A floorboard creaked. Leofric stepped into the light, his face a map of old scars and new worries.
The torchlight flickered against the damp stone walls of the Great Hall, casting long, dancing shadows that looked like specters of the fallen. Uhtred sat alone, the weight of his dual identity pressing harder than the mail on his shoulders. He was a man of two worlds, yet in this moment, he felt like a ghost in both.
Uhtred stood, his hand instinctively finding the hilt of Serpent-Breath. "Alfred sees what he wants to see. He wants a saint, but he needs a wolf."
Outside, the Wessex air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and impending rain. The peace was a fragile thing, a glass shield held up against a storm of Danish axes. Uhtred’s mind raced through the betrayals and blood-debts that had led him here—to this specific crossroads where loyalty was a luxury he couldn't afford.