flanked with parchment scrolls and wooden tablets etched in runes.
She held one in hand like a sword, and Roisín knew from the look in her eyes this was not a courtesy call.
"They want iron tools, milk powder, dried barley, twelve crates of bowstrings, and... two dozen forge-trained men," Brynhildr growled, slapping the manifest on the table. "Vinland is not a baby suckling at the teat of Iceland. They must learn to stand."
Roisín took the tablet, her brows narrowing as she read. "They ask not for luxury, but survival. The Skraelingr grow bolder. If we deny them, we risk losing the coast."
Brynhildr rolled her eyes. "Then they should have built walls instead of carving longhouses in the woods."
"They have built walls. But walls don’t feed children. Nor mend wounds. Nor send word to us fast enough when the forests are full of ghosts."
There was silence between them, thick as snow.
Roisín placed the tablet down with care. "We send what we can. The forge will have its bowstrings and iron. I’ll divert three ships on the next coastal run west, carrying the barley and the milk. As for trained men, I’ll ask the Jarl of Hófn if any sons are ready for the sea."
Brynhildr scoffed. "You speak like a queen."
"Queen Consort... And I speak because Vetrulfr is not here," Roisín replied, calm but firm. "And until he is, someone must keep the wolves from eating each other."
For a moment, the older woman stared, measuring her. Then she gave a faint, grudging nod.
"The north is lucky he took a woman with a spine."
Roisín didn’t answer. She had already turned to the other ledgers, hands moving like a steward born of blood and ink.
The mead hall’s hearth behind her crackled like distant drums of war.