The hunt had begun, but the prey was about to become the predator.

"We cannot stay in the shadows forever," Harald said, his voice rasping from the cold.

Deep in the marshlands, Harald Sigurdsson waited. The prince who would be king was battered and bruised, his golden future stripped away by his own brother’s treachery. As the three met under the grey, weeping sky of the North, the realization settled over them like frost. Their world was changing. The old ways were being suffocated by the new cross, and the kings of the North were playing a game of thrones that left no room for heroes.

The forest outside Kattegat was silent, save for the rhythmic crunch of snow under heavy boots. Leif Erikson didn’t look back. Behind him lay the ashes of a dream—the burning remains of the city Forkbeard had seized, and the blood of those who hadn't been fast enough to escape.

The journey ahead wouldn't be about reclaiming a city. It would be about crossing the known world to find the power to take it all back. The web of fate was spinning a new thread, one that would lead them from the frozen fjords of Norway to the golden spires of Constantinople.

In the distance, the horns of Olaf Haraldsson’s men echoed through the fjords. Olaf, ever the opportunist, was already hunting the survivors, eager to cement his rule by snuffing out the last of the resistance. But Leif and Freydis weren't just running; they were heading toward a reunion.