Bjorn opened his eyes before anyone touched his shoulder. The dormitory remained dark, though he could hear the rustle of straw and cloth as bodies shifted on their mattresses. Someone coughed while another man's breathing changed rhythm.
He lay still, listening and counting the sounds. Some were already awake, sitting up in silence. Others still slept.
He pushed the thin blanket aside and sat up. The air was cold, though not unbearably so for him. His breath formed small clouds. The straw mattress crackled under his weight as he stood, and he paused, waiting to see if anyone looked his way. No one did. Or if they did, they gave no sign.
Bjorn folded his blanket the same way the others did; thirds lengthwise, then rolled tight. He set it at the foot of his mattress. His habit was rough wool, scratchy against his skin as he pulled it over his head. He'd slept in his undertunic, as had most of them.
An older monk near the door struck a small bell; two soft chimes. The men rose without speaking. Some murmured prayers, lips moving in the darkness. Bjorn did the same, blending in.
The senior monks moved first. They didn't hurry, but they didn't waste motion either. Everything had a place, a sequence. One man tied his rope belt and immediately moved toward the door. Another knelt briefly, crossed himself, then stood and followed.
Bjorn waited until several others had started moving, then joined the line of men filing out toward the washbasins.
The cloister was open to the sky on one side. The courtyard in the center lay gray in the pre-dawn light, still and empty except for the well at its heart.
Bjorn walked to one of the basins along the inner wall. The water was so cold it made his hands ache. He splashed his face, rubbed his neck and forearms. Around him, other men did the same. No one spoke. Someone hummed a chant under his breath, barely audible.
He dried his hands on the edge of his habit and looked around while pretending to adjust his belt.
Two guards stood at the far end of the cloister, near the entrance to the kitchens. One leaned against the wall, half-asleep. The other was more alert, his eyes moving.
A clerk hurried past carrying an armful of rolled parchment, heading toward the Minster. He didn't glance at the novices.
Bjorn moved to another basin, taking his time and watching everyone go about their tasks.
He washed his face again, slower this time, and listened to the footsteps echoing off the stone.
No one came to talk to him. They simply did what the Archbishop told the senior monks, and what the senior monks told them to do. They resented the attention and favor the newcomer—the bald Brother Chadus—was receiving from the Archbishop.
Most of them had worked hard to gain such favor. And yet here was a newcomer commanding the Archbishop's attention.
Not all of them were like this, however. The older and kinder monks took an interest in helping him. Bjorn believed they saw him as a promising novice or someone who could elevate the monastery's standing even further.
They gave him small tips, invited him to join chores, and shared their knowledge.
In the end, there was no physical confrontation between Bjorn and the jealous monks. God smiled upon them.
-x-X-x-
The sky was turning pale gray when Bjorn followed the others toward the Minster. They moved in a loose line, neither a formal procession nor scattered. No one spoke. The only sounds were footsteps and the rustle of wool against stone.
Bjorn breathed the morning air in slowly, feeling his heart beat in his chest.
The Minster doors were already open. Lamplight spilled onto the stone steps, warm and yellow against the gray dawn. Bjorn could see clerks inside, moving between the rows of benches and lighting candles along the walls.
Smoke from the incense burners drifted out into the cold morning air. It reminded him of burning pine back home, though the scent was different.
He climbed the steps and paused just inside the doorway, letting his eyes adjust. His hand brushed against the stone doorframe. It felt cold.
The space was enormous as usual. High ceiling, thick columns, narrow windows still dark. The altar stood at the far end, draped in white cloth with candles burning in tall stands on either side. A wooden crucifix hung above it, Jesus' face turned downward, eyes closed in eternal suffering.
He moved to the side, following the other novices to the back rows. He kept his head down but his eyes open, watching everything. A clerk stumbled slightly on the hem of his robe. Another yawned and quickly covered his mouth, glancing around to see if anyone noticed. They were just men. Tired men doing their morning duties.
More clerks entered, carrying psalters and vestments. One adjusted the incense burner near the altar, adding something that made the smoke thicker. He coughed once, waving his hand in front of his face. Another straightened the candles, wiping wax drips from the stands with a cloth.
Outside, near the entrance, Bjorn had seen them. The weapons. Racks built into the stone wall of the outer courtyard, just before the Minster steps. Swords, spears, axes, all carefully placed and organized by rank.
