The Walled City fell into a deathly silence since the battle had come to an end, all except for the roar of crackling fires that still ravaged the marketplaces and winding streets.

Those who were not enthralled by their lust for gold quickly organized to control and put out the fires where they could. Viking warriors of Bilrost and Thurshamrar worked together to bring buckets of water from the wells or break down half-burned buildings before the fires spread. What Sea Eagle warriors that seemed to take notice of the danger set what remained of the fire worshipers left in the city to work in the ash. The king's warriors beat the cowering citizens into submission as prisoners of war until they had no choice but to face the inferno of destruction their old masters had wrought, and no care was given for the injuries they suffered during the slaughter.

Erik Golden-Shield walked proudly through the wreckage with his head held high, surrounded by his boisterous warriors who shined like victory in the firelight. They beat their spears upon their shields and shouted Erik's name in exultation, heralding his approach to the vault where his eagle banners already hung from the parapets and towers. The vault was his. The city was his, and any cultist who still dwelt within the walls was beholden to his goodwill and generous nature to continue their miserable lives.

Far behind the golden-crowned king, Herleif and Gunnar moved through the crowded streets at a much slower pace. They did not walk with such fanfare or revelry, their eyes fixed forward as the city suffered in wounded agony around them. Shouldering his axe, Gunnar leaned in close and spoke softly to his brother as if the threat of the Divine Pyre now shifted to a much more familiar enemy. "How do we handle this? Erik will be counting every piece of hack silver and gold coin out of the vault before he shares the spoils. I don't know about you, but I would see us far away from this place with our cut of the treasure as soon as possible."

Herleif did not look at his brother when he answered. "We will take what we are owed and be gone in good time, but I suspect we will be given no leave until our good king deems it so. Nothing will be done until Erik has Apollyon's armor, of that you can be sure."

Gunnar grew quiet again as they walked on, rounding one corner of the street and then another, winding their way through the corpse of the Walled City as the evidence of their battle crowded around their feet with broken rubble and mangled bodies. "Herleif, you need to know about the vault..."

"Silence," Herleif hissed, his shoulders hunched as he pressed on. "If there is anyone whose counsel I have no more need for, it is yours. According to you, this is the true way of Vikings, following along as the lapdog of a king who gladly steps on the backs of others to achieve his glory. I should have never listened to you when you came offering up this madman's invitation."

Gunnar set his jaw and dipped his head, his frustration mounting with each step. He snarled back at his brother through clenched teeth. "It was not my decision alone to come. I am not the one who is Jarl of Bilrost, as you so often remind me."

"Because of you, I am barely even that anymore."

Gunnar stopped in his tracks as Herleif continued on, unable to take another step for the storm of guilt and rage building inside him. The crowd continued to move around him, swallowing him up like a stone dropped into the ocean until he was nearly left behind. He stood frozen, preferring to stare at the ground rather than look into the faces of all the comrades he had failed, the shield brothers and sisters he had led into this accursed conflict of kings and cultists. The heat of the fires was nothing compared to the burning shame he felt as time passed in simmering anguish.

A hand landed on his shoulder, making him flinch. Reality came crashing back to Gunnar, most strikingly in the image of Coal now standing by his side and patting his shoulder. Gunnar could see the Conqueror's dark eyes through the thin slits in his capped helmet, glinting with a familiar sense of pity that was strange coming from someone who had suffered so much in life himself.

"Doing alright, big man?" Coal asked. "You look overly concerned for someone who has survived a battle with all his guts and limbs still where they should be."

Gunnar grinned back at him. It was a funny feeling, but somehow, he felt more at ease now in the company of a Knight than with his own brother and kinsmen. Even with his face hidden beneath a helmet of cold metal, he felt no judgment coming from Coal, no disdain. They had fought together shoulder to shoulder, and that was all that mattered. He finally relaxed his shoulders as he took a long, slow breath. "I will be fine. As you say, why should I be concerned over anything now? I have my glory and will soon have my treasure as well. The Æsir will sing my name in Valhǫll this day, and I will be content."

Coal nodded, then looked up the street of marching Vikings and Lion Flame Knights after Herleif and his warriors. "Can't argue with that. But having a brother to stand beside you in a fight sounds pretty good, too."

"Ha! And what would you know of having brothers? You told me your family was all dead."

"True, but I know about being a drengr... or so I'm told," Coal shrugged. "Same thing, right?"

