The candlelight in the royal hall of Winchester danced across the frost-rimmed windows, casting long shadows behind King Cnut and his council.
The hearth fire blazed, but the warmth felt hollow. The king's fingers drummed on the armrest of his oak-carved throne, the only sound in the silence after the envoys had spoken.
"The High King of the North says that come summer he will burn our shores... That he believed a debt of blood is owed and he intends to collect...."
Cnut exhaled, slow and deep. His gaze moved from the missive to his gathered men. Earls, bishops, and captains all stared at it as though it were a blade left in the center of the table, waiting to be claimed.
"He dares?" said Wulfgar, one of his marshals, breaking the silence.
"Let him come," spat Ealdred, the Lord of Kent. "We've broken Norsemen before. They are not immortal."
"No," said Cnut at last, his voice like distant thunder. "But this one is."
The council stilled.
