The great hall was wrong.
Everything about it felt foreign. Twisted. Like someone had taken the traditions of the north and corrupted them with southern excess.
Marble columns rose toward a vaulted ceiling. Each one carved to look like legendary heroes from the old stories. Warriors and kings and gods frozen in white stone. Their faces watched the proceedings below with blank eyes.
The floor was polished stone. Not the rough-hewn planks of a proper Viking hall. The walls were decorated with tapestries that showed scenes of conquest. Of submission. Of a single figure standing over piles of corpses.
Braziers burned with sweet-scented oils instead of honest wood. The air was thick with perfume and incense. Luxury that felt obscene in a land where most people struggled just to survive.
At the far end of the hall stood a throne.
Not carved from a single tree like the seat of a proper jarl. This was built from different materials. Whale bone for the frame. Iron for the armrests. Inlaid with silver and gold taken from a dozen conquered villages.
And sitting on that throne was something that might once have been human.
Seven feet tall. Broad shoulders that stretched the fine cloth of his robes. Muscles that showed even through the expensive fabric. But his face was what made the gathered men avoid looking directly at him.
Too young. Too perfect. Like a statue of a god given life and breath.
Long black hair fell past his shoulders. His skin was pale as winter ice. His eyes were the color of storm clouds. When he moved, it was with the fluid grace of a predator.
This was no mortal king.
"Your Majesty," the old man said. His voice shook as he approached the throne. "I bring word from the coastal settlements."
The figure on the throne didn't respond immediately. Just studied the messenger with those unsettling eyes. Taking his time. Making the man sweat.
"Speak," he said finally. His voice carried easily through the vast hall despite being barely above a whisper.
"Three villages have sent their tribute as commanded," the old man continued. "The grain stores. The silver. The...the young women you requested."
A nod of acknowledgment. Nothing more.
"But the settlement at Raven's Bay has refused. Their elder says they owe allegiance to no tyrant. That they will die free rather than live as slaves."
The word 'tyrant' hung in the air like a physical thing. Several of the gathered men stepped back unconsciously. Putting distance between themselves and what was coming.
The figure on the throne was very still for a long moment. Then he smiled.
It was not a pleasant expression.
"Tyrant," he repeated softly. "An interesting choice of words."
He stood up from the throne. All seven feet of him unfolding like a weapon being drawn. The marble floor didn't make a sound under his feet as he stepped down from the dais.
"Tell me," he said, walking slowly toward the messenger. "Who used that word? The elder himself? Or someone else?"
"I... I don't..." the old man stammered.
"You do know. You were there. You heard the words. You brought them back to me faithfully."
The man's face had gone white. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air.
"The elder's son," he whispered. "A young man. Hot-headed. He said you were nothing but a tyrant drunk on power."
"Ah." The smile got wider. "And this elder? He didn't correct his son? Didn't distance himself from such harsh words?"
"No, Your Majesty. He... he agreed."
"Then they have made their choice."
He gestured to one of the guards standing along the walls. A big man in mail armor who stepped forward immediately.
"Bring them to me," he commanded. "The elder. His family. All of them."
"Your Majesty," the messenger said desperately. "Surely the elder's family bears no blame for his son's words?"
Those storm-cloud eyes fixed on him with sudden intensity. "Are you questioning my judgment?"
"No! No, Your Majesty. I would never..."
"Good. Because questioning my judgment would make you a traitor. And I have very specific policies regarding traitors."
The hall fell completely silent except for the crackling of the braziers. Every man present had heard about those policies. Seen the results displayed on pikes outside the walls.
Within an hour, the guards returned.
They dragged five people into the hall. An old man who must have been the elder. His wife, gray-haired and proud despite her terror. Two grown sons, one of whom had probably spoken the treasonous words. And a child. A boy maybe eight years old who clung to his mother's skirts.
"The family of Elder Einar," the guard captain announced. "As commanded."
The figure on the throne studied them with calm interest. Like a farmer examining livestock at market.
"Which one called me a tyrant?" he asked conversationally.
The younger son lifted his chin defiantly. "I did. And I meant every word."
"Did you? How refreshing. Honesty is so rare these days."
He walked down from the throne again. This time he approached a weapon rack that stood along one wall. Filled with swords and axes and spears. All of them magnificent. All of them sized for someone much larger than normal.
