Dublin – Early morning, the start of summer.
The scent of iron and salt lingered on the wind as dawn broke over Dublin's harbor, casting long shadows from the ramparts of Dubh Linn's stone keep.
Gulls circled above like anxious spirits, their cries sharp, discordant, as if echoing the mood of the city itself.
Within the hall of kings, King Sitriuc mac Amlaíb sat upon his Ashwood throne, not in majesty, but in armor.
His chain shirt gleamed faintly beneath his heavy wool cloak. His hands rested on the hilt of a Danish longsword gifted to his father by the Norsemen of old.
He did not grip it for show. He gripped it because his dreams had shown him fire upon the sea.
"He will come," Sitriuc muttered, eyes narrowed toward the open doors and the misted harbor beyond. "Like a storm without herald. Like Ragnarok itself."
Around him, his council sat tense. Bishops murmured prayers behind their lips.
