Dawn crept pale and cold across the plain of Sarum.
The mists hung low, shrouding two armies that watched one another through the gray — Wessex to the west, East Anglia to the east.
Between them, under a white flag, stood a great pavilion of truce.
Eadric rode forward at the head of his guard, the wolf crest of Anglia snapping in the wind. His armor was darkened steel, his crown plain but weighty — the mark of a warrior-king, not a courtier.
On the far side came Edward of Wessex, crowned in gold and grief, his face pale and drawn.
Winchester's fall had carved something hollow in him. His eyes, once full of fire, were now the cold blue of tempered steel.
They entered the tent together, leaving their guards outside.
No wine. No feast. Only a wooden table and the silence of men who had once called each other brother.
"Eadric," Edward began stiffly, "your march west unnerved my lords. Many believe you mean to profit from our ruin."
Eadric's voice was calm but edged. "Your ruin? You think I would stand idle while Ivar burns the heart of England? I march to save what your own pride endangers."
The tension thickened like smoke.
But before Edward could reply, the ground itself began to tremble.
At first came a low rumble, then the beating of drums. From beyond the fog rose the glint of iron and the rhythm of marching feet — thousands of them.
"God's wounds," muttered one of Edward's men outside the tent. "They bear white banners…"
The tent flap whipped open — a messenger gasping for breath.
"My king — the Northmen! Thousands! They come under truce!"
Eadric's hand found his sword. "No… not truce. Theater."
Then the mist parted.
A sea of shields emerged, their edges glinting dull in the light. The serpent banner of the Uniting billowed above them.
Four thousand Norsemen — warriors of Ivar the Boneless — surrounded the field in silence, their laughter and shouts rolling like thunder through the valley.
And through their ranks, beneath a false white flag, came Ivar himself.
He rode in a chariot of bone and iron, his twisted legs bound in furs, his eyes bright with cruel amusement.
"Two kings," he said as he entered the tent, his voice smooth and mocking. "And yet not a single kingdom worth the name."
Edward stood, fury breaking through his restraint. "You desecrate the law of truce!"
Ivar smiled lazily. "Law? The law of weak men who think oaths bind the strong? I come not to fight — but to witness the birth of a new world."
He looked from one king to the other, his grin widening.
"You call yourself England's heirs, yet you squabble like starving dogs while I take her piece by piece. I am the Uniting. I make one land from your bones."
Eadric's gaze was like a drawn blade. "And when it's done, what then? Who sits upon this throne you build from corpses — you?"
Ivar tilted his head, feigning thought. "No king. Only the hand of the gods — the master who cleanses. England will have no crown, only those strong enough to crawl from the ashes."
The words hung heavy, echoing with madness.
Outside, his men began to chant — Ivar! Ivar! Ivar! — until the air itself seemed to tremble with it.
Edward looked through the tent flap at the black tide of warriors, his pride cracking under the weight of what he saw.
When he turned back, there was no malice left in his eyes — only grim understanding.
"You were right, Eadric," he said quietly. "This is no war of kings. It's a war for England's soul."
Eadric inclined his head. "Then we fight as one — or we die as many."
For the first time, the two kings clasped forearms — not as rivals, but as brothers reborn in necessity.
Ivar only laughed. "Ah," he said softly, "now the game begins."
Then he turned, and as he limped back toward his chariot, the white flag snapped in the wind — a false promise fluttering above a field already claimed by war.