The fjords of Norway lay heavy under winter's breath, their waters black with ice.
In Nidaros, the great hall of the king burned with firelight, but its warmth did nothing to cool the fury of Svein.
He sat upon his father's chair, fists white on the arms of the throne as the messenger finished his tale.
The words clung in the smoky air like curses:
"…blood-eagled before the people, in the square of London. His entrails offered to pagan gods, while Rome's emissaries were bound and made to watch."
Svein's knuckles cracked. His father, Cnut the Great, King of England and Denmark, butchered like a thrall.
His death not merely a loss, but a blasphemy, a wound carved into Christendom itself.
The court shifted uneasily. None dared speak until Svein's voice broke the silence, hoarse with fury.
"Vetrúlfr will drown in his own blood for this." His hand slammed the table.
"But he is not the only serpent in this nest."
He rose, pacing the hall, his cloak snapping like a banner.
