(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man set down his cup and leaned back in his chair. The morning light had shifted, casting long shadows across the floor. The Scholar could see the exhaustion in his face; not the exhaustion of a sleepless night, but the exhaustion of a man who had been carrying a mountain for sixty years.
"We walked away from Serafina's Tower with nothing," Aurelio said. "No food. No weapons. No hope. Just the clothes on our backs and the children we had failed to save still screaming in our dreams."
He closed his eyes for a moment.
"But the world does not stop turning because you are broken. And while we limped south toward the remnants of Giovanni's network, other wars were being fought. Other lives were being traded. Other seeds were being planted."
He opened his eyes.
"Seeds that would grow into thorns."
— Memory —
The road south was a wound in the earth.
The plague had touched everything. Villages stood empty, their doors swinging in the wind, their hearths cold. Fields lay fallow, the crops rotting where they had been planted. The only signs of life were the crows; fat, black, indifferent.
Aurelio walked at the head of the column, his sword in his hand, his eyes scanning the horizon. Behind him came Cecilia, her arm linked through Elara's, her face still pale from the ritual. Behind her came the survivors; Gerald, Liam, Donata, Riccio, and a handful of Norsemen who had refused to abandon their Skald-King.
"We need to find shelter," Gerald said, falling into step beside him. "The men are exhausted. The women are worse. And the children..."
He trailed off. There were no children left. Just Elara, who was not really a child anymore, not after what she had seen.
"There is a village ahead," Liam said, appearing on Aurelio's other side. "Two miles. Small. Probably abandoned."
"Or full of Godbrand's followers."
"Either way, we need supplies."
Aurelio nodded. "We approach carefully. Riccio, scout ahead. Report back before we enter."
The young archer vanished into the treeline, his bow in his hand, his footsteps silent on the fallen leaves.
— Meanwhile, in France —
The court of King Armand was a gilded cage.
Charlotte stood at the window of her chambers, looking out at the gardens below. The roses were blooming, their petals a violent red against the green hedges. It was almost beautiful. Almost peaceful.
But Charlotte had not survived the fall of her father's house by believing in beauty.
"Your brother requests your presence," her handmaiden said, hovering in the doorway. "He says it is urgent."
"Everything is urgent in a kingdom held together by lies."
The handmaiden said nothing. She had learned not to argue with the Princess.
Charlotte made her way through the corridors of the palace, her footsteps echoing on the marble floors. Guards saluted. Courtiers bowed. She ignored them all.
Armand was in the map room, surrounded by his advisors. He looked older than his years, his face lined with worry, his hair streaked with grey. The crown sat on his head like a weight he had never wanted to carry.
"Sister," he said, gesturing for her to approach. "We have news from the south."
"The plague?"
"Worse. The preacher. Godbrand. He has been gathering followers. Thousands of them. He is calling himself the Prophet of the Cleansing."
Charlotte felt a chill run down her spine. "And what does the Prophet want?"
"He wants an audience. With you."
"With me?"
"He says you are the last legitimate heir of the old order. He says he wishes to... convert you."
Charlotte laughed; a cold, brittle sound. "Tell him I am not interested in conversion."
"We have told him. He says he will wait."
"Then let him wait. I have no intention of meeting with a madman."
Armand's advisors exchanged glances. One of them, a thin man with a sharp nose, stepped forward.
"Your Highness, the Prophet's followers are growing. If we do not engage with him, he may see it as an invitation to march on the capital."
"Then let him march. We have an army."
"An army that is currently fighting the plague, the remnants of the Cabal, and a dozen other threats. We cannot afford another war."
Charlotte turned to face him. Her eyes were cold.
"Then we will end this war before it begins. Send a message to the Prophet. Tell him I will meet him. But on my terms. Not his."
— Meanwhile, in the Norse Camps —
Gunnar Ironhand stood at the prow of his longship, watching the grey sea churn below.
The fleet had grown. What had once been a handful of ships was now a proper armada; Danes and Norwegians, united under a single banner for the first time in generations. But the unity was fragile, held together by little more than Gerald's absence and the promise of Vinland.
"The boy should be here," Rurik said, joining him at the rail. "He is the only one who can hold this alliance together."
"The boy is fighting his own war," Gunnar replied. "Against a preacher with a god complex and a plague that is eating the world."
"And while he fights, we wait?"
"We train. We prepare. We build ships and sharpen axes. And when he returns, we sail."
Rurik was silent for a moment. "Do you believe in Vinland? Truly?"
Gunnar looked out at the horizon. "I believe in the dream. Whether the dream is real... that is for the boy to discover."
— Back to Aurelio —
The village was abandoned.
Riccio had confirmed it on his scout. No signs of life. No fresh tracks. Just empty houses and the smell of death.
"We will rest here for the night," Aurelio announced. "Search every building. Look for supplies. Look for survivors. Look for traps."
The group dispersed, moving through the village with the practiced efficiency of people who had done this a hundred times before.
Aurelio found Cecilia sitting on the steps of the village church. Elara was asleep in her lap, her small face peaceful for the first time in weeks.
"She trusts you," Aurelio said, sitting beside her.
"She has no one else."
"Neither do we."
Cecilia looked at him. Her eyes were tired, but there was a spark there that had been missing since the ritual.
"I have been thinking about what Godbrand said. About the memories I lost."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I do not know what to say. I do not remember what I have forgotten. Only that there is a hole. A hollow place where something used to be."
Aurelio took her hand. Her fingers were cold, but her grip was firm.
"Then we will make new memories. Better ones."
"Is that possible? In a world like this?"
He looked out at the empty village, at the grey sky, at the road that led nowhere.
"I do not know," he admitted. "But I am willing to try."
— Present —
The old man smiled; a thin, wistful expression.
"We stayed in that village for three days. We buried the dead, restocked our supplies, and tended to our wounds. And then, on the fourth morning, we received word from the north."
He reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, yellowed with age.
"A message from Armand's court. The King of France was requesting an alliance. Not against Godbrand. Against something worse."
He unfolded the parchment and read aloud:
"The Italian king, Nero, has declared war on the continent. He claims the plague is a divine mandate for his rule. He claims the only way to end the suffering is to submit to his crown. He is marching north. He will reach our borders within the month. We cannot stop him alone. We need your help."
Aurelio folded the parchment and tucked it back into his tunic.