Some wrapped in cloth, others bare and gleaming in the torchlight. He'd counted twelve swords, six spears, three axes. Nobles' weapons. Fine steel that had probably never seen real battle, kept polished and perfect for men who wanted to appear dangerous.
They wouldn't bring them inside. Not into this sacred place.
Perfect.
The benches filled slowly. Monks took their places in the front rows, novices in the back. Bjorn sat on the end of a bench, close to the side aisle. He folded his hands in his lap and waited. His palms were dry without sweat.
He felt strange being surrounded by praying men while he prepared for violence. Around him, they whispered prayers and made signs of their god.
Peaceful men who believed their prayers would protect them. Perhaps this would teach them to face reality—that their God wouldn't come when they needed him, and they would have to defend themselves with their own hands and their own courage. Or perhaps they would die still believing. Either way, Bjorn would walk out of here today.
The murmur of voices stopped when the Archbishop entered.
He moved slowly. His white beard caught the lamplight, making it seem to glow. His face was lined with age, but his eyes were still sharp. Two clerks followed him, one carrying a large book bound in leather, the other a staff wrapped in gold cloth that clinked softly with each step.
Everyone stood.
Bjorn stood with them, mimicking their posture. Straight back. Hands clasped. Eyes forward but not staring.
The Archbishop took his place at the altar and raised one hand. The clerks opened the book, the pages making a soft whisper as they turned.
Then after a period of waiting the King entered.
Bjorn sensed the change in the room before he even turned. The air itself seemed to tighten. Breathing became quieter. Backs straightened. The sound of heavier footsteps echoed from the entrance, boots striking stone with authority.
King Ælla walked down the center aisle.
Bjorn studied the crowd's reaction. Some bowed too deeply, their foreheads nearly touching their chests, desperate to show respect. Others avoided his gaze entirely, staring at the floor or the walls as if the King were the sun; too bright to look at directly.
A few of the older nobles met his eyes briefly and nodded, men secure enough in their own power to acknowledge him as something close to an equal.
The King possessed a broad face with a strong jawline, complemented by a thick beard and mustache that gave him a rugged and mature appearance. His hair was dark and curly, worn shoulder-length, with a few threads of gray beginning to show at the temples.
He didn't look at the monks as he passed. His intense and penetrating eyes stayed forward, focused on the altar. Bjorn could see the weight of leadership in those eyes; the calculations, the worries, the burden of a kingdom that never stopped demanding things from him.
'The man could be a fearsome fighter if he trained properly', Bjorn thought. He had the build for it—broad shoulders, thick arms. He was only in his late thirties, perhaps forty. Still in his prime. But he'd grown soft sitting on his throne, giving orders while other men did the bleeding.
Still, one thing was certain, Bjorn had been giving him trouble with his raids. Burning his villages. Taking his silver. Making him look weak in front of his nobles. That kind of thing kept a king awake at night.
The only thing Bjorn appreciated about the man was that he wore fine clothes. He wore regal Saxon attire; richly adorned tunics with intricate embroidery, a cloak lined with fur, a crown that caught the candlelight. It all signified his high rank and authority. Bjorn wondered how much silver all of that cost. Probably enough to feed a village for a year.
Behind him came Queen Ealhswith.
Bjorn could tell she was trying hard to maintain her composure in public, to reflect the grace and poise expected of a queen. Her face was controlled, serene even, but Bjorn noticed the small tells—the way her fingers gripped each other too tightly, and the quick glances she gave to her children to make sure they were close.
However, Bjorn couldn't deny her delicate and refined facial features, with a gentle expression that conveyed kindness and wisdom. Bjorn could tell she was the kind of person people trusted with their secrets.
Her hands were folded at her waist. She moved like she was walking on ice, each step placed with precision. Two attendants followed her, both women, both silent, their eyes downcast in the way servants learned to make themselves invisible.
Then the princess and young prince stepped in behind their parents.
Bjorn felt satisfaction at seeing them appear. This was what he'd come for.
Them. Leverage.
He looked at the prince first.
The boy couldn't have been more than nine or ten years old. Thin arms, pale skin, dark hair like his father but without any of the strength. There was nothing particularly remarkable about him. He walked with the uncertain gait of a child trying to appear adult, his small hand clutching his mother's dress.
