"Then be a wolf," Leofric grunted. "Because the pack is at the gate, and they aren't coming to pray."
A floorboard creaked. Leofric stepped into the light, his face a map of old scars and new worries.
He remembered the internal struggle, the way the Saxons looked at him with suspicion and the Danes with a hunger for his head. The "internal" war wasn't just on the battlefield; it was a repackaging of his soul, a constant negotiation of who he was meant to be versus who the world demanded he become.
Outside, the Wessex air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and impending rain. The peace was a fragile thing, a glass shield held up against a storm of Danish axes. Uhtred’s mind raced through the betrayals and blood-debts that had led him here—to this specific crossroads where loyalty was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Uhtred stood, his hand instinctively finding the hilt of Serpent-Breath. "Alfred sees what he wants to see. He wants a saint, but he needs a wolf."