The fires of Hrafnborg had burned low, leaving behind only smoke and embers.
Now, beneath a cold blue dawn, the clang of hammers rose from the square.
Thralls labored setting stone upon stone for a new fortress, binding them with lime and clay.
The scent of wet earth and crushed granite filled the air.
Vetrulfr walked among them without his cloak, the chill biting at his bare arms.
He liked to feel the cold; it reminded him that flesh and blood were mortal things, that gods and ghosts alone were immune to frost.
The men paused as he passed, striking their chests in salute.
He gave no reply save a nod, acknowledgment enough from a king who had crossed the sea to stand among them.
"Harder stone this side of the river," muttered Gunnarr, joining him with a slate of plans tucked beneath his arm.
"But strong. We can quarry enough for the outer walls before winter if we drive them day and night."
