The stone walls of Scone's great hall trembled faintly as the wind howled across the Highland moors, but within, the hearths blazed high and the torches hissed with flame.
The lords of Alba stood lined along the walls, hands on sword pommels, watching in wary silence as the White Wolf of the North stepped through the oaken doors.
Vetrulfr, cloaked in a pallid wolfskin, his white hair glistening like frost, strode with the calm menace of a winter storm.
At his side walked Gunnarr, his right hand and blood-brother, and behind them, a handful of Norse warriors clad in reindeer hide and hardened silence.
They did not bow. But neither did they sneer.
King Duncan I rose from his throne of carved oak, bearing no crown, only a sword across his lap, the old Highland way.
His eyes locked with Vetrulfr's. They stared for a long moment, two predators weighing the other's scent, until Duncan gave a subtle nod.
"You stand before the king of Alba," the herald announced.
