Smoke still curled into the sky by morning, a black pillar rising from the ruined outpost. The flames had devoured the supply crates, food stocks, and weapons. The garrison was ash and bone. And in the center of the charred earth, pinned to a shattered spear, Hakon had left his old war-banner — a gray wolf's head on crimson — now tattered, but unmistakable.
Miles away, in the marble halls of Ironhall, King Ulrich the Red sat in a war council, staring at the message a scout had delivered at dawn.
"Blackwolf," he growled. "The dead have learned to walk."
His thanes murmured uneasily. One of them, Lord Bryndal, leaned forward. "It could be a pretender. A rebel flying the old flag to stir fear."
Ulrich's fist slammed the oak table. "That flag was burned ten winters ago. And yet it flies again — above a dead patrol and a burning outpost. This is no pretender. It's him."
The silence in the room was suffocating. Hakon Blackwolf had once been Ulrich's brother in arms, his closest friend, before the betrayal that carved five new thrones out of a single kingdom.
Another thane, older and more cautious, cleared his throat. "Then he comes for vengeance. We should strike first."
Ulrich shook his head. "No. Let him strike again. Let him think we're blind. The wolf wants blood? Then I'll bleed him dry — in the open."
He stood, eyes blazing. "Triple the watch at every outpost. Move my warband to the hills. The moment he shows himself, I'll send his corpse to the others. Let the other kings see that ghosts still die."
Elsewhere in the wild, Hakon and his warband moved fast. The raid had shaken Ulrich's borders — that was the plan. Now, they vanished again, leaving confusion and fear behind.
They traveled along forgotten hunting trails, through dense pine woods, avoiding patrols. The Blackwolf's men were hardened and few, but they moved like shadows. Vigdis scouted ahead, her senses sharp as a hawk. Rorik and Torstein took turns leading the rear.
At night, they camped in hidden hollows or abandoned farmsteads, always silent, always watching the dark.
Around the fire, Hakon traced rough maps into the dirt with a stick. "This was only the first. There are five more outposts in the northern pass. If we hit them all within a week, Ulrich will have no choice but to pull his army back from the border."
Vigdis nodded. "Force him to thin his defenses. Open a path to his heartland."
Rorik sharpened his dagger. "Won't be long before bounty hunters and sellswords come sniffing. We've kicked the nest."
"Good," Hakon said. "Let them come. We strike again tomorrow night. Then we disappear again. Swift, sharp, and gone."
And so the Blackwolf's legend began to spread—not just as a warrior, but as a ghost in the woods. A whisper passed between frightened soldiers and terrified scouts: He's alive. He's watching. And he's coming.
And in the distance, five thrones trembled.