...
Weeks passed, and while Ragnar was acclimating to the relative peace of City Titan the deposed Saxon leadership was being dragged north.
Inside a wagon designed to hold construction materials, Bishop Heahmund sat in the corner, his back resting against cold iron bars as he struggled for dignity.
The icy wind of the Northumbrian winter permeated the gaps and sucked the warmth from his once-fine robes, now stained with coal dust from his forced labor in the locomotive's tender. Beside him were the few stubborn Ealdormen who had refused to sign the "Consultant Agreement."
Heahmund's face had not changed since his capture; he had been scowling ever since, muttering prayers and curses, thinking over what he could have done to stop the "Iron Demon."
As he stared into space, watching the grey, industrial landscape roll by, he overheard the "Iron Gear" guards tasked with escorting the wagon mocking him.
