The candlelight in London's hall flickered against the stone walls, throwing shadows across Cnut's face.
His council had gathered, but the air was heavy with unease. Messengers had returned not with clarity, but with contradictions, rumors carried on frightened tongues.
A Saxon reeve, trembling before the throne, stammered his report:
"My lord, the villages of Middleham and Whitford… they are empty. Entire households, gone. Some say they were dragged northward in chains. Others… others whisper they went willingly, following the wolves into the dark."
Another messenger, Dane-born, spat on the ground in disgust.
"Lies. They were sacrificed! The pagans take them for their gods, burning, bleeding, feeding their idols with Christian flesh. It is said the White Wolf dines on their hearts himself."
The hall erupted in anxious muttering. Some shouted in outrage, others crossed themselves in fear.
Cnut raised a hand, silencing them. His face was pale, his lips drawn tight.
