Temzy

When the Vikings razed Eldhame, they left behind ash, ruin—and a boy king with no crown.

Raised in hiding by a loyal soldier and a silent blade of the old court, Uthred was forged in fire, sharpened by loss, and trained for vengeance. Now grown, he returns not as a child, but as a spark set to ignite rebellion.

But reclaiming a kingdom is only the beginning.

Old gods stir beneath ice and stone. Empire sails darken the eastern horizon. And prophecy whispers that Uthred’s bloodline may bring either salvation—or apocalypse.

As war erupts across coasts, courts, and continents, Uthred must lead allies he cannot fully trust, protect a people who barely remember his name, and guard the child who may one day eclipse him.

Steel can kill kings. But only fire can make one.

UTHRED: HEIR OF ASH AND STEEL

Uthred returned through Eldhaven's eastern gate at sunset, blood-soaked and half-limping, with Kairon bound behind him.

They stood in reverent silence, staring at the man who had once defied their king—and the king who had chosen not to kill him.

Vale stood waiting at the palace stairs. When Uthred met her eyes, he didn't speak. He simply fell into her arms.

She felt the weight of him—not just the wounds, but the burden he carried from the duel.

"No," Uthred murmured. "I ended it."

Kairon was confined to the southern wing of the Flamekeep under heavy guard. No formal charges. No execution.

"You let him breathe, and already the council is split," she said. "Half call you merciful. The rest call you weak."

Uthred sat slumped in the war room, a fresh bandage seeping through his side. "Let them call. I won't kill a man whose followers still kneel to me."

"Then prepare for whispers," Maera warned. "Because one of them is leaking council secrets. Three Viking scouts knew the timing of our last supply march."

In the upper court, Eamon held a quiet meeting with two lords from the Western Borderlands. Both had supported the rebellion in silence—until now.

"Uthred's decision was noble," Eamon said. "But noble doesn't win loyalty. You want him to act like a king, but a king without a realm is nothing."

Lord Vaedric leaned forward. "And what of the boy?"

"A child born in blood. Marked by old flame. There are whispers."

Eamon's eyes narrowed. "Whispers become fire. Be careful you don't get burned."

Far across the snowy steppes, the Viking war camps pulsed with life.

Tents flapped in cold wind. Axes rang against iron. Mead spilled from horns into firepits.

And in the largest tent, a ritual began.

The berserker seiðr—Skjara One-Eye—stood before her warriors, arms bare, body painted with bloodroot.

Tonight was a gathering of strength. Of flesh. Of fury.

"Tonight, we drink to war. We dance to forget. And we take what we desire—because tomorrow, we march on kings!"

Clothing torn. Laughter sharpened. Bodies intertwined beneath torchlight.

A Viking rite of chaos before conquest.

And as the orgy burned into night, one figure watched from the shadows—an Eldhame spy, horrified.

The spy returned by morning, face pale, eyes wide.

He collapsed before Theron's desk.

"They're not drunk with power," he whispered. "They're possessed by it."

Theron grabbed the scroll from the man's cloak—a crude map marked with arrows toward Eldhaven's river gate.

"We don't have weeks. We have days. They're coming."

"Then let them. This time, we don't wait for fire."

He looked toward Vale, who now stood beside Elion's crib, reading the prophecy again.

"They're coming for him," she said.

Uthred nodded. "Then they'll find a kingdom ready to burn back."

ASHES OF A CROWN.