The dawn came grey and sodden, dripping through the thatch. Smoke hung low in the rafters, curling like ghosts that hadn’t yet learned they were dead. The storm had passed, but the inn still smelled of thunder.
Rægenwine crouched by the hearth, coaxing a dull ember back to life. “Damp logs, stubborn gods,” he muttered, striking flint.
The brothers had slept little if they’d slept at all. Cups lay overturned on the table, and in the pale light the spiral mark still shimmered faintly in the grain.
Stormwulf sat nearest the fire, his son curled beneath his cloak. He stared into the ash as though the future will write itself there.
Leofric came softly from the loft, parchment clutched to his chest.
“He’s strong,” he said. “Red hair like the first dawn. What will you call him?”
“Thursson,” Stormwulf answered. “His mother chose it—said the lad’s forged of thunder same as I am.”
The door creaked again. Rainlight spilled across the floor, and half a dozen flame-haired youths filled the threshold broad-shouldered, bright-eyed, each carrying Stormwulf’s grin.
They strode for the bar, boots thudding.
“Ale,” most demanded.
“Yow got any mead?” asked the youngest, grin wide as summer.
“brother sword!” another shouted, tossing a blade across the room.
Rægenwine groaned. “Saints save me, the wolf’s whole litter’s come home.”
Stormwulf laughed, deep and rough. “Aye, looks like the storm breeds true.”
From the doorway Dægan watched, arms folded. “A plague of wolves,” he muttered. “Each one another storm for the world to weather.”
Leofric turned, quill poised. “You envy him, brother. He leaves his mark in flesh. You leave yours in law.”
“Law’s all that keeps men from tearing the world apart,” Dægan said.
“Then write that down too,” Leofric replied, smiling. “The law and the storm two sides of the same sky.”
Eadric appeared behind them, weighing a purse in one hand. “If we’re to keep this inn standing, we’d best start charging the lot of ’em.”
Before Rægenwine answered, Thunorric as the men called Stormwulf when business was afoot nodded toward the shadows by the wall.
“Payment, keep,” he said quietly.
A cloaked figure stepped ahead, rain still dripping from his hood, and dropped a leather bag onto the table. It hit with the dull weight of coin.
“Gold enough for board and barrels,” the man said.
Rægenwine blinked. “You’re payin’? Saints above, the world has turned.”
Thunorric only smirked. “Can’t have my lads drinkin’ the place dry and leavin’ you naught but splinters. Even wolves pay their keep.”
The laughter that followed broke the morning’s chill. For the first time since the storm, the inn felt like a home.
Outside, the clouds parted over the Chase, and light spilled through the shutters, turning the smoke to silver.
Leofric dipped his quill, wrote a single line, and whispered as he worked.
“Thus began the Age of the Storm-kin. When even peace sounded like rain upon the roof, and thunder learned to laugh again.
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