He was still a child, and compared to the children in Kattegat, and even throughout Scandinavia, he was weak. Soft. The boy wouldn't survive a day there.
He'd never held a real weapon, never fought for his food, never learned that the world didn't care about your title or your name. It showed the importance of hardships and how they shaped a person. How they turned boys into men.
This boy would probably become king one day. And he'd be just as soft then as he was now.
His attention drifted to the girl beside him. Judith.
She was different.
There was something in the way she carried herself that Bjorn couldn't tell.
Bjorn studied her quietly, his expression unreadable. Yet she, too, seemed to study her surroundings as she entered. Her eyes moved from the high seats to the nobles to the robed monks, measuring the hall and the faces within it with curiosity. Intelligence even. She was paying attention in a way her brother wasn't.
When her gaze finally met his, the noise in the room seemed to fall away.
Her eyes locked with his deep, striking blue for the briefest heartbeat. Blue meeting blue across the length of the Minster. There was something there—a flicker of recognition.
Then, as though nothing had happened, she turned her head toward her mother, reaching out to steady the Queen's elbow as they climbed the steps to their seats.
Smart girl, Bjorn thought.
They finally took their seats in the front row on cushioned chairs separate from the benches. Rich fabric, embroidered cushions—even their furniture had to show they were better than everyone else. Attendants stood behind them like statues. Guards remained outside, their weapons racked by the door, useless.
Then the Archbishop began to chant.
His voice filled the space, the Latin words rolling off his tongue with the ease of decades of practice. "Deus, in adiutorium meum intende..."
The monks responded, their voices rising in unison. "Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina."
Bjorn mimicked them exactly, singing in Latin. He'd practiced enough so that to the outside world, he was just another monk, well a unique monk. A bald one.
He watched the Archbishop's face. The old man's eyes moved across the room as he chanted, pausing briefly on each row. It was habit, Bjorn realized. Checking to see that everyone was present, that everyone was participating. When his gaze reached the novices, it slowed.
Bjorn could feel the man's eyes pass over him. He didn't flinch and certainly didn't look away. Just kept singing.
The Archbishop's gaze then moved on.
The chanting continued, filling the Minster with sound. Voices echoing off stone, blending together into something that was almost beautiful.
Bjorn turned his attention to the King.
Ælla sat very still, his hands resting on the arms of his chair. His expression was unreadable, though he looked angry. Actually, now that Bjorn thought about it, the man always looked angry. That permanent frown, those hard eyes. Bjorn believed he was always like this—carrying his kingdom's weight on his face for everyone to see.
As the ceremony continued and the monks were midway through a chant, a bell resounded from outside.
The chanting faltered slightly, then continued. Everyone looked at each other in confusion without stopping. They thought it was the church's bell. Some kind of signal they'd forgotten about.
Bjorn finally allowed a smile to appear on his face.
But the bells didn't stop ringing. Instead, they sounded more urgent, more insistent. An alarm. The chants finally faltered mid-phrase, voices dying away one by one until silence filled the Minster.
A murmur rippled through the rows of monks and attendants. Worried whispers. Confused glances.
The monk close to him saw his smile and looked at him strangely. His face still had youthfulness, probably no more than twenty-five, with the kind of suspicion that came from insecurity. "Why are you smiling?"
Bjorn glanced at him and whispered, "I wasn't smiling."
"I saw you." The monk's voice had an edge to it now. Accusatory.
"You saw wrong."
The monk leaned closer, his breath sour from the morning meal. "Just so you know, I don't trust you and I don't like you."
He was one of the jealous ones, Bjorn knew. One of the monks who'd spent years trying to gain favor, only to watch a newcomer arrive and receive attention in a day that they'd never gotten in years.
Bjorn glanced at him again, holding his gaze. "Trust me, you have no idea how right you are."
The monk's face twisted with confusion. He opened his mouth to respond.
Then they heard a voice from outside the church.
"Halt!" The two guards shouted in alarm. The sound of boots running.
The shout was cut off. Then silence.
The shout created a ripple of tension among those present. Everyone turned and glanced at each other nervously, unsure whether this was part of the ceremony or a threat. The Archbishop raised his hand, calling for calm, but his own face had gone pale.
Nobles exchanged anxious looks, some whispering urgently as they tried to assess the situation without panicking. A few of the older warriors—men who'd actually seen combat—started to stand, hands reaching instinctively for weapons that weren't there.
