The horns of Jomsborg howled across the bay.

From the east and the south, sails dotted the horizon, broad-beamed Wendish ships, their prows carved with wolves, horses, serpents, or no more than plain timbers blackened by tar.

One by one they slipped into the harbor, their decks crowded with warriors in leather and bronze, cloaks of wolf and bear drawn close against the wind.

The chieftains came ashore like lords of their own halls, each ringed by men with long axes and round shields painted with runes and beasts.

They were not one people but many: Rani with plaited hair and amber at their throats, Obotrites with heavy gold armrings, Veleti scarred from border raids, Rani with their priests in black robes whispering to Triglav.

Each clan kept its distance, their banners snapping like rival crows circling the same feast.

Jomsborg had never seemed more alive.

Its stone walls bristled with warriors, its great hall lit with torches, the air heavy with smoke and salt.

At the long tables, mead and ale frothed, venison roasted, and songs of steel rang out, but all was a prelude to the true business.

Armodr strode through the throng, his axe at his back, his voice booming above the din.

"Chieftains of the Wends! Be welcome in Jomsborg, hall of brothers. Tonight you are guests, not rivals. Here you sit beneath one roof, and no blood shall be spilled unless it is pledged to war."

The hall quieted as Vetrúlfr entered.

His cloak was trimmed with wolfskin, his sword at his hip, the pale fire of his eyes catching in the torchlight.

He moved without haste, yet every warrior's gaze followed him.

At the dais stood a row of chests.

The Wends shifted, hungry for the glint of silver, the jingle of coin.

Instead, Vetrúlfr's men lifted forth swords, axes, spearheads, each wrapped in oiled leather.

One by one, they placed them before the chieftains.

Damascus steel, bright and patterned like ripples of black water, sharper than anything forged on Wendish anvils.

The hall murmured.

Vetrúlfr spoke then, his voice level, carrying across the rafters.

"Gold can be stolen. Silver melts in the fire. But steel endures."

He gestured to the blades at their feet.

"These are not bribes. They are bonds. A gift between warriors. I ask no oath of you today. Only that you weigh what kind of friend comes empty-handed, and what kind brings you the means to defend your hearth."

The chieftains bent, lifting the weapons.

A Rani chief ran his thumb along the edge, whistling low.

A Veleti elder muttered that such blades could shear a horse's skull.

Even the black-robed priests, aloof and cold, traded glances at the rippled steel.

Vetrúlfr's gaze swept the hall.

"I do not seek to rule you. Nor to bind you. But hear this: Conrad marches through Denmark. Svein and Duncan bleed each other in England. The Empire sharpens its knives. When they are finished, who will they turn on next? If not the wolf, then the bear of the Wends. If not the bear, then the stags of the Balts. One by one, we will fall. Unless we stand together."

He let the silence stretch, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.

The hall erupted in murmurs, some nodding, some frowning.

Armodr grinned in the shadows, his eyes gleaming. He leaned toward Gunnarr and whispered:

"I'm starting to wonder why they call the man the white wolf when he is clearly as cunning as a Raven. Let us see if they flock to him."

The feast wore on, the mead flowing as freely as the smoke rising to the rafters.

Yet beneath the laughter and the songs, tension coiled like a drawn bowstring.

At the end of the tables, the chieftains gathered in knots, their voices rising and falling in sharp bursts.

A Rani, lord slammed his palm on the table, the damascene sword glinting at his side.

"I say we take the wolf's gift. Look at this steel! One blade like this is worth ten of our own. If he offers such for nothing, then what will he give in alliance? With weapons like these, we could drive the Christians back to their rivers."

An Obotrite chief snorted, lifting his cup.

"And make ourselves thralls to a Norseman? Today he gives you swords. Tomorrow he'll ask for your sons. He speaks of friendship, but his hands reek of conquest. Did he not butcher kings in England, just as his forebears raided our shores?"

The Veleti elder, his face lined and stern, spat into the rushes.

"Better to bow to a wolf than to an eagle. Conrad marches through Denmark even now. When he is finished, do you think the Wendish coast will be spared? He will come for us next, as he has for all our fathers. If the Norseman buys us time with his steel, then I say we take it."

The Obotrite priests, black-robed and inscrutable, whispered among themselves. At last one spoke, his voice carrying through the smoke.

"Steel is no small thing. Nor is fate. The wolf has gathered his pack, and his teeth are sharp. But a wolf grows hungry. Today he feeds you, tomorrow he may feast on you. Will you trust him when the snow falls?"

A younger chief barked out, his eyes flashing.

"And what of trust in Rome? In Aachen? In Denmark? Have they not broken every oath they swore us? Have they not burned our villages, taken our kin, demanded tribute in the name of their Christ? At least this wolf does not lie. He bares his fangs openly."

The hall broke into clamor, fists pounding, voices clashing like steel.

Some called for alliance, others for caution, still others for war among themselves, old rivalries gnawing at every word.

Armodr watched from the dais beside Vetrúlfr, his grin widening as the storm raged below.

He leaned close and muttered, "You see? They tear at each other like dogs over a bone. If you can bind even half of them, the rest will follow. Not from love, but from fear of being left behind."

Vetrúlfr said nothing. His eyes lingered on the chieftains as they shouted, as if weighing not only their words but the futures they could shape.

The hall grew thick with argument, smoke curling from the braziers as the Wendish chiefs barked across the benches.

Some clutched at their old grudges, their voices rising over cattle raided and kin slain.

Others muttered of the Empire's shadow falling long across the Baltic, of Conrad's banners pressing ever closer.

It was then that one man rose.

His cloak was trimmed with wolf fur, his eyes sharp as the sea-wind.

The mark of Rani's priestly caste gleamed on the bronze clasp at his shoulder.

A murmur rippled through the room: the voice of the Rani carried weight, for their god Svantovit himself was said to speak through their shrine at Arkona.

He did not waste words.

"We have bickered while the cross crept north. We have sung of freedom while our cousins fell beneath the sword. Here stands a man who brings us iron, not coin. Swords, not baubles. He does not ask for tribute, but for blood-brotherhood. I say: let the Rani take his hand. Let the White Wolf stand beside Svantovit."

The silence that followed was heavier than steel.

Then came the first murmurs of assent.

Chiefs who had shouted for feuds before now glanced at one another, unwilling to be the last to yield.

Vetrúlfr said nothing.

He only watched.

He marked the chiefs who shifted first, the Veleti with scarred cheeks, the younger Obotrites quick to nod but slow to stand, the elders who leaned upon their sons for counsel.

He studied them the way he might study a battlefield, noting where the shieldwall was weak, where the spears were sharp, where fear or pride might be turned to his use.

Armodr leaned toward him, his grin wolfish.

"Watch now. Once the Rani bind themselves to you, the rest will follow like cattle to a line of salt. The first stone falls, and soon the wall comes down."

And so it did. One by one, voices shifted.

A raised hand here, a nod there, until the tide turned all at once.

Yet not all were quick. A few still frowned into their cups, their thoughts hidden.

The wolf had their ears, but not yet their oaths.

Still, the shape of it hung in the smoke-filled hall: the first great crack in Christendom's eastern flank.

However Vetrúlfr paid no heed to the stragglers and their hesitation.

For he knew within the coming days and weeks they would pledge their swords to him.

Just as the others had already done.

Because Armodr ws right. Even if they did not currently fear a future where the Cross and those who carried it burned their fields, and their homes.

They could not stand the idea of being labeled traitor when those who had aligned with the wolf returned from their hunt.

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