The night was cold and damp, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and stayed there.
The emerald flames of the barn were already dying down, leaving behind a suffocating smoke that smelled of burnt hay.
Ivar dragged his ruined body across the wet grass, gasping for air.
"Damnit..." he coughed, spitting a glob of bloody phlegm onto the ground. "Where is he?"
He strained his eyes, there was no sign of Eadric. The crippled Saxon noble had vanished into the shadows, leaving Ivar behind.
Though he was known as the Boneless, Ivar had never felt so fragile. His legs were useless, and his arms were trembling from exhaustion.
"Fucking coward..." he muttered, digging his fingers into the muddy earth, trying to pull himself forward. But his body refused to obey.
