The great hall of Thetford smelled of mead and wet wool. Firelight danced along carved beams, glinting off shields that bore faded crosses. Jacob — Eadric — followed the guard through rows of silent courtiers.
At the high table sat King Edmund, broad and weary, a goblet in his hand. Beside him, Queen Æthelswith, sharp-eyed and cold. To her right, Ælfwine, Eadric's elder brother — taller, handsomer, smiling faintly at the sight of him.
"So the sleeping prince wakes," Ælfwine said. "Was your bed softer than the Lord's altar?"
Laughter rippled through the hall.
Eadric bowed stiffly. "My lord brother."
"Enough," Edmund said, waving a hand. "Sit, boy. We've news from the coast — raiders at Dunwic again."
Eadric sat, mind racing. He remembered this — not from life, but from the game. Dunwic was where the Norse first struck before sweeping inland.
"How many ships?" he asked.
Edmund squinted. "Six, perhaps seven. They burn, they leave. Always the same."
"It won't stay the same."
The room fell quiet.
"They're testing our defenses," Eadric said carefully. "Next time they'll come in force — an army, not a raid."
Ælfwine smirked. "And how do you know the minds of pagans?"
"I read," Eadric replied before he could stop himself. "History… patterns."
"History?" Ælfwine chuckled. "You sound like a monk."
Æthelswith leaned forward. "Let the priests speak of patterns, boy. You speak of loyalty."
Eadric bowed his head, though inside, Jacob's pulse thudded with frustration. They can't see it coming.
That night, in the small chapel behind the hall, he knelt before the altar. The candlelight trembled as he whispered, "Lord, if this is madness, let me wake. But if it's Your will—show me what to do."
Outside, thunder rolled again across the fens.