The longhall of Ullrsfjörðr was alive with smoke and steel that night.
Torches spat against the rafters, shadows of wolf-banners writhing along the carved beams.
The fire in the central hearth roared like a forge, heat pushing against men already drunk on mead and pride.
At the high seat sat Vetrulfr, wolf-king, pale eyes fixed upon the man kneeling at his feet.
The retainer's cloak was torn from weeks of sea travel, his face hardened by salt and frost.
Yet the words he carried were heavier than the voyage.
"My lord," he said, voice low but clear, "the colonies in the west bleed. Hrafnborg, Sólheim, Ulfsnes, they hold their walls, but the forests crawl with painted warriors. Confederations of the free tribes gather against them. More each season. Our thralls reap grain only to see it burned, our hunters walk into woods where arrows wait in silence. The stores dwindle, and the men grow restless."
