Uhtred stepped toward the heavy oak doors, the internal conflict hardening into a singular, sharp purpose. Fate was inexorable. He would fight for the land that didn't want him, to protect the king who didn't trust him, because that was the path written in the stars and the mud.

"The King is restless, Arseling," Leofric said, his voice a low gravel. "He sees omens in the clouds and heresy in your eyes."

Uhtred stood, his hand instinctively finding the hilt of Serpent-Breath. "Alfred sees what he wants to see. He wants a saint, but he needs a wolf."

"Then be a wolf," Leofric grunted. "Because the pack is at the gate, and they aren't coming to pray."

The torchlight flickered against the damp stone walls of the Great Hall, casting long, dancing shadows that looked like specters of the fallen. Uhtred sat alone, the weight of his dual identity pressing harder than the mail on his shoulders. He was a man of two worlds, yet in this moment, he felt like a ghost in both.

Outside, the Wessex air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and impending rain. The peace was a fragile thing, a glass shield held up against a storm of Danish axes. Uhtred’s mind raced through the betrayals and blood-debts that had led him here—to this specific crossroads where loyalty was a luxury he couldn't afford.