Gunnar smiled and nodded. He already felt better just for the few words they exchanged in kindness. "A Knight drengr is truly a tale for the sagas. I would say you are right. I'm sure you know all about having a brother by your side after all."

Coal clapped Gunnar's shoulder again and squeezed, and they took a step forward together with their heads held high. That was when Gunnar noticed who was missing from what was usually a trio. His laughter faded as he looked about, perplexed to find Coal alone while the city was still far from a safe place for the renegade Knights.

"Priscilla?" he asked, looking around again before turning on Coal. "Where..?"

They stopped their walk without even making it around the next corner, Coal just one step ahead before he slung his flail over his shoulder and sighed. "Yeah, about that... Promise you won't tell?"

Herleif walked up the steps to the vault, gazing up at the bodies of the Pyre Knights hanging from the tower's entrance. Sea Eagle warriors lined the steps from bottom to top on either side of him, a small army in and of itself to guard the sealed treasure rather than aid him and Ivar in securing the city and seeing the Pyre put to the sword. It made Herleif's blood boil to see it, but he walked up the stairs and beneath the hanged bodies without a word all the same.

Torches lit the hall that turned to the left within the tower's base and, from there, passed through an archway and into a large open chamber with a vaulted ceiling. If he had thought that the outside of the tower had been well guarded, then inside, Erik's forces appeared as if they were ready to make a last stand against the children of Loki for how crowded it was. Dozens of warriors from all three clans were packed inside from wall to wall, clamoring to glimpse the vault door and the treasure horde inside once it was finally open.

Herleif had to push his way to the far end of the room, where he saw the gleam of Erik's crown glowing in the torchlight. Skuld followed after him, her silver spear rising above the crowd like a star to navigate by until, at last, they made it to the solid metal door of the vault. He did not know or care where Gunnar was, but he suspected it was with his new precious friends among the Lion Flame. He frowned at the thought but did not let himself dwell on it for long. There were greater concerns to deal with now than his brother's head being stuck so far up his ass to see the right path ahead of him. Herleif had his own path to walk, and it was treacherous enough without his brother's troubles complicating matters.

Approaching the door through the crowd, Herleif looked up in awe, his woes from the battle replaced with a worry that anything so solid and immovable could ever be breached. Upon the door's broad surface were etched the images of two mounted Knights, their wide-eyed steeds reared up in mock battle as their lances crisscrossed from one corner to the other. Behind them was an entire audience of great nobles, pious priests, and groveling peasants in attendance to watch the chivalrous display as each Knight tried to un-horse the other in an act of frozen violence. The look of their armor was old, and the plumes upon their helmets gaudy, but the detail etched into the metal surface was exquisite in its craft. Such beautiful imagery was hard to find in Heathmoor these days when peace was as much a relic from the time before the Cataclysm as the Walled City itself. Too bad it had to stand in their way, but they had come here for greater rewards than the artwork of a lost age.

"They should have used this at the gate. Maybe it would have saved them and left us still stuck outside the walls," Herleif said, unable to look away from the last obstacle standing between them and their prize.

"Lucky for us, they did not," Erik answered, fiddling with the key in his hand as he, too, looked over the vault door. "And luckily, we have this."

A hushed silence fell over the room as the three clans collectively looked on in anticipation of what they had traveled so far to claim. All the blood, all the sacrifice was for this moment. Victory was theirs, along with the glory heaped upon their names that would put them into sagas for ages to come, but the vault was a prize that could not be dispelled. For many of the Northmen, the gold one could hold in their hands was far more valuable than any glorious song uttered in some drunken tavern up in the cold north. Raiding was the tradition by which their warriors made their living, built their fortunes, and supported their families, and Erik had promised them the greatest treasure of a lifetime. Now, they only had to open the vault and claim it.

Ivar shouldered his way through the crowd and looked around at everyone who stared dumbly at the metal doors. "Oh yes, this ugly door is everything I imagined it would be... Maybe if we stare at it long enough, it will grow some legs and just walk away. Who the fuck is this?" He nodded down at the body of a dead Knight propped up against the vault door in a pool of dark blood. They were big, almost as big as Kazamir had been, with roughly crafted armor and a bucket helm similar to a Conqueror. A bloodied longsword lay just out of reach from their still hand, and a dozen arrows punctured their body, sticking from the torso and limbs like the spines of some giant porcupine.

