The rains came hard that spring, turning roads to rivers and fields into mire. The kind of season where death slipped easily under doors and into lungs, where travelers vanished in fog, and riders were found in ditches with crows for company. But the war did not pause. Nor did Uthred.
He had been dreaming of fire again. Not the nightmares of his childhood, but new ones—of fire he had started, of villages burning beneath his banner. He woke sweating, heart pounding, the echoes of screaming still in his ears.
"You're restless," Jorlan said over breakfast, chewing on salted venison. "Makes your sword hand sloppy."
Uthred wiped sweat from his brow. "I don't sleep. That's the problem."
Jorlan grunted. "Sleep or not, you'll need your edge today."
Eamon entered the chamber a moment later, soaked to the bone, a leather scroll clutched in one hand.
"A gift from the gods—or from fools," he said, dropping the scroll onto the table.
Uthred opened it. Inside, a map. A route. A name.
Commander Hroldan, Viking war captain, third son of Jarl Sigvard, was on the move. Lightly guarded. Heading west toward the coastal stronghold of Galdir.
"Why travel so exposed?" Uthred asked.
"Because they don't fear us yet," Eamon said. "But they should."
Jorlan leaned over the map. "If we strike here—" he pointed to a narrow pass known as the Hollow Road—"we can box them in."
Uthred didn't hesitate. "We ride by dusk."
The Hollow Road was carved into the cliffs like a scar. One way in, one way out. The perfect place for an ambush. The terrain favored archers and high-ground fighters—exactly what Uthred had trained his rebels to become.
Twenty riders set out with him. Among them were Branoc, Ysolde, and two dozen new bloods—half-trained farmers, former prisoners, angry sons with no future but this one.
They reached the ridge by nightfall. Uthred didn't sleep. He sat beneath a crooked pine, staring at the stars, running tactics through his mind.
Jorlan found him there, sharpening his blade.
"You've led raids before," Jorlan said. "But this is different. Hroldan is blood to Sigvard. Kill him, and we're no longer an uprising. We're a war."
"I know."
"Are you ready for what comes after?"
"No. But I'm ready to make them bleed."
At dawn, they struck.
The first arrow took down the scout. The second hit a horse. Then came the screaming, the chaos of ambush, the clash of steel.
Uthred moved like a storm—silent, fast, merciless. He cut down two guards before they even drew swords.
The convoy collapsed into panic. Horses reared. One cart overturned, spilling crates of salted meat and iron tools into the mud.
Then he saw him: Hroldan.
The Viking commander was tall, armored in red lacquered plates, a long axe in hand. His beard was braided with golden rings. His face calm.
They locked eyes.
Hroldan raised his axe.
Uthred charged.
Their clash was thunderous. Blade met axe. Sparks flew. Mud splattered. Hroldan was strong—every strike drove Uthred back a step. But Uthred was faster, hungrier. His strikes were calculated, honed from years of training in exile.
Then Hroldan spoke.
"Your father screamed when he died."
Uthred froze. His stomach turned to fire.
Hroldan laughed. "I watched Sigvard run him through. He begged for your life."
Uthred roared. He struck without thought—pure rage, raw instinct. His blade met flesh. Hroldan stumbled.
One more cut. Then another. And Hroldan fell to his knees.
Uthred stood over him.
The Viking spat blood. "You have his eyes."
Uthred drove his sword through the man's heart.
Hroldan died with a smile.
The battle was over.
Rebels cheered. Supplies were taken. Armor looted. But Uthred stood in the blood-soaked mud, staring at his sword.
It trembled in his hand.
Ysolde approached. "He's dead. You did it."
He looked at her, eyes hollow. "I didn't do it for the cause."
"What?"
"I killed him for me."
She didn't speak. Just placed a hand on his shoulder.
"We all have our reasons," she said. "Yours just weighs more."
They returned to camp as heroes.
But Uthred didn't celebrate.
He walked alone through the woods that night, sword at his side, the memory of Hroldan's final smile burned into his mind.
He had taken his first true life. Not in defense. Not in battle. But in vengeance.
And it had changed him.