Eventually everyone turned toward the King, but he seemed as confused as the others. His hand gripped the arm of his chair, knuckles white.
There was a brief conversation outside the church. Voices too low to make out clearly.
Afterwards, one of the guards rushed in, his face flushed from running. He delivered grave news to the King, his words coming fast. "Ships on the river, Lord King. The Northmen are here." He paused, swallowing hard, then added with clear uneasiness, "It's Silver Hair's ships. All eight of them."
The murmur turned into low gasps and muttered prayers, followed by uneasy shuffling and the scraping of benches as people instinctively moved closer to one another. Hands reached for hands. Parents pulled children close.
The women, including the Queen and the Princess, clutched each other while pulling the prince closer. The Queen's face had lost all color. She looked like she might faint.
Ælla straightened his posture, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair so hard Bjorn could see the tendons standing out. He didn't appear as frightened as the men around him, though. He knew he was well defended here. Strong walls. Many warriors. So he asked the important question, his voice cutting through the panic. "How far are they from here?"
Ælla believed that attacking his town was suicidal, even with the Northmen having eight ships. His walls had never been breached. He had hundreds of fighting men, all trained, all well-equipped. The Northmen would break themselves against his defenses like waves against rocks.
The guard responded quickly, standing at attention despite his fear. "They're almost here, my lord."
Ælla's face hardened.
The Archbishop raised a hand, trying to calm the room. "Stay where you are," he said firmly, but his voice was tense, the words coming faster than his usual measured speech. "We must stay strong and we must pray. We have strong walls protecting us. Good men defending us. And most importantly, we have God with us. The Lord protects the righteous. He will not abandon us in our hour of need."
The Archbishop was doing his best to calm the crowd, but Bjorn, who remained calm compared to those around him, shook his head slightly. Empty words and empty promises. He was waiting to see King Ælla's reaction so he could respond accordingly.
King Ælla wondered about something, and Bjorn could see the thought forming on his face before he spoke. He asked loudly, his voice cutting through the Archbishop's prayers with clear anger. "How did they reach here without warning from the scouts on the River? We have men posted every mile. Are your men sleeping, Lord Wigea?"
All eyes turned to Lord Wigea, a man with the bearing of a veteran commander. He stood near the King's side, where he'd been standing through the whole ceremony.
The King's sudden anger heightened the anxiety in the room. His fury signaled to everyone that the threat was serious, though they already knew that. But seeing their king lose his composure—that made it real.
Lord Wigea, trying to escape responsibility, said the first thing that came to mind. His voice was defensive, the words tumbling out. "Something must have happened, Lord King. The scouts are good men. Loyal. Otherwise they would surely have sent news. Perhaps the Northmen came at night. Perhaps they killed the scouts before—"
"Perhaps?" Ælla cut him off, his voice rising. He moved closer to the man and towered over him with his massive build, his face red with rage. "Perhaps?! I didn't put you in your position for 'perhaps,' Lord Wigea! You are there to know! To be certain! And now we have two hundred heathens at our gates and you give me 'perhaps'!"
The King was screaming now, spit flying from his mouth. "They did not send word! We had no warning! And now my people will soon start dying!"
Lord Wigea simply bowed his head, shoulders hunched, hoping for the King's temper to pass. He said nothing. What could he say? The King was right.
Lord Wigea's incompetence spread further fear among those present. He showed them that even he, a veteran, a man who'd fought in a dozen battles, could be caught unprepared. If he could fail, what hope did any of them have?
They had all heard of the Northmen's cruelty. The stories that traveled from village to village. Women taken as slaves. Men killed for sport. Children stolen. Churches burned. Everyone inside feared for their lives and their children.
Ælla fixed his gaze on the man, then dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "You are lucky they are attacking us within these fortified walls. Lucky I need every man. Go and organize the defense properly." He looked at him coldly, his voice dropping to something more dangerous than shouting. "This is the last time I forgive your incompetence. The next failure will be your last. Do you understand me?"
Lord Wigea bowed his head deeper. "Yes, my lord. I will not fail you again."
"Go."
Lord Wigea turned and stepped toward the church's door, moving quickly, eager to escape the King's wrath and prove himself. His hand reached for the door handle. Just as he grasped it and was about to pull it open, just as he was about to disappear from the panicking crowd's view—
Those inside heard a wet crunch.