He selected a two-handed sword. The blade was longer than most men were tall. The steel was so dark it was almost black. It took two guards to lift it from the rack when they cleaned it.
He lifted it one-handed like it weighed nothing.
"You called me a tyrant," he said, testing the sword's balance. "Tell me, what makes a man a tyrant in your opinion?"
"Ruling through fear," the young man replied, his voice steady despite his obvious terror. "Taking what doesn't belong to you. Killing innocents."
"Interesting definitions. Very... idealistic."
The sword whistled through the air as he practiced a few cuts. Each movement was perfectly controlled. Economical. Deadly.
"But here's what I've learned," he continued. "Power isn't about being loved. It's about being obeyed. Fear is more reliable than affection. And innocence is a luxury this world can't afford."
"You're a monster," the elder said quietly. "Whatever you once were, you've become something unnatural."
Those storm-cloud eyes fixed on him. "Unnatural? Perhaps. But effective."
"Please," the elder's wife said, stepping forward. "If you must punish someone, punish us. But spare the children. They've done nothing wrong."
"Haven't they? The boy heard his brother speak treason and said nothing. That makes him complicit."
"He's eight years old!"
"Old enough to understand loyalty. Old enough to choose sides."
The massive sword came up in a ready position. The movement was so smooth it looked effortless.
"You want to know what makes me different from other rulers?" he asked the gathered families. "Other men hesitate. They make exceptions. They show mercy they hope will be remembered."
The blade moved faster than lightning. One swing. Impossibly precise.
The elder and his wife collapsed in separate pieces. Their blood spread across the polished marble floor in spreading pools.
The child screamed. High and desperate. A sound that echoed off the marble columns and vaulted ceiling.
"I don't make exceptions," he continued calmly, cleaning the blade on a cloth offered by one of his guards. "I don't show mercy that will be forgotten. I simply solve problems."
The two surviving sons stared at their parents' bodies in shock. Too stunned to move. Too terrified to speak.
"Now," he said, returning the sword to its rack. "You have a choice. Kneel. Swear absolute loyalty to me. Become my servants in all things."
The older son spat at his feet. "Never."
The younger son, the one who'd called him a tyrant, was looking at his parents' blood. At his little brother crying over their mother's body.
"I... I kneel," he whispered.
"Louder."
"I kneel! I swear loyalty! Please, just... just don't hurt the boy."
"And you?" Those terrible eyes fixed on the older brother.
"Go to hell."
Another gesture. Another guard stepping forward. This one carried a simple axe. Less dramatic than the great sword but just as effective.
The older son died defiant. Cursing with his last breath.
"Take the traitor's body outside," he commanded. "Display it with the others. Let everyone see what happens to those who refuse my generosity."
The guards moved quickly. Efficiently. They'd done this before.
"And the child?" one of them asked.
Those storm-cloud eyes studied the crying boy for a long moment. The child was kneeling beside his mother's body. Too young to understand politics. Too innocent to deserve what had happened.
"It's bad luck to kill children," he said finally. "Take him to the forest. Leave him there. If he's meant to survive, the gods will provide."
"Your Majesty," the surviving son protested. "He's just a boy. He'll die alone out there."
"Perhaps. But that's between him and fate. I won't have child-blood on my hands if I can avoid it."
Such a small mercy. Such a tiny gesture toward the humanity he'd once possessed.
But even that felt wrong in this place. Like putting a flower on a battlefield.
The guards lifted the crying child. Carried him away despite his struggles. Despite his pleas to stay with his family.
"Clean this mess," he commanded, gesturing to the blood spreading across his beautiful floor. "I have other business to attend to."
The surviving son was led away in chains. To the dungeons. To whatever fate awaited those who served under duress.
The hall emptied quickly after that. No one wanted to linger. No one wanted to risk drawing attention.
Soon he was alone with his marble columns and golden throne and the lingering smell of blood in the perfumed air.
This was power. This was control. This was what he'd become.
A thing that ruled through fear. That solved problems with violence. That showed mercy only when it served his purposes.
The boy who'd been reborn in this world was truly dead now. Replaced by something harder. Colder. More efficient.
Something that might have been necessary.
But was definitely monstrous.
He returned to his throne and sat in silence. Watching the servants clean his parents' blood from his beautiful floor.
Outside, wolves howled in the forest where a child wandered alone.
Inside, a tyrant ruled from a throne built of bones.
Both were exactly what this world had made them.
And both were exactly what they deserved.