The first sign came with a raven.
It circled the tower twice, its cry piercing and insistent, before landing on a broken parapet. Uthred watched from the training yard below, sweat on his brow, sword in hand. Jorlan stood beside him, squinting up at the bird.
"Black wings bring black news," Jorlan muttered.
He wasn't wrong.
A day later, Eamon returned from the village of Halgar's Rest with news that stiffened their blood. A trader from the coast had passed through, speaking of a raid in the southern province of Dunholme—one of the last regions still quietly loyal to Eldhame's memory. The Vikings had razed the settlement, hanged the alderman, and posted bounties for any who claimed descent from the royal line.
They were still hunting Uthred.
The Roost no longer felt untouched. It felt watched.
Jorlan doubled the perimeter patrols. Eamon stopped traveling alone. Uthred's training grew harsher. He sparred until his arms gave out, ran until his lungs burned. But something deeper stirred in him—more than fear. More than anger.
It was time.
One night, by firelight, Uthred told them both: "We can't wait anymore. The people need a reason to believe. If they whisper about me, let them see me."
Eamon raised an eyebrow. "You would risk exposure?"
"I'm not hiding forever."
"You'd be hunted."
"I already am."
Jorlan gave a grim nod. "Then we choose the battlefield."
They began with rumors.
Eamon knew how to plant stories. He traveled again, under new names, selling herbs and charms, slipping quiet words into the right ears: of a rebel prince in the north, of justice stirring in the wilds, of a name the Vikings had failed to erase.
"People love a ghost," Eamon told Uthred. "But they rally to fire."
The first real sign came in the form of a coded message scratched into a wooden bowl: Highmere remembers.
It was a signal from a surviving noble house.
Uthred burned the bowl after memorizing it.
The journey to Highmere was long and treacherous. They moved under the cover of storm clouds, crossing frozen ridges and silent forests. Jorlan wore his armor again for the first time in years. Eamon carried hidden letters and half a dozen aliases.
Uthred carried the sword of his father.
At a wayside inn near the River Lorn, they encountered a group of soldiers wearing Viking leathers. They spoke in thick tongues and drank loudly, boasting about their work in Dunholme.
Uthred listened. His hands clenched.
That night, he followed one outside and slit his throat behind the stables.
Eamon found him cleaning the blade. "This isn't war yet."
"It is to me."
Highmere was a shadow of its former glory. Once a bustling trading post with three stone towers, it now held only one defensible keep and a population weary of hope.
But within those walls waited Lady Maera of House Rendal—a survivor, a widow, and one of the last nobles who had served King Aedric.
She met Uthred in a hidden room beneath the keep, her face hard, her hand on the hilt of a dagger.
"You've got his eyes," she said after a long silence.
Uthred didn't smile. "And his blade."
She studied him. "If this is a trick—"
"It isn't." Eamon stepped forward, presenting the ring and a sealed letter bearing the royal crest. "You once served the lion. Now serve his son."
Lady Maera opened the letter. Her hands trembled.
Minutes later, she knelt.
"Eldhame lives," she whispered. "Gods help us."
The next week brought others.
Old captains, former bannermen, and even a few commoners who had kept the faith. They came by night, entering through hidden tunnels or slipping through the trees. Uthred met with each one. Some doubted. Some wept. But all swore loyalty in the end.
He was no longer a shadow. He was a spark.
By the second moon, a small warband was formed—twenty men, then thirty, then more. Farmers. Archers. Outlaws. All drawn by the legend, the bloodline, and the fire in Uthred's voice.
"I am not here to reclaim a throne," he told them. "I am here to take back our future."
Their first mission was symbolic.
A Viking outpost had been built on the old ruins of Caelwyn—a sacred place once used for the spring festival. Uthred insisted they take it back.
They struck at night. Uthred led the charge, moving like wind through the enemy lines. He knocked a guard unconscious, scaled the walls, and opened the gates himself.
Jorlan's forces swept in.
By dawn, the outpost burned.
They raised the lion banner above the ruins.
The people of Highmere came to see it.
A little girl touched the sigil and whispered, "My grandfather told me about this."
Uthred knelt to her. "Tell him it flies again."
The message traveled faster than they did.
Whispers spread through the valleys and markets: The lion lives.
The Vikings responded with fear.
Bounties increased. Raids doubled. Villages were burned. A thousand silver pieces offered for the head of the boy with the king's eyes.
But for every hammer the Vikings dropped, a new rebel rose.
Eamon smiled as he read intercepted orders. "They're bleeding themselves trying to kill a ghost."
Uthred stood by the fire, sharpening his blade. "Then let's make that ghost real."