London's gates swung wide, and for the first time in months, King Cnut rode out beneath open sky.
His cloak of wolfskin and gilded helm gleamed in the March sun, casting away the whispers of cowardice that had dogged him since the wolves landed.
His household huskarlar followed like an iron tide, shields painted with crosses and dragons alike.
Their presence sent a single message to the realm: the King himself now rode to war.
At Oxford, he climbed the steps of the stone church and spoke not as a monarch, but as a war-leader.
"Your barns are empty, your homes burned, and yet you still stand here, breathing. That is enough. Take up spear and shield. Let the wolves know Mercia is not yet theirs."
The fyrd roared, striking spearheads against shields until sparks flew. Men who had been on the verge of fleeing now prepared to march.
At Northampton, in the mead-hall of Earl Leofric, Cnut dined with grim nobles. They spoke of shortages, of fear, of Vetrúlfr's cavalry ghosts.
