The Thames stank of smoke and ash. Where once London's bells had rung for Mass, now the air carried only the howl of horns and the bark of wolves.
Charred beams jutted from the skyline like broken teeth; the city that had been Cnut's jewel was now Vetrúlfr's lair.
Into this ruin came Rome's men.
Their procession wound through streets still black with soot, past villagers chained like cattle, past wolf-banners nailed above the shattered doors of churches.
At their head strode Cardinal Marinus, tall and austere, his crimson robes dulled by travel.
At his side walked Bishop Leo of Ravenna, muttering prayers as though every step upon this cursed earth demanded penance.
Behind them, mules strained under the weight of iron-bound coffers, a king's ransom in gold and silver.
The emissaries were brought to the great hall.
There, beneath the scorched rafters and the banners of the wolf, upon the throne that once bore the Cross, sat Vetrúlfr.
