The fires of Eldhaven still smoldered.
Uthred stood atop the eastern tower of the High Keep, his hands braced on the cold stone as he looked down at the city below. It was quiet now—not with peace, but with the breathless silence of aftermath. Corpses still lined the gutters. Smoke drifted from collapsed taverns and shattered walls. Children huddled in doorways. Healers worked in blood-muddied streets. The cost was everywhere.
The war had been won. The tyrant slain. The throne reclaimed.
But peace—that would be the harder fight.
He closed his eyes and let the morning wind cut across his face. It smelled of wet ash and scorched oil. In a way, it was fitting. He had been born from fire, and now he ruled over its ashes.
The next days were a blur of fire and orders.
Uthred established a provisional council—Vale, Eamon, Maera, Jorlan, and three representatives from the merchant, common, and noble classes. Together, they divided the city into sectors and assigned relief duties.
Eamon oversaw food distribution. Vale organized clean-up and reconstruction efforts. Jorlan weeded out the last of the Viking sympathizers from the city guard. Maera visited orphanages and infirmaries, providing stability to the people who had suffered most.
Every day, Uthred walked the streets, sword sheathed, crown unworn. He didn't want awe. He wanted recognition. Respect earned, not inherited.
At the old market square, a little boy ran up to him, clutching a broken toy.
"Are you the fire king?"
Uthred knelt. "I'm your king, if you'll have me."
The boy nodded solemnly. "Then fix the bakery. It's gone."
"I will."
He ruffled the boy's hair and continued on, passing lines of displaced families receiving hot meals, and masons rebuilding stone by hand. Despite the ruin, hope had taken root. And Uthred knew that hope—more than iron, more than gold—was what built kingdoms.
Eamon presented the official coronation plans a week later. Dignitaries from across the realm were already arriving. Some loyal. Some opportunistic. Some watching to see what kind of king Uthred would become.
The ceremony would take place in the Temple of Dawn—half-collapsed during Sigvard's rule, now restored by townsfolk in an effort that had united nobles and peasants alike.
Uthred didn't want gold. He didn't want grandeur.
He asked that the crown be reforged—from melted weapons, battlefield steel, and a shard of his father's blade.
A symbol not of entitlement—but endurance.
"I want it to be ugly," he said. "I want every noble who looks at it to remember what it cost us."
With peace came politics.
The lords of Eldhame returned—some repentant, some defiant. House Kelvar demanded restoration of their ancestral lands. House Drennan threatened to withdraw support unless they were guaranteed a seat on the ruling council.
Uthred listened, but did not yield.
"I will rebuild this kingdom for all its people—not just those with crests and titles," he declared.
Many grumbled. But few dared push further.
At night, Uthred met with Vale and Maera to draft a new charter—one that would limit noble power and protect the rights of commoners. It was radical. Dangerous. And necessary.
Jorlan warned him, "They'll try to kill you for this."
Uthred nodded. "Let them try."
The day of the coronation came beneath a clear blue sky.
The Temple of Dawn, newly rebuilt with its stone arches and mosaic windows, was packed with citizens, soldiers, and nobles. The air buzzed with tension—and expectation.
Uthred walked the central aisle without guards, his cloak stitched with the banners of every fallen ally. His sword remained at his side, not out of vanity, but memory.
The priests chanted. The choir sang.
Eamon stepped forward, bearing the crown—the reforged steel circlet, blackened in places, unpolished, and beautiful in its defiance.
Uthred knelt.
Eamon's voice was steady. "Do you swear to lead with justice, not fear? To fight for the living, not for legacy? To wear the crown not as privilege, but as burden?"
"I swear it."
The crown touched his brow.
The temple shook with cheers.
"Rise, Uthred of Eldhame, first of his name. Flame of the North. King of the Reclaimed."
He stood. And the city roared.
The weeks that followed were the hardest yet.
Eldhaven was starving. Disease crept through the alleys. Rogue Viking warbands harried the borders. Rivals abroad sent spies, not emissaries.
But Uthred never flinched.
He opened the palace gates and turned it into a public shelter. He held court daily, listening to farmers, sailors, weavers, and widows. He sent Vale south to form a standing border force. He appointed Jorlan as commander of the king's guard and tasked him with training a new generation of protectors.
Maera headed the reconstruction council. Eamon became chancellor.
Uthred himself led food convoys to the outer provinces. When a grain riot broke out in Eastmere, he rode in personally to mediate.
He did not rest. Because his people could not afford to.
And the realm began to heal.
Reports soon reached the capital: a northern chieftain named Bjorrek the Pale was gathering old Viking clans under one banner. Not raiders—an army. Not just revenge—conquest.
"They're calling it the Frost Reign," Eamon said, spreading maps across the table. "They want what Sigvard failed to take. All of Eldhame. From snow to sea."
Uthred looked to Vale. "How many border forts can we hold?"
"Five. If we stretch our men thin. But they're undermanned."
"And the mountain passes?"
"Blocked. For now."
Jorlan stood. "If Bjorrek moves fast, he'll be here before spring. We need allies."
Uthred nodded. "Then send ravens. Call the valley lords. Call the eastern tribes. Call every banner that swore to Eldhame. Let them come. Let them remember who wears the crown now."
He turned to the open window, staring into the grey clouds above the horizon.
"And if they don't come?" Vale asked.
"Then we fight alone. As we always have."
That night, Uthred stood alone in the council chamber, reading reports by candlelight. Vale entered silently.
"They say you haven't slept in three days," she said.
"Too much to do."
"They'll follow you to the ends of the realm, Uthred. But you can't lead them into the dark unless you light the way."
He looked up. Her eyes were tired but steady. She had stood with him through blood, fire, and frost. Through ambushes and uprisings. She had never wavered.
"Do you regret staying?" he asked quietly.
"No."
He stepped closer. "Even now? With enemies on all sides and a crown that weighs more each day?"
Vale shrugged. "We chose each other the day we bled under the same banner."
For the first time, Uthred smiled. Not the grim line he wore in battle—but a true, flickering warmth.
"I'm glad you're here."
She touched his arm.
"You won't face this alone."
Their hands remained locked for a beat too long.
Then: "Good night, Your Majesty."
"Good night, Vale."