The marsh mist rolled thick over Thetford's rebuilt palisade, shrouding the morning in ghostlight.
Beyond the walls, smoke rose from new hearths — the smell of tar and fresh-hewn timber clung to everything.
The scars of war were fading, but not forgotten.
From the high earthwork of the keep, King Eadric watched the road from the south.
Each dawn brought riders now — traders, messengers, wandering priests.
But this company rode with banners, white and gold.
"Wessex," murmured Aldwin beside him, Eadric's most trusted captain.
His voice was edged with both respect and suspicion.
"They come under truce."
Eadric said nothing.
He'd learned already that silence could command as surely as speech.
The wind tugged at his cloak; beneath it, his hand rested lightly on the rail, the gesture calm — though his mind raced.
Wessex.
Alfred's realm.
The one English kingdom strong enough to challenge the Norse… or to devour its allies once the danger passed.
The gates opened.
Five riders entered the courtyard, their horses lathered from the long road.
At their head rode a woman — tall, cloaked in sable, the hood drawn low.
But when she dismounted and the light touched her face, every man in the yard seemed to pause.
Not for beauty — though she had it in a cold, regal way — but for presence.
It clung to her like armor.
"Announce yourself," Aldwin barked.
She met his gaze, unflinching.
"I am Æthelswith of Wessex, sister to King Alfred, come by his command to speak with your lord."
Eadric descended the steps of the hall, his cloak sweeping the mud.
"Then you've found him," he said, voice steady. "Welcome to East Anglia, my lady — though I fear we have little to offer but wet ground and weary hearts."
Her eyes — grey, keen as a blade — flicked over him.
"You have something rarer than either," she said. "You still have your crown."
The words carried weight — neither flattery nor mockery, but truth.
He inclined his head.
"Then let's speak beneath a roof, before the marsh steals the words from our mouths."
Inside the Hall of Thetford
The hall smelled of oak smoke and mead. Fresh banners hung beside old ones, the colors of East Anglia renewed — the white cross on red, embroidered by widows whose sons had died at Dunwic.
Eadric took the high seat, but not before offering Æthelswith one beside him — a gesture that startled even Aldwin.
"You honor me," she said softly, taking her place.
"I honor Wessex," he replied, "and the blood that still resists the North."
Servants poured wine. For a moment, the fire's crackle filled the silence between them.
Æthelswith studied him — the calm posture, the guarded eyes, the faint roughness in his voice that betrayed youth beneath the crown.
"You're younger than I expected," she said.
"So am I," he answered, with a ghost of a smile.
That earned the smallest laugh from her — quick, surprised, and gone in an instant.
Then business returned.
"My brother sends his respect," she began. "And his caution. Wessex cannot yet commit an army. The Norse press our own borders. But he offers grain, smiths, and priests — to aid in rebuilding."
Eadric nodded slowly. "Charity, then. Not alliance."
Her eyes hardened. "Charity is a word for beggars, my lord. You are no beggar. This is faith — in you, and in what you're building here."
He leaned forward. "And what do you think I'm building, Lady Æthelswith?"
"A memory," she said. "Of what England was before we tore it apart."
The hall grew quiet. Even the hearth seemed to listen.
He studied her — the proud angle of her chin, the conviction burning behind her calm. A part of him, the part still Jacob inside, admired her in a way he hadn't felt in either world. Here was someone who believed — not in gods, perhaps, but in purpose.
And yet another part of him whispered warning:
Belief can bind as surely as chains.
At last, he spoke.
"Tell your brother I accept his aid. But tell him this too: East Anglia will not kneel again. Not to the Norse. Not to Wessex. We stand as brothers — or not at all."
Æthelswith's expression softened — not with pity, but with respect.
"Then may God grant that you do stand, Eadric of East Anglia. For if you fall, there will be no England left to save."
When she departed the next morning, the fog had thickened.
From the walls, Eadric watched her ride south, her banner a pale flame against the grey.
Aldwin joined him.
"She's dangerous," he said.
Eadric nodded. "So am I."
But in his mind, her words lingered.
A memory of what England was before we tore it apart.
He whispered, almost to himself, "Then I'll see it rebuilt — even if I must burn the world to do it."