Erik looked down and snorted a laugh. "A guardian, not that his protection was worth much. He fought like a cornered wolf, though, and slew six of my hirðmen before he was finally killed."

"From a distance, it seems," grunted Ivar.

Old Wolf gave Ivar a dirty look on his master's behalf, frowning beneath his white beard. He began to prowl around the gathered jarls, his imposing size moving anyone who stood before him out of the way until he came to Skuld. The Valkyrie did not move an inch, causing Old Wolf to stop short. He glared down at her, fingers tight around the grip of his shouldered claymore, but Skuld gave no notice of his displeasure. She calmly turned her head to look at him, eyes impassive and unimpressed beneath her faceless helmet, until the Highlander was forced to stand beside her and brood with a low grumble of annoyance.

With the spell of the vault broken by Ivar, Erik took a step closer to the door with the key. Magnús moved with him, earning a dark look from the king that made his son shrink back at first, but then he quickly took another step and slid a panel aside that was fixed into the door between the two rearing horses. Behind the panel was a keyhole, at which Magnús gestured with his hand and gave a polite bow of his head.

"The honor is yours, my king," Magnús said.

Erik frowned at his son for another moment, then smiled benevolently and slid the key into the lock. He grinned openly now, fingers pressed tight around the dark iron key as he reveled in this last moment of anticipation before the wealth of half a kingdom was his. "Finally, the armor of Apollyon is mine..."

He twisted the key in the lock, and the surrounding crowd held their breath as a resounding clack echoed in the chamber. A loud, dull clack, which to a room full of seafaring raiders did not sound like the sure-fire click of a lock being opened. In fact, it sounded very much like the tell-tale clack of a lock that remained secured against them. More than a few people watching scowled with uncertainty, which quickly gave way to full-on confusion as the vault door remained steadfastly shut.

Still smiling, as if there could be no other outcome than success, Erik turned the key again and found only the same dull clack of metal knocking against metal echoed in answer. His smile slipped away to an uncertain frown, and he turned the key again, answered by another quick clack. He turned the key again and heard another clack, then another, and another. Over and over again, twist and clack, twist and clack, until Erik was putting his whole body into the simple motion of turning the key only to achieve the same results. He let out a sharp yell of frustration until, finally, he stepped away from the door in a huff, the key left sticking out of the keyhole in the mock promise to reveal his prize. His shoulders rose and fell with his panting fury, and there was no doubt to anyone watching that if he could wield his sword to bring torment and death onto the solid door for its defiance, the Golden King would not hesitate to do so.

Magnús looked at the key, then up to the solid door, and scratched his beard in thought with his lip curled. "Well... that's not good."

Erik spun and backhanded his son to the ground, letting out an even more furious yell than the last. "What is the meaning of this!?" Erik snarled and glared up at the door with eyes full of unbridled fury. "This city is mine! The key is mine! This fucking vault is mine! I demand that it be opened now!"

At once, the surrounding Sea Eagle warriors all took a collective step back from the enraged king. Even Old Wolf averted his gaze and seemed to shrink back in stark contrast to his earlier bravado. Skuld watched him go with a wide-eyed look that almost conjured a feeling of amusement.

Herleif frowned at the door and the king, unsure if he should consider this new turn of bad luck part of what he was growing accustomed to as part of Erik's retinue. He grumbled and sighed, then spotted something nestled within the intricate etching of one of the saddles the engraved Knights sat upon. He squinted in the flickering lights of the torches, moving in closer and giving Erik plenty of space. Stepping right over Magnús, he had to stand up on his toes to reach what he was looking at. It was not set behind a panel but was instead hidden among the artwork and meant to be overlooked by anyone who may not have a mind to search.

"Look here," Herleif said. He reached his hand up to the door and touched the slim keyhole in the metal surface. He could barely fit the tip of his little finger inside before he took a step away, clapping his hands together to get rid of the dust that had built up on the door's surface in the gloom of the chamber. "Another lock. Looks like we require a second key to open the door."

"A second key!?" roared Erik, shoving Herleif aside to look closer. "Two fucking keys!? Curse the Knight's treachery! What is the point of two keys when one will do?"

"It is a big fucking door," Ivar muttered, dark eyes sliding over the great expanse of the metal door.

Herleif shook his head, tugging at his beard in frustration. "We should have expected this. No stronghold this old would be so easy to break. This is a mechanism from before the Cataclysm, to be sure. The Pyre did well to choose this city as their own."