A sound like a butcher's cleaver hitting meat.
They turned their heads, and what they saw filled them with terror that went beyond fear—it was the kind of primal horror that bypassed thought and went straight to the gut.
A sword blade had pierced through Lord Wigea's right eye socket and emerged from the back of his head. Blood and clear fluid dripped from the blade, pattering onto the stone floor. The sword had gone in from behind, through the door that was now open just a crack.
For a moment, Wigea stood there, still somehow on his feet, his remaining eye wide with shock. His mouth opened and closed like a fish drowning in air. His hand still gripped the door handle.
Then the sword was withdrawn.
The sound it made coming out was worse than when it went in—a sucking, scraping noise that would haunt everyone who heard it. Wigea's body swayed for a moment, then fell backward into the church, hitting the stone floor with a heavy thud. His arms and legs twitched once, twice, then went still. Blood pooled around his head, spreading slowly across the white stone.
Everyone was already tense, but this scene broke them mentally.
The Queen screamed, a high, piercing sound that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. She stumbled backward and crashed into a bench, her attendants catching her before she fell. Everyone else scattered like startled birds.
Monks scrambled over benches, robes tangling around their legs.
Nobles shoved each other aside, all thoughts of dignity forgotten. Some tried to hide behind columns, pressing themselves against the stone.
Others dove under benches, curling into balls like children hiding from a storm.
The Archbishop stood frozen, his face white as his beard, one hand clutching his chest.
The man who had attacked Wigea stepped through the door, his boots stepping over the corpse like it was a threshold.
He was tall, taller than average, with broad-shoulders broad. And he was bald, his head shaved smooth, just like Brother Chadus. Just like Bjorn.
And he carried two swords, one in each hand. Both dripping with blood that left a trail of red drops on the white stone floor.
Anyone who could still think in this bloody moment understood that the other guard outside was already dead. There had been two guards at the church entrance. Now there were none.
The remaining guard who was inside, now standing close to the King, had no weapon whatsoever. His sword was outside on the weapon rack. He couldn't bring his weapon inside the Church. They were forbidden here. Sacred law. The kind of law that got men killed.
He looked at the bald intruder, then at his King, then back at the intruder. His hands opened and closed uselessly at his sides. He didn't know what to do.
The bald man slowly closed the church door behind him with his foot, never taking his eyes off the room. The door swung shut with a boom that sounded like a tomb being sealed. The heavy wooden beam fell into place.
They were trapped.
The Archbishop finally gathered his strength and shouted at the bald man, his voice shaking with rage and fear. "In the name of God, who are you? How dare you! This is sacred ground! You bring violence into the house of the Lord!"
The bald man did not answer him. He simply kept staring with eyes as cold and blue as winter ice.
The Archbishop continued, his voice rising higher, more desperate. "This is a place of God! Do you realize what you are doing? You will burn in Hell for this! Your soul is damned! Do you hear me? Damned!"
The bald man looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled.
It was not a kind smile. Not friendly. It was the smile of a wolf that had just cornered its prey.
He spoke finally, his voice deep and rough, the English broken and heavily accented. "God bless."
Those two words, spoken in that accent, with that smile, with those swords dripping blood—it terrified them more than any threat could have. The mockery of it. The casual blasphemy.
The bald man with swords dripping blood terrified them with his unsettling smile.
They were now trapped inside the church with him.
Someone in the back—a young monk, probably not even twenty—started crying.
They realized only one group of people could do something like this. Could walk into a church and kill without hesitation. Could smile while doing it.
"The Northmen," someone whispered.
The word spread through the room like fire through dry grass. "Northmen." "It's them." "We're dead." "God save us."
This terrified them even further. They knew that death or captivity was their fate. They would kill the men, take the women, and who knew what they'd do to the children. Some said they ate them.
Bjorn analyzed everyone's reaction while they panicked, his face still calm, still composed. He glanced at the nobles and saw some exchanging glances. Quick looks. Nods. He knew they were trying to plan something. Brave men, or maybe just desperate ones. They were going to try to rush the bald man, to overpower him with numbers.
So Bjorn immediately stood up and walked toward one of the nobles who was tensing to move.
Everyone watched Brother Chadus. They thought he was brave to stand, to move toward the heathen. A holy man going to confront evil. But when they saw him walking not toward the bald intruder but toward a nobleman—one of their own—they grew confused and wondered what he was doing.
