It began with smoke.
A column rising from the northwestern horizon—thick, black, and bitter. Uthred stood atop the Roost's parapet, wind curling his hair, watching the distant line stain the sky. It was no signal fire. It was a message, plain as blood.
The Ironcloaks were moving.
Once mercenaries loyal to Eldhame's royal house, the Ironcloaks had fractured after Aedric's fall. Half took coin from the Vikings. The other half disappeared into the Wyrmwood Mountains, where the peaks sliced clouds and the valleys froze men alive.
For years they had remained silent.
Until now.
Maera joined him on the wall, squinting through the haze. "They've torched the village at Solwyn. That was a test."
"A test of what?" Uthred asked.
"Our resolve. Our reach. Whether we'll answer."
He didn't hesitate. "Then we ride. If they want fire, we give them steel."
Uthred took fifty riders—his most disciplined warband yet. Veterans of Caelwyn and the Frostmarsh. Fighters who had spilled blood and taken oaths.
They moved swiftly through the Vale of Winds, then into the twisting paths of the forest that bordered Wyrmwood. Scouts returned with grim news: Solwyn was ash. Its people slaughtered or taken.
The trail led into the crags—up toward the mountains.
Toward the Ironcloaks.
Two days into the ascent, they were met by a lone rider.
She rode a black destrier and wore dark leather armor with crimson stitching. A crimson cloak marked her as something more.
She stopped fifty paces out, raised a hand.
"I am Commander Vale of the Ironcloaks," she shouted. "Who speaks for Eldhame?"
Uthred rode forward alone.
"I am Uthred, son of Aedric. Speak plainly, Commander. Why burn Solwyn?"
"It harbored spies."
"It harbored families."
"A cost," she said. "To test your cause. To test you."
"I'm not interested in being tested."
She dismounted.
"Then prove you're not just a flame that'll flicker and die like the rest."
They agreed to parley at Thornspire—a narrow plateau between two cliffs, sacred to the Ironcloaks.
There, Uthred met with Vale and her captains. Their armor was old but well-maintained. Their blades bore names. Their eyes held skepticism.
Vale paced before them all.
"We once bled for your father," she said. "Many died. More fled. Then the throne fell, and the blood we spilled dried into dust. We don't answer to ghosts."
"I am no ghost," Uthred said, stepping forward. "I am the flame that survived the fire. And I offer you more than vengeance. I offer purpose. Honor. Legacy."
"You offer death," one captain said.
Uthred's eyes met his. "So does silence. At least with me, you'll die fighting for something that matters."
Vale drew her dagger.
"We follow strength. Nothing else. Show us yours."
The duel took place on the edge of the cliff.
Vale chose Yorrik—a brutal veteran with a war axe and a crooked nose. Uthred chose no champion. He stepped forward himself.
Yorrik smiled. "I'll carve the lion out of you, boy."
They circled.
Yorrik struck first, a wide swing meant to end things quickly. Uthred ducked, slashed the man's thigh. Blood flew. Cheers erupted from both sides.
Then came a brutal exchange—axe to sword, iron to will. Uthred took a hit to the shoulder, but used the momentum to land a deep cut across Yorrik's ribs.
Breathing heavy, Yorrik charged.
Uthred sidestepped, drove his sword hilt into the man's skull, then swept his legs.
Yorrik fell hard. Uthred pressed his blade to the man's throat.
"Yield."
Yorrik spat. "Do it."
Uthred hesitated, then stepped back.
"I don't kill men to prove myself. I build with them."
He turned to Vale. "You want strength? Stand with me, and we'll shake the world."
Silence.
Then Vale nodded.
"The Ironcloaks ride with Eldhame."
The next weeks were fire and forge.
Uthred established a joint camp in the high valleys, training with the Ironcloaks by day, planning raids by night.
He bonded with Vale—not just in strategy, but in trust. She taught him mountain warfare. He taught her unity. Together, they led strikes on enemy caravans, shattered a Viking supply fort, and liberated three captured villages.
He earned not just loyalty—but legend.
One night, Vale sat with Uthred beneath the stars.
"You could have killed Yorrik. Why didn't you?"
"Because fear doesn't build kingdoms. Faith does."
She nodded slowly. "Then may the gods favor your flame. And may we be your steel."