It was not only the prince’s hall that rang with talk of the wolf.
In the alleys of Kiev, in the smoky huts along the Dnieper, in the villages that clung to the forests and rivers, other tongues carried the tale.
The markets shouted of it first.
The wolf-marked steel that gleamed in the stalls was not only a treasure of coin, but a promise.
Hunters and boatmen whispered over knives sharper than any they had seen, blades that seemed to drink the light and spit it back in ripples like water under moon.
Traders swore by their mothers that such weapons could shear through a horse’s skull.
Others whispered that the mark upon them, the snarling wolf’s head stamped into the steel, was not only a sigil but a ward, that no Christian priest could unmake its strength with holy water.
In the longhouses by the river, the old songs returned.
Grey-bearded storytellers, long silent since the priests of Constantinople brought their crosses, began to murmur of Perun and Veles, of forests alive with spirits and rivers with voices.
Some said the wolf’s rise in the far north was the gods themselves answering the mockery of Christ.
That when the White Wolf carried iron from the ends of the earth, he carried also the fire of the old ways.
One night, in the shadow of the pagan shrine still hidden among the pines beyond Kiev, a gathering took place.
It was no great council, no boyars with sable cloaks, but peasants, hunters, a handful of warriors who still bore the tattoos of their fathers, lines of thunder and beast inked across arms and chests.
At the center burned a fire of pinewood, its smoke curling upward to vanish into the branches.
Around it stood images long hidden: rough-hewn idols of Perun, Triglav, and Mokosh, daubed with ochre and blood.
A man named Radomir spoke first.
His shoulders were broad, his beard streaked with frost, and in his belt rested a wolf-stamped knife bought from a Norse trader only weeks before.
He drew it now, holding it up so that the firelight rippled along its blade.
"You see this? This is no work of Novgorod. No smith in all Rus could fashion such steel. The Christians tell us the age of gods is past, that we are but sheep beneath their Christ. Yet tell me, does this look like the work of sheep? Or does it look like the return of wolves?"
A murmur answered him, voices low but fierce.
Another, a younger man with wild hair and the scars of battle across his arms, spat into the fire.
"Yaroslav bends his knee to Constantinople. He fills his halls with priests, while his markets fill with the White Wolf’s iron. Which feeds us more? The priest’s blessing? Or the knife in my belt?"
The crowd growled assent.
An elder woman, her back bent but her eyes sharp, lifted a hand for silence.
Her name was Vesna, once a seeress before the crosses came. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛ novel(ꜰ)ire.net
"Be wary," she rasped.
"Yaroslav has armies, and behind him stands the emperor of the Greeks. But the wolf has something greater... faith. Not the faith of books or priests, but of blood. The Wends gather to him, the Norse already march at his call. And if his merchants walk freely through Kiev, then so can his word. Shall we let only silver pass between us? Or shall we send oaths as well?"
Radomir’s knife caught the fire again. His voice was low, but it carried like the crack of kindling.
"I say we send word. The wolf knows our plight already, his traders walk our markets, his steel fills our sheaths. Let us send envoys in secret. Let him know the sons of Perun have not all bent their necks to Rome."
For a moment there was silence, only the crackle of the fire and the hiss of resin.
Then, slowly, heads began to nod.
One of the warriors slammed his fist against his chest.
"Better to die beneath Perun’s thunder than to live as thralls to priests. If the wolf seeks to break the cross, then let our spears march with his."
The fire roared as pine resin burst, sparks dancing upward like stars. Vesna leaned close to Radomir, her eyes glinting.
"But remember this: wolves are hungry. The White Wolf may fight the eagle of the Germans and the lion of the Scots, but he will also feast if his belly grows empty. If we join him, we must join as kin, not cattle. Speak as equals, or perish as thralls."
Radomir nodded grimly.
"Then we send men of worth, not beggars. I will go myself, and take with me warriors who remember the old rites. The wolf must know we do not crawl to him as peasants, but stand beside him as brothers."
A message would be carried, not on parchment, but in word and gift.
A pair of swift men would ride north with furs, amber, and mead, carried along the Dnieper and across the Baltic routes already thick with the White Wolf’s traders.
In their hearts they bore something greater than gifts: the whisper of revolt, the memory of gods thought buried.
Back in Kiev, the bells of the churches tolled for vespers. Priests walked in solemn procession, censing the streets with incense.
But in the woods beyond, fire still licked the sky, and voices raised in oaths older than Rome.
The wolf’s shadow stretched further than Yaroslav knew.
Not only through steel and trade, but through memory.
Through the blood of peasants, hunters, warriors, and seers who had never truly abandoned their gods.
And as the flames crackled, the name was spoken aloud for the first time in Kiev’s forests.
The cry spread, soft at first, then stronger, until it seemed even the pines whispered it with the wind.
The harbor at Ullrsfjordr roared with voices when the White Wolf’s sails cut through the mist.
Over a hundred men rowed his flagship in, their oars beating time with the surf.
The beacon fires on the headland spat sparks into the dawn, answering the horns that blared from the mole.
On the quay, the people thronged, fishermen, thralls, and warriors alike, all craning to glimpse the man who had left them for Jomsborg and returned not empty-handed, but with half the Wends at his back.
Banners snapped in the wind while Vetrúlfr stepped ashore, the spray still clinging to his cloak.
His eyes were pale fire, but there was something softer in them now, something that did not belong to the hall of Jomsborg.
His wife waited at the foot of the quay.
Róisín wore no crown, but the people parted for her as if she had one.
Her hair, bright as fire, was bound simply, her hands folded over the swell at her belly.
Two children clung to her skirts, their eyes wide and curious as they stared at the wolf returning from his hunt.
When Vetrúlfr reached them, the noise of the crowd seemed to fade.
He bent and lifted his eldest son high into the air, the boy’s laughter ringing brighter than the horns.
"You did not only bring steel home," Róisín said softly, her smile wry, "but half the Baltic besides."
Vetrúlfr chuckled, setting the children down before taking her hand.
His thumb brushed over hers, lingering for a heartbeat at the warmth of her belly.
"Steel alone wins battles. But blood wins wars. The Wends know it. Soon the Rus will too."
A shadow loomed then, broader than both of them.
Brynhildr, his mother, moved through the crowd like a prow through the sea.
Age still seemed to hold no power over her. She laid a hand upon her son’s arm, then upon Róisín’s swelling stomach.
"You return at last..." she said, her voice hoarse but proud, "with ships laden and banners multiplied. I trust that your words have reached our friends in the east?"
Vetrúlfr’s jaw tightened.
He thought of Jomsborg, of the Rani kneeling with steel in hand, of Obotrites shouting his name in their hall.
He thought of Conrad’s banners burning through Denmark, of Svein bleeding in England’s mud. All of it coiled in his chest like a storm.
But when he looked back to Róisín, to his children tugging at his cloak, to Brynhildr standing unyielding as the cliffs, he let out a long breath.
"let us feast," he said at last.
"Tonight we drink not for conquest, but for kin. For wives and mothers. For sons and daughters. Let the eagle rage and the cross gnash its teeth, here, the wolf grows stronger."
The horns blew again, echoing from the fjord’s walls.
And for that night at least, Ullrsfjordr was filled not with the sound of forging steel or whispered omens, but with laughter, the scent of roasting meat, and the clamor of a people who knew their realm had grown larger than the sea could hold.