The noble saw him coming and opened his mouth to speak. "Brother, we must—"
Bjorn didn't let him finish.
He finally reached the man, drew back his fist, and struck him in the jaw with all his strength. The noble's head snapped to the side. His eyes rolled back. He collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, hitting the floor unconscious before he even knew what happened.
Everyone was terrified, including the Archbishop, who stared at Brother Chadus with betrayal and horror in his eyes. "Brother Chadus? What... what are you doing?"
Bjorn looked at him and sighed, almost sadly. "I really should have picked another name. No one gets my humor anyway."
King Ælla, who looked less restrained now, all pretense of royal composure gone, demanded in a voice that shook with rage and confusion, "What is the meaning of this, monk? Have you gone mad?"
Bjorn turned toward the King and gave him a pitying look, the kind of look you'd give a child who didn't understand a simple lesson. "You still don't understand, do you?"
King Ælla stared at him. Perhaps fear and anger were clouding his judgment and thinking, which would explain why he wasn't putting the pieces together. The bald monk. The bald intruder. Both here. Both calm while everyone else panicked.
So Bjorn walked closer to the bald man—to Ragnar—to stand near the church door. They stood side by side now, two bald men, one in monk's robes, one covered in blood.
Then Bjorn reached up and grabbed the rough wool of his monk's habit. He pulled it over his head in one smooth motion and dropped it on the floor like the disguise it was. Underneath he wore a simple tunic, leather trousers, and a belt with a knife he'd hidden. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck.
Finally felt free.
He exchanged a look with Ragnar. His father nodded once.
Then Bjorn looked at the King and the frightened people. He let the silence stretch for a moment, let them stare at him standing there beside the blood-soaked intruder.
"Well," he said in his own accent now, no longer trying to hide it, his voice carrying clearly through the silent church, "since we'll be together for a while now, let's make proper introductions. My name is Bjorn. And this is my father, Ragnar Lothbrok."
He paused, letting that sink in. Letting them understand.
"You may call me Silver Hair. I'm sure you're more familiar with that name, aren't you?"
Once they heard that name, Queen Ealhswith found no strength left in her legs. They gave out beneath her like she'd been struck. She fell, not gracefully, but hard, her dress tangling around her. She would have hit her head on the stone if her daughter hadn't caught her.
Judith held her mother with both arms, trying to keep her upright, her young brother now clutching at both of them, his face buried in his mother's dress, not understanding what was happening but knowing enough to be terrified.
People began whispering "Silver Hair" like it was a curse. Like saying it might summon demons. Most were terrified. Some grimaced with anger, impotent rage at being helpless. As if he were the Antichrist himself come to judge them.
King Ælla realized who he was. "You..." He took a step forward, then stopped himself, his whole body trembling with the effort of controlling himself. "You..."
He now felt the weight of powerlessness despite his authority, despite his crown, despite everything he'd built. His greatest enemy stood right in front of him, inside his fortified walls, inside his most sacred place, and he hadn't even known. The man had been here for a day. Sleeping in his monastery. Eating his food.
The humiliation was almost worse than the fear.
The angriest was the Archbishop.
He looked at Bjorn and laughed, but it was a bitter, broken sound. "That's impossible. It can't be. How could it be?" His voice rose higher, breaking. "I gave you a place to live under God and among His servants! I took you in! I tested you and you knew the word of God! I broke bread with you! Is this how you repay the kindness we gave you? Is this your honor?"
Bjorn looked at him, and for a moment there was something almost like regret in his eyes. "You are a good man, Archbishop. I mean that. However, the world is ruled by bad men, and good men always die first. So don't do anything foolish." His voice hardened. "Sit down on the ground if you value your life."
The Archbishop looked at him with tears streaming down his weathered face. "Do you think I care about my life? I am an old man. I have lived my years. Take it if you want it. Send me to God."
Bjorn replied, his voice softer. "Then care about the lives of your monks. Care about them. They're young. They have years left. Don't make me kill them because you want to be a martyr."
The Archbishop looked at him, then at the young monks huddled together, frightened and confused. He closed his eyes, took a shaky breath, and slowly sank to his knees on the stone floor. His lips moved in silent prayer. "I invited the devil into a sacred place. May God forgive my sin. May He forgive me."
