The wind off Ullrsfjörðr rattled the shutters of the great hall, carrying with it the brine of the sea and the bite of late winter.
Within, the fire roared high, but Vetrulfr did not sit close to it.
He stood apart, pale eyes fixed on the map stretched across the long table, the coasts of Jutland, the rivers of Saxony, the marches burning where Wendish fire now spread.
A messenger's report lay unrolled beside the map, its words grim but unsurprising: Conrad abandons Denmark.
The emperor marches south.
The Reich gathers to strike the Wends.
Vetrulfr's jaw tightened.
He had expected Conrad to falter, but not so swiftly.
Already the wolf-king's designs were shifting.
Gormr entered, brushing snow from his beard, and joined him at the table. "So. The emperor runs home. Will the Wends hold?"
