The parchment crackled faintly in Jarl Gunnarr's hand, the seal of Ullrsfjörðr broken with care and reverence.
The courier who brought it waited at the hearth of his hall, silent, snow-dusted and weary. Gunnarr read the letter once in full, then again more slowly, word by word.
The script was unmistakably Vetrúlfr's, firm, precise, carrying a weight that could never be mistaken for anything but command.
"Let them remain. They have registered, and thus, by our laws, they are permitted to stay for the duration they were granted. However… if they violate our laws in any way, be it theft, proselytizing, or slander of our gods, they are to be expelled. Not harmed. I suspect the Bishop of Rome has sent them to bait us. He seeks a wolf to bite so that Rome may claim to be bleeding. Do not give him what he wants. Let them see our strength is not barbarism, but restraint."
