The torches in the great hall of Jomsborg had guttered low by the time the feast was done.

Chieftains who had raised their cups in noisy assent now slumbered or stumbled back to their ships.

But not all.

In a side chamber off the hall, a knot of men gathered in whispered anger.

Obotrite lords with wine-stained lips, Veleti greybeards stiff with pride, younger chiefs who spat at the thought of bowing to a foreigner.

Their voices clashed like knives drawn too close together.

"Madness," one Obotrite growled.

"To let a Norseman, a raider, lay gifts at our feet as if we were children. Today he gives us swords, tomorrow he takes our sons for thralls."

The Veleti elder slammed his fist on the table, his face dark.

"And yet you sat silent when the Rani declared for him! Silent, like a gelded ox while they yoked us all."

A younger chief bristled, his hand going to the hilt of his blade.

"And what would you have had me do? Rise against half the hall? Better to curse in private than be cut down as a fool!"

The room buzzed with fury, threats muttered sharp as steel.

Hands hovered over sword-belts, eyes glinted with hate.

For a moment it seemed old feuds would split into blood right there, Wend against Wend.

Then a new voice cut through.

"Enough."

All eyes turned to the warrior at the door.

He wore no lord's armring, no priest's clasp, only the travel-stained cloak of a man used to markets and marches.

His hair was braided simply, his hands callused.

"I have traded with the Rus," he said, his tone low but steady.

"I have drunk in Novgorod, where they speak of this wolf as though he were carved into the very runestones. They say his halls are not of timber, but of stone, with Roman fires to warm them, aqueducts to water them. They say his smiths forge steel that sings when drawn. They say thralls till his fields so that every freeman bears only sword and shield."

The chiefs shifted uneasily, their bluster faltering.

The man stepped closer, eyes sweeping them all.

"And I heard more. Rumors from England, carried on the tongues of sailors. They say the White Wolf blood-eagled Cnut before the gates of London. That he stood unscathed in a storm of spears, and when Duncan of Alba turned on him, he vanished like smoke, leaving kingdoms to tear at one another's throats. Some curse him, others call him a god returned. But all agree on one thing: he is no mere raider."

Silence stretched.

The crackle of the torches seemed loud as thunder.

One of the younger Obotrites spat into the rushes.

"God or man, what of it? He is not of our blood. Better to kneel to Conrad than to a wolf who feasts on kings."

But another, older chief shook his head, his eyes hard.

"If Conrad takes Denmark, he will come here next. Do you think the cross will spare us then? At least the wolf bares his fangs openly. If we do not march beside him, then when the others return victorious, they will call us cowards, or traitors who stood idle while the East was defended."

The chiefs muttered, torn between fear and fury, pride and pragmatism.

Hands loosened from sword-belts, though their glares still burned.

The trader's voice was the last to speak, calm as winter rain.

"Believe what you will. Curse him if it soothes your pride. But know this: whether you follow him or fight him, the White Wolf is no passing storm. He is the tide. And the tide does not ask men's leave before it rises."

No one answered.

The chiefs parted into the night, some muttering oaths, others staring long into the dark.

But the seed had been planted, and none could shake the thought that when dawn came, the tide might already be rising.

Meanwhile the hall of Jomsborg had grown quiet after the storm of debate.

The chieftains had spilled out into the night, some swearing new brotherhood, others muttering curses in the dark.

Only the embers glowed now, painting the rafters in red light, while the smell of mead and smoke still clung to the air.

Armodr leaned against the high table, his great axe resting at his side.

He watched the wolf across the hall, seated in the torchlight, silent as carved stone.

At last he spoke, his voice steady, a hint of triumph in it.

"They will come, in time. The Rani's word carries far. And once their neighbors march beneath your banner, the rest will not dare stand apart."

Vetrúlfr stirred, the pale gleam of his eyes catching in the firelight.

He inclined his head, as if he already expected such a verdict.

Then he rose, cloak shifting about his shoulders like a shadow.

"You are right, Armodr," he said. His voice was calm, deliberate.

"But you know I did not bring gifts of steel for the chieftains alone."

Armodr frowned, pushing himself upright. "What do you mean?"

Vetrúlfr's gaze drifted to the doors where the Wends had departed, then back to the jarl at his side.

"For those who pledged their swords tonight, bring them more than words when next you trade. Brynjas and blades, not coin, not promises. Tell them the White Wolf aids those who lift steel against the cross. Let their men march clad like Varangians, their hands armed with iron sharper than any priest's prayer."

For a heartbeat Armodr said nothing.

The weight of the words pressed upon him like a millstone.

He had expected bribes, oaths, feasts, but not this.

Not the promise of outfitting half the Wendish tribes in the armor of kings.

When at last he found his voice, it rasped in his throat.

"By the gods… Wolf, just how much steel do your forges produce?"

Vetrúlfr did not answer at once.

He only looked to the fire, where sparks leapt and died in the smoke.

Then slowly, deliberately, he let a smirk curl across his lips.

"Enough," he said, his voice low, almost reverent. "Enough to usher in Ragnarök."

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavier than iron.

Armodr's breath caught, his tongue dry in his mouth.

He had stood in shield-walls, watched kings fall, seen blood flow in rivers, but never had he felt the air itself turn so cold.

The wolf spoke not as a raider fattened on plunder, but as a man who had peered into the sagas and chosen to write them himself.

For a long moment the jarl could only stare, the hair bristling on his arms. At last, slowly, he bowed his head.

"Then the sagas will remember you," he said. "Whether as savior or doom, I cannot yet tell."

Vetrúlfr's smirk lingered as he turned toward the shadows of the hall, his cloak whispering across the rushes.

"Neither, Armodr. The sagas will remember me as truth. For when steel speaks, even the gods listen."

The last of the torches sputtered, smoke curling upward like the breath of some unseen beast.

And in the silence of Jomsborg's hall, it seemed as though Ragnarök had already begun.

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