The tension at Vingulmark's gates was palpable, the air thick with the promise of violence. Ragnar sat atop his horse, his eyes scanning the walls before him. He could see the defenders scrambling, their movements betraying their fear. Good. Fear made men predictable.
Grjötgard shifted beside him, and Ragnar caught the subtle glance—a warrior asking permission without words. The brother of King Rugalf had a reputation to uphold. Ragnar understood this better than most. A man's legacy was written in blood and carved with steel.
"Show them why your brother sent you," Ragnar said simply, his voice calm as still water before a storm.
That was all Grjötgard needed.
He dismounted with practiced ease, his boots hitting the ground with purpose. His eyes swept the battlefield, calculating, measuring. The gates were reinforced—battering them down would take time they didn't have. But walls? Walls were just stone and mortar held together by the arrogance of men who believed themselves safe.
