Moonlight silvered the harbor at Ullrsfjordr, laying a pale road across the water to the long stone mole.
Fires banked along the quay where the night-guard paced.
Beyond them rose the city: terraces cut into the hill, roofs tight against the wind, smoke from the hearths rising in thin white ribbons.
Hammers still rang faintly from the forges even at this late hour, iron voices promising strength for winters yet to come.
At the summit, the high keep crowned the mound like a helm on a brow.
Vetrúlfr stood on the balcony with the sea at his back.
Lanterns bobbed below at the shipyard, where new hulls waited on their stocks. His city. Their city.
He heard her steps.
Róisín came to his side, a cloak over her linen, hair braided simply. No crown, but the city had obeyed her as if she wore three.
"They have added a third slip," he said, nodding.
"We cut the channel in midsummer," she answered. "The Jǫfurr planned it, the thralls carried stone. It will hold the thaw."
