The old gods had long been silent in Eldhame.
Their stone temples lay in ruins, their names barely whispered, but in the hills near Dunmoor, there remained one last altar—a moss-covered monolith said to mark the blood pact of Eldhame's first king. It was there that Uthred chose to make his stand.
The outpost at Caelwyn had lit a fire in the hearts of the people, but fire without fuel dies quickly. They needed more than victories. They needed something unbreakable. A bond, a vow, something sacred.
"I will call a council," Uthred said. "Here. Where it began. Where blood speaks."
Eamon nodded. "A bold move. But not without risk."
Jorlan grunted. "If you gather them, be ready to lead them."
The invitations were carved on oak bark and sealed with wax—no names, just symbols. A lion for the loyalists. A serpent for the spies. A flame for the wild clans of the north. Carried by runners and delivered in dead drops, they were sent to the scattered remnants of Eldhame's resistance.
Most wouldn't come. Some might come to kill him. But Uthred had made peace with risk. If he was to reclaim a kingdom, he had to begin with a gathering of wolves.
Within ten days, they came.
Not in armies, but in pairs, cloaked and quiet, slipping through the trees around the monolith. Old knights, forgotten daughters of nobility, mercenary captains with scarred faces, and even a priest of the old order wearing a raven-feather cloak.
Lady Maera stood at Uthred's side. Jorlan watched from the shadows, hand on his sword. Eamon moved among the guests, greeting some by name, others by title, and a few with cold nods.
When the last torch was lit, Uthred stepped onto the altar stone.
He looked over the gathered rebels. All eyes on him. Some wary. Some curious. A few hungry for hope.
"My name is Uthred," he said. "Son of Aedric. Last of the lion line."
He paused. No applause. Only breath held tight.
"You have no reason to trust me. You have survived by not trusting. I understand that. I have lived in exile, trained in shadows, and watched my people suffer in silence. That ends now."
He unsheathed the sword.
"This blade belonged to my father. He died with it in his hands. I will die with it in mine—if I must. But I would rather live to see you free."
A murmur passed through the crowd.
"I do not ask for your loyalty because of my blood. I ask because you are tired. Because you remember what it was like to walk without fear. Because you want your children to know peace—not chains."
He stepped down and knelt before the altar.
"I swear upon the stones, upon the gods, and upon my father's ghost: I will not rest until Eldhame is free. I will not take the crown unless you give it. And I will bleed before I let you fall again."
He sliced his palm and pressed it to the monolith.
Blood streaked down the stone.
One by one, they followed.
The Blood Oath bound them in more than words. It gave them cause. And with cause came movement.
The following weeks were fire and steel.
Lady Maera organized the supply lines, using old trade routes hidden beneath Viking control. Jorlan drilled the new recruits into something resembling a fighting force—ragged, underfed, but fierce.
Eamon traveled south to reconnect with sleeping allies. Uthred moved between camps, forging trust.
He learned their names. Their griefs. Their dreams.
There was Branoc, a one-eyed woodsman whose brother had been burned alive for refusing to give tribute.
Ysolde, a blacksmith's daughter who killed a Viking officer with a branding iron.
Tarin, a farmer who had trained hawks to attack supply wagons.
They were not knights. But they were his people.
And they would fight.
Their first coordinated strike was on a tax convoy near the Amber Ford.
Eamon had mapped the timing precisely. Jorlan positioned the archers on the cliffs. Uthred rode at the head of the charge.
The battle lasted less than ten minutes. The convoy guards surrendered when their commander took an arrow to the eye.
They captured gold, grain, and weapons.
Uthred gave the food to the nearest village.
"I don't need their gratitude," he told Eamon. "I need their belief."
The gold he used to pay blacksmiths. The weapons went to his growing army.
The people began calling him the Flame Prince.
But not all welcomed the fire.
Within a month, word reached them of a bounty hunter named Skarn—a northern killer known for skinning rebels alive. He traveled with a dozen warriors, all oathbreakers who had once served Eldhame's nobility before switching sides.
He was coming for Uthred.
Jorlan wanted to move the camp.
Eamon wanted to set a trap.
Uthred made a third choice.
"I'll meet him."
He rode out alone, across a fog-filled moor, and waited.
Skarn arrived at dusk—huge, broad-shouldered, his beard soaked in ale, and his sword nicknamed Widowmaker. His men flanked him. All wore the old sigils of fallen houses.
"I thought you'd be taller," Skarn said, spitting.
"I thought you'd be dead," Uthred replied.
Skarn laughed. "You've got fire. Good. Makes the killing more fun."
"I'm not here to be killed. I'm here to offer you a choice."
Skarn raised an eyebrow. "You think you can bargain with me?"
"No. But your men might."
He turned to the oathbreakers.
"You wore those sigils when my father was king. He gave your houses land. Titles. Protection. Now you serve dogs who burn your farms and sell your kin."
Silence.
"I am Uthred, son of Aedric. The line you once swore to defend. If you want to reclaim your names, stand down. Walk away. I won't offer twice."
One of the men lowered his blade.
Then another.
Skarn roared and charged.
Uthred met him in a flash of steel.
The duel was brutal. Skarn fought like a beast, hammering blows that shook Uthred's bones. But Uthred moved like a shadow—countering, cutting, dancing in the mud.
A feint. A slash. And then Uthred drove his blade through Skarn's thigh.
The brute fell, snarling.
Uthred pressed his sword to the man's throat.
"Yield."
"Finish it," Skarn hissed.
Uthred hesitated. Then drove his sword into the ground beside the man.
"I don't kill for sport."
He turned to the oathbreakers.
"Swear to me. Or leave."
Ten of them knelt.
Skarn never walked again.
The Blood Oath had grown. It now ran through villages, forests, hills, and hearts.
The Viking warlords noticed.
They sent scouts, spies, and saboteurs. One nearly poisoned the entire camp's water supply. Another set fire to the grain stores.
Uthred responded not with panic, but with strategy.
He created signal fires across the countryside. Established hidden supply caches. Formed alliances with outlaws and smugglers.
He even forged an uneasy truce with the Stonefang Clan—a brutal group of northern raiders—by offering them spoils in return for disrupting Viking roads.
War was coming. But now he had a map.
And a kingdom waiting to rise.
One cold morning, Jorlan stood with Uthred on a cliff overlooking the valley.
"You've become the thing we prayed for," the warrior said.
"I'm not done yet."
"No. But you're no longer a boy."
Uthred didn't answer. He stared at the rising sun.
In the distance, riders approached with banners—new recruits, new allies, new chapters in the rebellion.
The Blood Oath had begun as a whisper.
Now it thundered.