(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man stared into the fire, the memory of the coast still vivid. "Failure is a poison. It works slowly, turning brother against brother, doubt into rot. We escaped the Cathedral with our lives, but we carried its contagion with us."
He turned to a heavily illustrated page in Gerald's journal. On one side, a detailed longship rode furious waves. On the other, two stylized, bearded faces snarled at each other, one adorned with Danish braids, the other with Norwegian.
"This," Aurelio said, his finger tracing the divided page, "is where our war changed. This is where Gerald began his."
---
— Memory —
They found refuge in a fisherman's cove further down the coast, a place of rotting nets, the stink of brine, and the constant, mournful cry of gulls. Benito's fever broke, but he was a hollowed-out shell, his eyes staring at nothing. The fire in him had been extinguished in the Cathedral's gloom.
The atmosphere in their small, damp hut was thick with a silence more accusing than any shout. The failure was a physical presence among them.
"We learned nothing," Riccio finally muttered, sharpening a arrowhead with violent, repetitive strokes. "We lost Benito. We gained nothing."
"We learned the Cabal's reach is absolute," Liam countered, his voice calm but his eyes lingering on the fire, as if seeing the silver-eyed wretches in the flames. "We learned the depth of their heresy. That is not nothing."
"It is not enough!" Riccio snapped, his young face twisted in frustration. "We are rats in the walls, scurrying from one disaster to the next! Giovanni died for this?"
Aurelio said nothing. He was trapped in the loop of his own failure. The Cardinal's smug face, the psychic violation, the certain knowledge that every move was anticipated. He was fighting a war in a room of mirrors.
It was Gerald who broke the stalemate. He had been unusually quiet, staring out at the churning sea. When he spoke, his voice was low, devoid of its usual bluster.
"We need an army."
Aurelio looked up, weary. "We have no army, Gerald."
"I do," Gerald said, turning to face them. His eyes held a new, grim light. "Or I could. My people. The Norse."
Riccio let out a bitter laugh. "Your people? The ones who raid our coasts? You think they will fight for us?"
"They will not fight for you," Gerald said, his gaze locking on Aurelio. "They will fight for me. And they will fight for a cause greater than your petty kingdoms." He gestured out to the vast, grey ocean. "Vinland."
He explained, his words coming in a rushed, passionate torrent. The Danes, his mother's people, sought vengeance for his father's murder. The Norwegians, his father's people, sought the myth of Vinland. The Cabal had played them all, using their divisions as a weapon.
"They are two seas, crashing against the same shore," Gerald said, his fists clenching. "But I am the tide that can join them. I have the blood of both."
"A poetic notion," Liam said quietly. "But blood feuds run deeper than poetry."
"Then I will give them a new saga!" Gerald's voice rose, echoing in the small hut. "One not of killing Italians, but of breaking the Cabal who murdered my father! One not of plunder, but of building a new world across the sea! They follow strength. I will show them strength. They follow a dream. I will give them the greatest dream of all."
He was no longer just the angry prisoner or the reluctant ally. In that moment, Aurelio saw the shadow of a king—a Skald-King, as he would later be known—standing before him. It was the first flicker of a plan that wasn't just about reacting to the Cabal, but about changing the very board they played on.
"And how will you unite them?" Aurelio asked, the strategist in him pushing past the despair.
Gerald's jaw set. "I will go to their camp. I will stand between my uncle Gunnar and the Danish lords. And I will make them see."
It was a desperate gamble. He was as likely to be torn apart as he was to be heard.
"Then we go with you," Aurelio said, the decision solidifying as he spoke. "We are ghosts. We can move unseen. And you should not face your fate alone."
Gerald looked at him, the old hostility finally, completely, gone, replaced by a grudging, fierce respect. He gave a single, sharp nod.
The goal was no longer just a single Cathedral. It was the soul of an entire people. The war was expanding, and their ragged band of five was at the center of the storm.
---
— Present —
Aurelio looked at the Scholar. "We did not know it then, but that was the moment the war truly began. Not with a battle, but with a choice. Gerald's choice to build, rather than just break. It was the first light we had seen since the Anvil fell."