Erik ground his teeth and beat his fists against the door. "Blast expectation! The city is ours, and the other key must be here somewhere!" Turning on his warriors, he went at them like a bull about to charge, leaving all who stood before him to cower behind their shields at his wrath. Gone was the kind and benevolent ruler happy to share in the spoils of his victory. Now, there was only greed and desperation, the need to have everything of worth at whatever cost. "Search the entire city! Question every cultist still breathing within these walls! Bleed them if you must, but find that fucking key and bring it to me before days end!"

"Half the city is still burning from the Pyre's weapons!" Herleif said, hoping in vain that Erik might see sense. "We could not conduct such a thorough search with this much chaos. We need to regroup. Gather our dead and secure what followers of the volcano made it through the battle alive. It could be days before we find anything in a city this size. We need to prepare if we intend to stay."

Erik regarded him with mad, spiteful eyes, his teeth showing through his blond beard like a man lost to his feral nature out in the wilderness. "I would have you stick your own head into the flames if it meant searching every bit of this worthless city! That key will be found, and it will be found now, or all the power of the Æsir and Vanir will not save you from my wrath!"

Herleif scowled back at Erik in yet another staring contest where one ill-mannered word could be the difference between life and death. "I will do what I must, but I will do it in a way that best serves all of us as a whole. That is what I will do for you, my king," he said pointedly.

Erik stepped closer, his rage seething like the volcano about to burst and rain fire down upon the chamber. "I do not care if you must march all the way back to the keep and cut open Kazamir's belly to search through his putrid guts! Find me that key!"

"The keep," said Ivar with a rasp just loud enough to steal Erik and Herleif's attention from each other. "The tower... The High Priest is sure to have the other key."

Erik's eyes went wide with realization and horror, and when he spoke, his voice was a ghost of its former self, hoarse enough to give Ivar's gravelly tone a run for its coin. "The priest? Osric! We forgot about the fucking priest!" He immediately whirled on Magnús again, who was quietly nursing a bloody lip, and began to beat at him even harder than before. "You daft, useless boy! You forgot about the High Priest! Do you delight in making me look like a fool!?" Magnús cowered before his father's assault until finally, Erik turned and glared hatefully at everyone gathered around him, his knuckles slick with fresh blood. "And here you all stand gawking... Why!? Go! Back to the keep! Bring me Osric's accursed head, and tear apart that tower until the fucking key is found!"

All at once, there was a great commotion of movement as everyone tried to spill out of the chamber together. Shields knocked together, and more than once, an angry shout or a harsh curse was given as someone was pushed or kicked out of the way. Old Wolf was already barking orders and shouting threats of what would happen if Erik's demands were not met, while Skuld quickly perched herself up in an alcove and took the place of a once-present statue to oversee the stampede of shields and spears out the arched door. When they were all gone, she gave Herleif a quick nod and followed so that only the King's hirðmen were left guarding the vault.

Erik continued to seethe in anger, glaring up at the door in utter contempt of its existence just before he realized that Herleif and Ivar both remained. "Do you both think yourselves to be exempt from my order? Go and find me my key, or I will have you carving your way through this door with your fucking teeth!"

Herleif clenched his jaw and willed himself to say no more rather than stoke Erik's anger to greater heights than it already was. He shared a glance with Ivar, and then, with a curt bow of his head, they turned and walked together back out the way they had come in. Just when he passed under the arched doorway, Herleif caught a hint of Erik's low growling above the sound of Magnús' whimper where the young warrior still lay.

"It will be mine..." Erik muttered feverishly before the vault door. "The vault... the armor... it will all be mine."

Ivar said nothing as they made their way outside to the open air, stepping beneath the hanged bodies over the tower's entrance. That suited Herleif just fine. It was not until they got back down to the street and he found Skuld there waiting for him that he thought it best they move forward with some semblance of a plan rather than each going their separate ways. It was a strange thought, but the battle had proved Ivar to be at least somewhat dependable rather than the mad dog he was used to, although the bastard still had a quickness for colorful insults on a whim.

"I am going to see to my dead before making my way back to the keep," Herleif said to Ivar once they reached the bottom of the steps. "If the key is in that tower, then it is not going anywhere, and neither is that priest. Erik can blow and bluster all he likes, but there is a way to do things after a battle, and leaving our warriors out for the ravens to go treasure hunting instead will only bring us ill fortune from the gods."