Judith watched all this while supporting her mother, who had now fainted completely in her arms, dead weight. Her frightened brother held her other arm while also kneeling on the ground, his small body shaking with sobs he was trying to suppress.
She was scared. Terrified even. Her heart hammered in her chest so hard she could hear it in her ears. But she tried her best to stay strong, to keep her face composed, for her brother and for her mother. Someone had to. If she broke, they would all break.
She met Bjorn's eyes across the church. Held his gaze. Didn't look away.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
Suddenly they could hear banging on the door outside the church. Fists pounding on wood. Guards started shouting, their voices muffled but urgent. "Lord King! Lord King, answer us!"
No one inside answered.
The guards shouted again, pounding harder, trying to force the door. "Lord King! What's happening? Lord King!"
The door shook in its frame but held. The wooden beam across it was thick, solid oak. It would take time to break through.
Bjorn looked at King Ælla and shook his head slowly. "Tell them not to break the door."
He said nothing else. Just pointed his knife—he'd drawn it now—toward where Judith knelt with the Queen and the prince.
The threat was clear.
Bjorn wasn't sure if they would break down the church door and rush in with weapons. Maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn't. But if they did, people in here would die before the door came down. Starting with the royal family. And he would fight and kill everyone in this small place. He doesn't mind.
King Ælla understood. His jaw clenched so hard Bjorn could see the muscles jumping in his cheeks.
He turned toward the door and shouted, his voice carrying the authority of a king even in this moment. "Stand down! Do not break the door!"
"My lord?" The voice outside was confused. "My lord, we heard—"
"I know what you heard! Tell me the situation outside the walls!"
There was a pause, then: "The Northmen have unfortunately killed some of the men who were too slow to enter through the gates before we closed them. Maybe ten men, my lord. Maybe more. We couldn't save them all."
Ten men dead. Ælla's face twisted.
The guard continued, "However, the Northmen are not attacking the walls. They're not doing anything. They're just... they're just waiting outside. Standing there. Watching."
King Ælla repeated slowly, "Waiting?"
He turned to look at Bjorn, who gave him a knowing smile.
The guard outside said, his voice uncertain, "My Lord, there is a dead body out here. Is something wrong inside?"
Ælla turned toward Bjorn, a silent question on his face.
Bjorn shrugged. "Tell him."
Ælla took a breath, then shouted through the door, "The church has been taken. I am held hostage. My family is held hostage. The Northmen are inside."
Silence from outside. A long, terrible silence.
"My lord... what should we do?"
Ælla grimaced, every word costing him. "Defend the walls. Hold your positions. And do nothing else. Do you understand? Nothing else. No one tries to enter this church. No one."
"But my lord—"
"That is an order!"
"...Yes, my lord."
Ælla turned toward Bjorn, anger clear on his face, burning so hot Bjorn could almost feel it. "What do you want? I don't think you went to all this trouble just to introduce yourself."
Bjorn laughed, genuine amusement in the sound. "Obviously not."
He started pacing slowly, casually, like he owned the place. Ragnar stood by the door, still and watchful.
"How about I open the door and we all go outside, then you tell your men to clear the way for us and open the gate so we can all leave? And of course i take you with me. Simple."
Ælla scoffed, some of his courage returning now that the initial shock was wearing off. "I don't think I'll do that. I don't know what you're planning, but the way I see it, you're stuck here with us. You can't hold us forever. Eventually you'll have to sleep. Eventually you'll make a mistake. And when you do, my men will cut you down like the dogs you are."
Bjorn stopped pacing and looked at him with something close to respect. "There it is. Now that's a king. I was starting to think you were all crown and no spine."
"Answer my question, Northman."
"Am I stuck?" Bjorn asked, his voice reasonable. "I control your family's lives. Your only son. Your only heir. That boy there—" he pointed at the prince with his knife, "—is the future of your kingdom, isn't he? Everything you've built dies with him if I cut his throat right now."
The Queen, who had regained consciousness, made a small sound of horror and pulled her son closer. The boy was crying openly now, tears streaming down his face.
Bjorn continued, "And on top of that, I have your daughter I have your Archbishop. If he dies because of you, I don't think your God will forgive you. I don't think your people will forgive you either. The man who let their spiritual father die. That's a stain that doesn't wash off a crown."
