The hall was thick with smoke, torches burning low, the smell of roasted boar mingling with pine pitch.
Voices of Wendish warriors rose and fell in drunken challenge, cups slamming against tables as they argued like kinsmen who had never been kin.
Vetrúlfr listened more than he spoke.
His silence was its own weapon, unnerving, patient, wolfish.
When he laughed, it was only at Armodr's side; the sound carrying like a knife scraping stone. The chiefs took note, even in their cups.
Armodr leaned closer, grinning through his beard.
"You've given them a taste, and now they fight not over whether to follow you, but how soon. See how the Obotrite brays? He fears his neighbors will rise first, and leave him without share. Wolves will snarl, but they will not risk being left from the pack."
Vetrúlfr drank deep, the ale bitter but clean. His pale eyes never left the men who shouted down the benches.
