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... s crested the ridge at dawn, their horses soaked and steaming, their cloaks marked by ash and blood.

They bore no standards, only the gleam of wolf-tooth clasps at their throats, and the rune of Ullr stitched into their sleeves in thread blacker than pitch.

The guards at Ármóðr’s camp parted without question. Word had already reached them: Vetrúlfr’s eyes had come.

Inside the command tent, Ármóðr leaned over a table carved from driftwood marked with bone-pegs and blood-in ...

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