SHATTER THE SILENCE.

The day before the counterstrike, Eldhaven held its breath.

No drums. No horns. Just the rustle of banners and the scrape of blades being sharpened. Soldiers prayed. Healers laid out their cloths. Children were moved underground.

And in the war tower, Uthred looked down at the valley where the enemy waited.

A shadow passed over the sun.

It was time.

The Flame Riders moved before dawn—one hundred strong, cloaked in furs and silence.

Uthred rode at the front beside Maera and Halric. The ravine was narrow, barely wide enough for a double column. Jagged rocks jutted like fangs from both sides. Snow fell in gusts, softening their footfalls.

They moved in silence, only the breath of horses and the occasional mutter of prayer.

Below them, the Viking war camp stretched wide, fires glowing in the dim blue of morning. Pennants bearing wolf fangs and serpent eyes snapped in the wind.

And between tents and palisades, hundreds of warriors gathered, armored in bone and fury.

Uthred raised his fist.

The riders halted.

He turned to them.

"This is not a siege," he said. "This is a reckoning. We strike fast, strike deep, and pull the heart from their chest before they know it's gone."

He drew his blade.

"Ride with me."

They descended like flame from the heavens.

The first wave hit the eastern flank of the Viking camp, cutting through watchmen and wooden walls like wind through grass.

Maera's spear drove a berserker from his mount.

Halric's axe cleaved a shield in half.

And Uthred rode through the smoke with the rage of three kings in his grip.

The Vikings scrambled. Some turned to flee. Others roared back, forming shield walls. Arrows filled the sky.

A torch struck a wagon—flames spilled over supplies and oil casks.

Fire rose with a scream.

"Push the center!" Uthred roared.

He drove through the defenders, blade flashing, cutting down one after another. Blood stained the snow.

But then the horns blew.

Three long notes. Deep. Terrible.

The Viking chieftain—Skjara One-Eye—emerged from her tent. Painted in bloodroot, her left eye empty and glowing.

She raised a massive curved blade and shouted a command in the old tongue.

The earth answered.

From the western woods came their hidden reinforcements—another warband, twice the size.

The ambush was now an encirclement.

Maera cursed. "We're cut off."

Uthred wheeled his horse around. "Break east. Cut through the lesser fires and scatter. Regroup at the river mouth!"

Halric shouted orders. The formation broke into fire teams, each fighting to carve a path through the tightening ring.

And then—through the chaos—came Kairon.

No armor. No banner.

Only flame.

He walked from the ridge, shirtless, blade in each hand, bearing the exile's brand.

The Vikings turned to face him.

Kairon knelt.

And touched the ground.

Flame surged upward in a ring.

A fireline cut across the field, searing earth and trapping half the enemy force.

Kairon rose and turned his blades toward them.

"I was exiled," he said. "Not broken."

Then he charged.

In the crypts, Vale collapsed.

Morlana knelt over her.

"The fire takes its price," she murmured. "But you are its vessel now."

Vale opened her eyes.

They glowed gold.

A whisper stirred the braziers.

Elion stirred in his crib far above.

And the prophecy shifted.

Kairon's charge turned the tide.

He tore through the front ranks, blades whirling, ducking under axes, sliding through gaps in armor. Every blow landed with deadly precision.

Uthred saw the opening.

"Push forward!" he roared.

The Flame Riders rallied. With renewed fury, they drove through the enemy's right flank. Maera threw a spear through a shield wall. Halric rallied the northern riders.

By midmorning, the Viking camp was in flames.

Skjara howled with rage. Her warriors fought to the last, but the momentum had turned.

Kairon met her at the center of the chaos.

Their blades clashed once.

Then twice.

And on the third, Skjara's sword shattered.

Kairon drove his blade through her chest.

She fell.

And the field fell silent.

At dusk, Uthred rode back to Eldhaven.

Kairon walked beside him, covered in blood and ash, one arm limp from a cut that nearly took the shoulder.

The gates opened slowly.

Vale stood waiting at the entrance, eyes still glowing faintly.

Uthred dismounted and took her hand.

"We won," he said.

"For now," she whispered.

Then she looked to the skies.

Because thunder was rumbling.

And it was not from clouds.