Ivar spat on the ground before looking back across the city, up to the high tower that loomed up towards the sky. "Do what you fucking like. I'll get that damned key. Then I'll get my share of the prize and be away from that golden prick before he has a mind to make me one of his pathetic thralls just like you." He grinned at Herleif, yellow teeth showing in his black beard. "While you lot were so eager to be away from the shame of your dead, I left some of my boys behind to start taking a look through the tower. If that key is hidden somewhere within, they'll find it and anything else of worth. Or, at the very least, they'll have a nice little chat with that arrogant priest. One that involves whatever bits of sharp metal they have on hand."

For once, Herleif found that Ivar's plan suited him just fine. "So be it. Do not let me stop you. I will tend to my own business, then, and we will meet again once the key and the High Priest have been claimed."

Ivar gave a little laugh before striding down the street after his warriors. "Stop me?" he called back over his shoulder, "Not even if you tried, you old goat-fucker."

Herleif rolled his eyes as Ivar left, only to find them come to rest on the seax hanging from Skuld's belt as she watched without a word. He glanced up at her, ready to voice his frustration over her lack of action when he had Kazamir in his grasp. Surely, the commander had been a mighty enough warrior to earn his wife's father his place in Valhǫll, but the moment had come and gone. Now, the battle was over, and they had won. What more could be done to save Ander's legacy if no one was left to sacrifice in his name?

Skuld stared pointedly back at him, her head cocked to the side ever so slightly in full recognition of his grievance. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her spear, and Herleif shut his mouth without a sound and turned away. He let both the vault and the seax slip from his mind as he went to see where best he could help those who truly needed it.

They did not make it far before they came across the remnants of the Lion Flame gathered together in a square near the vault. They were all battered and beaten by the look of them, their armor scratched and weapons nicked from the brutal fight. There seemed to be fewer of them now, and Herleif couldn't help but feel a swell of pity for what they had lost. It was strange to think that in another life, another time, they most certainly would have been his enemy if they were ever to meet on the battlefield. Now he had fought beside them across Ashfeld in a quest to rid the land of a greater evil, which they most certainly had achieved by standing together as true warriors should. It was hard to think how they could ever be his bitter enemy again.

As he walked among them, Herleif wondered what the renegade Knights must think to finally stand in the conquered city of the enemy who had driven them from their homeland in a vicious grab for power and religious dominance. How did they feel now that they no longer had a place in the world they had fought and bled to save, choosing to stand with heathen invaders as traitors when those who would label them as such had done nothing? It was a bittersweet outcome to a war the Lion Flame never wanted, but that was the reality of their world now, and there was no denying that they were a true rebel legion in all aspects of their existence, lost to their own Kingdom's history despite the valiant intentions of their treacherous deeds. It was enough to drive any warrior to despair, regardless of what land or creed they hailed from.

To Herleif's surprise, he spotted Marcelo working alongside Ragnar to help the wounded, the two of them passing off water and bandages to the Viking warriors who lined the streets seeking aid. Ragna seemed to have taken up the grim task of cauterizing the stump of a legion soldier's leg with the flat of an axe heated in fire. Helge was chewing a herb from one of her pouches to spit and stick into the open wound of another Knight who kept their eyes squeezed shut rather than watch the process. Likewise, several Lion Flame Lawbringers and Wardens were helping the warriors of Valkenheim organize and search the surrounding buildings for any lurking Pyre soldiers or the citizens who still hid within. They commanded easily, neither pressuring any northerner to act nor cursing them for any lack of understanding between their languages, but were doing their best to see the task at hand carried out with the least amount of trouble for anyone involved.

The air stank of blood and death, but seeing these once-opposing forces come together to pick up what was left of this shattered city filled Herleif's heart with pride. They were enemies no longer, and the bonds of brotherhood had slowly formed between them over the past weeks, sailing and marching together halfway around the world. Herleif would have said it was something that needed to be seen to be believed, but he saw it now as clear as day.

Making his way across the square, he caught sight of Lady Judith standing apart from the rest. She was looking out over a slanted street that led out of the square and down through the city toward the main gate, which was still a pillar of smoke billowing up into the sky. The plain that stretched beyond the wall was awash in the golden glow of the sky as the bright sun sank low. Judith's back was turned to him, the loose hairs of her braid fluttering in the wind as her helmet sat at her feet. Herleif bid Skuld to remain behind, then quietly approached to stand next to the commander and gazed over the open expanse of city and scrubland before them.

