The departure from Castle Valerius was a spectacle of iron and arrogance. Five thousand men—the first wave of the vanguard—wound their way down the mountain pass like a silver serpent. Banners of the howling gale snapped in the biting wind, and the rhythm of thousands of hooved beasts drummed a funeral march against the frozen earth.
At the head of this column rode Ragnar.
He sat atop a black stallion, his posture rigid. The weight of the plate was no longer a burden; it had become his second skin. Behind him rode Sir Julian, whose face remained hidden behind a closed visor, and Valer, the steward-cousin, who watched Ragnar with the unblinking intensity of a hawk.
"The air is turning," Valer remarked, pulling his fur-lined cloak tighter. "The 'Widow's Mire' is a day's ride away. Are you certain the ground will hold, Alaric? If we lose the baggage train to the mud, the Baron will have more than just your head."
Ragnar did not turn. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, where the gray sky met the jagged white teeth of the Northern peaks. "The frost is deep enough for those who move with purpose, Valer. If you fear the mud, perhaps you should have stayed behind to count the silver in the treasury."
Valer narrowed his eyes but said nothing. The seed of doubt was there, but so was the greed for a swift victory.
The Edge of the Abyss
By nightfall, the air grew thick with the smell of stagnant water and decaying peat. The Widow's Mire lay before them—a vast, flat expanse of silver-gray mist and deceptive silence. To the Southern eye, it looked like a solid plain of frost. To Ragnar, it was a graveyard waiting for its guests.
"Halt!" Ragnar signaled, his gauntlet rising.
The column ground to a stuttering stop. The clanking of armor faded, replaced by the eerie whistling of the wind through the reeds.
"We cross at midnight," Ragnar commanded. "No torches. No shouting. The frost is strongest when the moon is high. If the horses panic, they will break the crust. Move in single file."
"No torches?" Julian hissed, riding forward. "In this fog? We'll lose half the men before we reach the center!"
"The Northmen have eyes that see in the dark, Julian," Ragnar lied, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "A torch in this mire is a beacon for an arrow. Unless you wish to be the first target, you will follow my lead in silence."
The Treachery of the Ice
As the moon reached its zenith, the vanguard began its descent into the Mire.
Ragnar led the way, his horse stepping cautiously onto the blackened, frozen crust. He knew the path—a narrow ridge of submerged stone that wound through the deepest parts of the swamp. But he wasn't leading them along the ridge. He was leading them parallel to it, separated by only a few feet of unstable peat.
CRACK.
The sound was like a bone snapping. Somewhere in the middle of the line, a supply wagon had veered too far to the left.
"Stay the course!" Ragnar shouted, though he knew it was too late.
The weight of the heavy cavalry was the final insult to the Mire. The "frozen" ground wasn't a solid sheet; it was a thin veil over a pressurized abyss of methane and liquid silt. As the first horse broke through, the vibration rippled through the line.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.
"The ground! It's giving way!" a soldier screamed.
Panic, the great killer of armies, took hold. Horses reared, their iron-shod hooves shattering the fragile ice. Men in full plate armor, weighing three hundred pounds with their gear, slid into the black water. In the North, the mud doesn't just drown you; it pulls you down with the weight of your own sins.
"Alaric! We must turn back!" Julian yelled, struggling to control his terrified mount.
Ragnar turned his horse around, but he didn't move to help. He sat silhouetted against the pale moonlight, a dark sentinel watching the chaos. He watched as the proud "Iron-Born" flailed in the muck, their expensive armor turning into leaden coffins.
"There is no turning back, Julian," Ragnar said. He reached down and unlatched his helmet, throwing it into the tall grass. For the first time in days, the cold Northern wind hit his face. He looked at Julian with eyes that were no longer Alaric's.
"Who... what are you?" Julian gasped, his horse sinking to its knees.
Ragnar drew his sword—the beautiful, light Southern blade—and snapped it over his knee with a grunt of savage strength. He threw the broken shards into the mud at Julian's feet.
"I am the Wolf you thought you had skinned," Ragnar growled.
From the darkness of the reeds, a low, haunting howl rose. Then another. And another. The White Wolves hadn't been destroyed; they had been waiting. Shadowy figures emerged from the mist—men in furs, carrying long, hooked poles designed to pull knights from their saddles.
Ragnar let out a piercing whistle. "Leave the one in the silk! He belongs to the crows! The rest... feed the Mire!"
As the massacre began, Ragnar looked toward the distant lights of Castle Valerius. The first part of his plan was complete. An army had been buried. Now, he had a castle to return to, a "Father" to deceive, and a throne to steal.