Ælla hated the man in front of him with a burning intensity he'd never felt before. He tried to negotiate, his voice tight. "If you kill them, you and your father will never escape here alive. My men will tear you apart. They'll make it last days. And i promise you won't die quickly."
"I'll take my chances," Bjorn said simply. "Besides, if I don't walk out of here soon, what do you think my men will do?"
Ælla tried to resist Bjorn's pressure, grasping for any advantage. "They can't do much. Even if they had double our numbers, we are well defended. These walls have stood for a hundred years. They've never been breached. Your men will break themselves against them and then we'll hunt down whoever's left."
Bjorn smiled wider. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps your walls are impregnable. But tell me something, King Ælla—do all your villages have walls like these?"
Ælla's face went pale.
"What about the villages that have no defense? The farms? The monasteries scattered across your lands? Can they defend themselves? Because if I don't walk out of here by midday, my men have orders. Very specific orders. They start with the closest village and work their way outward. One every hour. They'll burn everything. Kill the men. Take the women and children. By the time the sun sets, I'll lay waste to your kingdom."
Bjorn let that sink in, watching Ælla's face.
"And you'll be sitting here in your fortified town, safe behind your walls, listening to the screams. Watching the smoke rise. Knowing you could have stopped it. That's the choice you have to make, King. Your pride, or your people."
Ælla had never hated anyone this much in his entire life.
Bjorn knew that so he made him chose between his hatred and his responsibility.
Bjorn, satisfied with Ælla's reaction, paused for a moment. He could see the king's mind working, weighing options, all of them bad. Then he added, his voice softer now, almost conversational, "So are you ready to talk, King? Really talk?"
Ælla stared at him for a long moment. His fists clenched at his sides. Finally, through gritted teeth: "Say what you want."
"Smart man."
Bjorn didn't start speaking immediately. Instead, he beckoned the King closer with a gesture. "Come here. Let's talk like civilized people. You and me."
Ælla hesitated, then walked forward slowly, leaving the protective cluster of his family and guard. Each step looked like it cost him something.
They stood close now, close enough to speak quietly. Bjorn gestured for him to lean in closer.
They began whispering, their heads close together like conspirators. Ragnar kept watch on the room, his swords still in his hands, still ready. The two of them weren't particularly threatening in numbers—just two men. But everyone in the room remained frozen, too terrified to move.
They weren't fighters anyway. Half were clergy—men who'd taken vows of peace. The other half were nobles who'd grown soft on rich food and wine, who practiced with swords for sport but had never felt the reality of steel cutting into flesh. And none of them were stupid enough to try to be heroes. Not with the royal family being used as shields.
Whatever the King was saying, Bjorn laughed to that, though it wasn't from happiness. His face showed clear displeasure with what he was hearing.
Without warning, Bjorn turned away from the King and moved toward the nobles who were huddled together near one of the columns. They pressed back against the stone, trying to make themselves smaller, invisible.
He looked at one of them coldly—a fat man in his forties with a round face and expensive clothes. The man's eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to speak, to plead, to offer something.
Bjorn was faster.
His sword came up in a blur of movement. The blade cut through the man's neck in one clean stroke.
There was a wet sound, like a butcher's knife through raw meat. The man's head separated from his body and fell to the floor. It rolled a few feet before stopping, the eyes still wide with shock, the mouth still open.
The body stood for a moment longer, blood fountaining from the stump of the neck in rhythmic pulses. Then it collapsed, hitting the stone floor with a heavy thud. Blood spread across the white stone in a growing pool, the red looking almost black in the candlelight.
Screaming erupted. The Queen shrieked. Monks scrambled backward, stumbling over benches. Some covered their eyes. Others stared in frozen horror.
The smell of blood filled the church.
Bjorn didn't look at the body. He wiped his blade on his pant leg casualy, then turned back to face the King. His eyes were cold, empty of emotion.
Bjorn had stopped asking whether killing was right. The world had already answered him; in blood, in loss and in the silence that followed every victory.
He pointed his sword toward where the Queen sat with Judith and the prince, all three of them pressed together in terror. The Queen was hyperventilating, her face drained of all color. The prince had buried his face in his mother's dress, his small body shaking violently. Judith held them both, her own face pale but her eyes still meeting Bjorn's with defiance mixed with fear.
"The next one," Bjorn said quietly, his voice carrying clearly through the shocked silence, "will be your wife."
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