The rain fell in sheets over the ruins of Halgar Keep. Smoke still curled from the cracked walls, and the scent of blood lingered in the mud. Uthred stood at the heart of the courtyard, his sword lowered but slick with crimson. Around him, Ironcloaks tended to the wounded, dragged enemy corpses into heaps, and reclaimed old banners.
Halgar was a critical waypoint—the last stone bastion before the road to Eldhaven, the royal capital, and now it was theirs.
Uthred removed his helmet and let the cold rain wash over him. His shoulder ached where a blade had pierced his mail, but the pain was distant. Victory numbed all else.
Vale approached with a grim nod. "The last of their resistance fell in the eastern tower. We hold Halgar."
Uthred looked to the broken banners. "Then it begins."
Vale followed his gaze. "You mean the war?"
"No. The reckoning."
Word of Halgar's fall spread like wildfire across Eldhame. Rebels emerged from forests, villagers refused Viking taxes, and ancient families sent secret messengers bearing crested rings—oaths of support renewed.
But not all was won.
Eamon returned from the south with news that chilled Uthred's resolve.
"There's unrest in Karthwyn," the old steward said. "Someone claiming to be the 'Crown Regent' has rallied a splinter faction of the old nobility. They say you are an imposter."
Uthred raised a brow. "A pretender?"
"He calls himself Lord Magnus of Vornfell. Claims descent from the same bloodline as your grandfather."
Vale cursed under her breath. "Another vulture pecking at the corpse."
Uthred stood. "If he gains noble support, our path to Eldhaven becomes a civil war within a civil war."
"Worse," Eamon said. "Some of the eastern barons have already begun answering his call."
Uthred narrowed his eyes at the map. "Then I will answer it louder."
Lord Magnus held court in the fortress of Vornfell—a heavily fortified seat built into the jagged cliffs above the River Myr. A thousand lances stood guard around its walls, and more within. Its battlements were rimmed with scorpions, and its gates were layered with heavy oak and iron.
Rather than wage war outright, Uthred chose diplomacy.
He arrived with a company of ten—Ironcloaks and trusted scouts—and demanded parley. Surprisingly, Magnus agreed.
Inside the hall of Vornfell, Uthred came face to face with the so-called regent.
Magnus was tall, proud, and draped in furs. His beard was gold-tinged, and he wore a circlet of iron. On his fingers were signets from three houses—two extinct, one traitorous.
"My nephew returns," Magnus greeted. "Or the boy who claims the title."
"I claim only what was stolen," Uthred said.
"And yet you come with swords."
"I come with mercy."
Magnus laughed. "You are young. Bold. But blind. The people don't need fire. They need order. And I am that order. The crown would be safer in my hands."
Uthred stepped forward. "The crown belongs to the people. Not to those who waited in silence while their kin burned."
Magnus' smile faded. "You'll regret this challenge. Vornfell is not some village to be set alight. It is stone and steel."
"Then it will bleed like the rest."
Rather than a direct assault, Uthred laid siege.
With the Ironcloaks and new allies, they cut off Vornfell's trade routes, poisoned wells, and dismantled bridges. Archers occupied high ridges while engineers built siege towers beneath the trees.
Inside the camp, tension brewed. The soldiers called Vornfell "The Stone Widow," for its defenses were near-legendary.
Vale brought new weapons—catapults carved from river pine, fire pots loaded with pitch. Blacksmiths from three provinces now worked under her command.
Uthred walked among the troops, sharing bread, listening to stories. He met Orwin, a baker turned spearman, who had lost his wife to Magnus' levies. And Serda, a mute girl who carried a sling and could split an apple at fifty paces.
Every night, he dined with a different company. Not as a king. As a soldier.
It made all the difference.
On the sixth night, Uthred unleashed the plan.
A tunnel—dug by miners once enslaved in Vornfell's own pits—led beneath the north wall. Explosives were placed in old wine barrels, packed with pitch and clay.
At dawn, the signal was given. The ground shook. The wall burst open.
Ironcloaks poured through the breach, roaring battle cries. Arrows filled the sky. Steel met steel.
Uthred led the charge himself, battling through waves of Magnus' personal guard. He fought with ferocity, not rage—each swing calculated, each strike meaningful.
At the high steps of the inner keep, Magnus appeared in blackened armor, wielding a double-headed axe.
"You'll not take it, boy!" he roared.
Uthred advanced. "It was never yours."
Their duel echoed through the ruined fortress. Magnus fought like a bear, powerful and relentless. But Uthred had learned. He sidestepped, parried, and countered.
A final feint, a slash across Magnus' arm. The axe dropped. Uthred placed his sword at his uncle's chest.
"I offer mercy once," he said. "Swear your loyalty. Or fall."
Magnus spat at his feet.
Uthred drove his sword through the man's armor.
The fall of Vornfell sent shockwaves through the realm. Noble houses once hesitant now pledged allegiance. Uthred, the Flame Prince, had become the Lion Returned.
But he felt no triumph—only the weight of what remained.
Eamon met him in the war tent that night.
"The path to Eldhaven is now open."
Uthred stared at the map. "Then it's time."
Vale entered, bearing a gift: a circlet of gold shaped like flames, forged by the Ironcloaks' smiths.
"We made this for the king we chose," she said.
Uthred held it, heavy with meaning.
"I'll wear it only when Eldhaven is free."
He looked to the east, where the royal city still burned under Viking rule.
The reckoning had begun.