The smoke of Northumbria did not drift southward by chance.
It was carried by men.
Gaunt, ragged survivors stumbled through the winter fields of Mercia, their eyes hollow and their voices cracked with terror.
They spoke of villages turned to ash, of horsemen with wolf pelts streaming from their shoulders, of spears couched like thunder that shattered shieldwalls in a single strike.
"They came from the sea!" one cried in a tavern at the edge of York.
"Not men, not raiders, riders! Wolves upon horses, their hooves pounding like storm surf!" His words spilled into his ale as he shook.
"They burned everything. Took our wives, our children. The earth itself trembled beneath them."
Others swore they had seen pale banners marked with black runes, sails painted with charms that glowed red in the firelight.
Some muttered that Odin himself rode with them, cloaked in frost and steel.
By the time they reached Mercian strongholds, their fear had become prophecy.
