Chapter 12: Return to Ashes
The burned docks of Kattegat rose from the water like broken teeth, charred timber and scorched stone marking where Jarl Borg's betrayal had left its signature in destruction. Paul stood at the prow of Ragnar's longship, watching his adopted home resolve from memory into scarred reality.
"Worse than the vision showed. Distance made it seem clean, manageable. This is raw destruction."
The harbor told the story in burned wood and bloodstained sand. Three longships had been destroyed completely, their blackened ribs jutting from shallow water like the bones of sea monsters. The great hall's roof bore a massive hole where fire had eaten through thatch and timber, and everywhere Paul looked he saw evidence of violence—scorched earth, makeshift graves, faces marked by loss.
"Thirty dead. That's what Ragnar said on the ship. Thirty people who should be alive."
The disembarkation was grimmer than any homecoming Paul had witnessed. Warriors who should have been celebrating successful raids instead moved with the heavy silence of men returning to wounds that hadn't healed. Wives and children gathered at the docks, but instead of joyful reunions, Paul saw widows and orphans who'd paid the price for Borg's ambition.
Ragnar moved through the settlement like a storm cloud barely held in check, his blue eyes cataloging damage with the particular intensity of a man calculating debts that could only be paid in blood. Paul watched the Viking leader's face and saw something that television had never captured—the cold, controlled fury of a king who'd discovered that mercy was a luxury his enemies didn't deserve.
"This is what makes legends. Not noble heroism, but the willingness to pay back betrayal with interest."
Paul found himself searching faces in the crowd, looking for one person in particular. He found her in the training yard, drilling shield-maidens with brutal intensity despite the early hour.
Lagertha was different.
The change was subtle but unmistakable—harder edges where there had been fluid grace, colder eyes where there had been warmth. She moved through combat forms with mechanical precision, calling corrections to her students in a voice that carried no patience for weakness or hesitation.
"She lost people. Friends, probably. Maybe family."
Paul approached carefully, aware that he was interrupting something that might be more therapy than training. Lagertha's students sensed his presence and glanced toward him, but she continued her drill without acknowledgment.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here," Paul said quietly.
Lagertha didn't stop her movements, her sword cutting through air with deadly precision. "Would it have mattered? You see futures, not pasts."
The words hit like a physical blow. Paul felt the weight of his choice to remain in Wessex, the comfortable distance he'd maintained while people he cared about bled and died.
"No," he admitted. "But I would have stood beside you."
Lagertha finally stopped, turning to look at him with eyes that seemed to be evaluating something fundamental about his character.
"That matters more than you know," she said simply.
"She's testing me. Seeing if I understand what loyalty actually costs."
Before Paul could respond, Ragnar's horn sounded from the direction of the great hall—three sharp blasts that summoned every warrior in Kattegat to council. Paul followed Lagertha toward the damaged building, noting how she moved with the controlled awareness of someone who'd learned not to take safety for granted.
The great hall bore its scars openly—roof timbers charred black, walls stained with smoke, the high table scarred by axe blades where Borg's men had vented their fury on symbols of Ragnar's power. But the building still stood, and Ragnar's voice still carried the authority of a king when he spoke.
"Jarl Borg must die," Ragnar announced without preamble. "Not just killed—made example. Every jarl from here to the ice must understand the cost of betraying hospitality and oath-bonds."
The assembled warriors growled approval, but Paul could see the calculation in Ragnar's eyes. This wasn't just about vengeance—it was about deterrence, about sending a message that would prevent future betrayals.
"Time to earn my keep."
Paul activated Weekly Vision, burning precious mana for the intelligence that would make Ragnar's revenge possible.
[WEEKLY VISION ACTIVATED]
[MANA COST: 20% - 3.6 MP ROUNDED TO 4 MP]
[REMAINING MANA: 14/18]
The images flowed through his consciousness with clinical clarity: Borg's hall layout from above, showing every room and corridor. Guard rotation schedules that revealed a fatal gap in coverage during the darkest hours before dawn. Borg's sleeping chamber location, isolated in the hall's northeast corner. An escape route through the forest behind the building. And finally, Borg captured alive, bound and helpless, ready for whatever justice Ragnar chose to dispense.
"I can see into his halls," Paul said when the vision ended. "The layout, the guard patterns, even his sleeping arrangements. The Norns show me threads everywhere, and Borg's thread ends soon."
Ragnar's smile was sharp as a freshly honed blade. "You see even into our enemy's halls?"
"Everywhere the threads of fate are woven, I can follow them. And I've seen how this ends."
The plan that emerged was surgical in its precision—twenty warriors moving under cover of darkness, striking at the exact moment when Borg's defenses were weakest. Not a raid for plunder, but a capture mission designed to bring the traitor back alive for the kind of justice that would be remembered for generations.
"Blood eagle. I know what Ragnar has planned, and I know I'm going to have to watch it happen."
When Ragnar called for volunteers, Paul stepped forward without hesitation. The choice brought Lagertha's attention like a physical weight.
"You don't have to come," she said quietly. "You're seer, not executioner."
"I'm whatever is needed," Paul replied. "And I won't let you go into violence alone."
Lagertha's expression shifted—something softened for a moment, then hardened again like steel quenched in cold water.
"Don't follow me for noble reasons. If you come, come because you understand the cost and pay it anyway."
Paul met her eyes, seeing the steel beneath the surface and the pain that had put it there.
"I'm not noble," he said. "I'm just stubborn about standing where I'm needed."
For the first time since his return, something cracked in Lagertha's post-attack shell. She nodded once, the gesture carrying more weight than words.
"Then you ride with me."
That evening, as Paul prepared his gear for the raid, he drank one of his precious Minor Mana Potions to top off his magical reserves. The liquid tasted like mint and lightning, restoring his energy while carrying the particular burn of system-enhanced restoration.
[MINOR MANA POTION CONSUMED]
[MANA RESTORED: +6 MP]
[CURRENT MANA: 18/18]
[POTIONS REMAINING: 4]
He checked his equipment one final time—Fate-Carved Seax, Wyrd-Resistant Vest, Boots of the Pathfinder. Everything designed to make him more effective at violence, more capable of surviving the darkness they were about to embrace.
"This will be different than battlefield combat. This is personal, intimate. This is the kind of violence that stays with you."
As the sun set over the scarred settlement of Kattegat, twenty warriors prepared to ride into the night carrying vengeance for the dead and the promise of justice for the living. Paul mounted his horse knowing that what awaited them would be one of those moments he could never unsee—even with all his visions of futures and pasts.
The cost of loyalty, he was learning, was always higher than anyone expected to pay.
[SYSTEM POINTS EARNED: 50]
[TOTAL DEBT: 1,775 SP REMAINING]
[MENTAL STRAIN: ACCUMULATING]
[NEXT PHASE: RETRIBUTION]
+1 CHAPTER AFTER EVERY 3 REVIEWS
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