"Quite the view. Perhaps this arid country does have some beauty to it after all," Herleif said after a moment's silence, to which Judith only grunted in reply without taking her eyes away from the scene. Herleif bit his lip, wondering if he should leave her be, but could not bring himself to go just yet. "You fought well today. I know you hold no faith in our gods, but I know they are pleased with the great battle fame we have made for ourselves today, your Knights included."

"Do you think my God is proud as well? Proud of all the blood we have spilled in his holy name?" Judith asked, glancing up towards the smoke-filled sky.

Herleif looked at her and shrugged. "That is not for me to say." Judith nodded silently, seeming neither pleased nor upset with his answer. They fell into silence together until she finally let out a sigh and rubbed a gloved hand over her tired face, stopping a moment with her eyes covered.

"It is over," she said at last, blinking away the wetness in her eyes as she looked up at the sunset. "It is all finally over, and I do not know how I am supposed to feel. The Divine Pyre is no more, and what is left of this land can begin to heal... to find some semblance of what it was. But what now? What of my Knights?" Then, more quietly, "What of me?"

Herleif remained quiet for a moment, not wanting to give Judith a hollow answer. The more he dwelled on it, though, the more he could come up with only one thing to tell her. "No matter what has happened here, between yourself, Erik, and me, you and your Knights have a place on my ship when we return home. I do not know what kind of future I can offer you, but if you seek a new life away from this place, away from all the pain, the betrayal... you will have a chance to find it in Bilrost. Of that, I promise you."

"Thank you," Judith said, but there was no kindness in her voice or the quick steel gaze she gave him before shaking her head. "I should have expected this. I should have known..." Her voice failed her, and she bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

"Known what?"

"Just what we would lose by winning. Everything has changed now, Herleif. Everything... and it is as if I am only now realizing that none of it has anything to do with us. We have fought so hard, to the point of sacrificing everything for a kingdom that seems to care nothing for us to begin with. It feels as if we have no claim over this victory for ourselves now that the deed is done. This fight was never for us, and now we are left with nothing at the end of it. Nothing but bitter hollowness and the memories of how things were."

Herleif tilted his chin up and gave a slow nod, standing shoulder to shoulder beside Judith as they watched the slowly setting sun together. "Not every battle we fight is for ourselves. Sometimes, our victories belong to the ones we love and care for the most because they are why we fight in the first place."

Judith did not reply, not at first. She hung her head and took a slow breath before letting it out again. "Did you get into the vault and find your treasure at last? Is Apollyon's armor as foreboding and magnificent as you all hoped?"

"Turns out we need a second key to open it. The door remains sealed tight for now. The whole thing has put Erik in a bit of a foul mood."

"Oh," Judith said without feeling. "Honestly, I cannot say that I much care."

Herleif could only nod at that. He waited a polite amount of time to remain at Judith's side, then gave her a friendly smile before returning to the square. His heart felt somewhat heavier now for their conversation, but he hoped that Judith would find the peace she needed when all was said and done. He could not offer her much in a land that was not her own, but if she no longer had a home to speak of, he would not leave her and her Knights to wander aimlessly under the veil of obscurity and shame.

He had just rejoined Skuld when Gunnar and Coal crossed his path, carrying a fallen warrior between them. They set the body in line with the rest of the dead to be prepared for the inevitable pyre that would be built, and it was clear that Gunnar did his best to look anywhere but at him as he stood.

Herleif felt a small bit of guilt at that, regardless of how angry he was with his brother at that moment, and offered up a half smile that Gunnar did not return. "The vault is still closed, locked with two keys. We will have to wait a little longer to claim our treasure."

"Guess a locked vault is as good a place to keep it," Gunnar grumbled.

"Erik is not pleased, to say the least."

"Finally, some news to put me in a good mood," Gunnar said with a frown. Standing on the other side of the row of bodies, Coal stretched his back and groaned. Herleif looked between the two of them; eyes narrowed to find one part of their usual trio missing from the gathered crowd. "Where is the Peacekeeper?" he asked.

"How should I know?" Gunnar scowled, giving Herleif a withering look before showing his back to walk off with Coal. "Do I look like her fucking keeper?"

Herleif watched him go, the small hairs prickling on the back of his neck. He shuddered and let the moment pass, then set his jaw and walked off with Skuld to find the best way to help his warriors recoup before he went mad with the frustration brought about by Gunnar and his troublesome friends.