The night was cold and damp, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and stayed there.

The emerald flames of the barn were already dying down, leaving behind a suffocating smoke that smelled of burnt hay.

Ivar dragged his ruined body across the wet grass, gasping for air.

"Damnit..." he coughed, spitting a glob of bloody phlegm onto the ground. "Where is he?"

He strained his eyes, there was no sign of Eadric. The crippled Saxon noble had vanished into the shadows, leaving Ivar behind.

Though he was known as the Boneless, Ivar had never felt so fragile. His legs were useless, and his arms were trembling from exhaustion. 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

"Fucking coward..." he muttered, digging his fingers into the muddy earth, trying to pull himself forward. But his body refused to obey.

After struggling for what felt like an eternity, he finally collapsed, his face pressing against the grass. He closed his eyes, listening to the crackling of the dying flames and the distant sound of the wind howling through the trees.

"Fire! The barn is on fire!"

A voice broke the silence, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps splashing through the mud. Ivar opened his eyes, squinting against the darkness.

Several figures holding torches were running towards the burning barn.

"Fetch water! Hurry!" someone shouted.

"Look!" another voice cried out, pointing a torch towards the ground. "There’s someone over here!"

Footsteps approached him, and the orange glow of a torch illuminated the area. Ivar groaned, turning his head away from the bright light.

"He’s burnt bad..." a man said, his voice filled with concern. "Help me lift him."

Two men grabbed his arms and hoisted him up. The pain was excruciating, and Ivar let out a guttural scream.

"Careful... careful..." the man said. "He’s barely holding on."

As they carried him away from the burning barn, another group of people approached, carrying buckets of water. They were shouting and pointing.

"Wait!" a voice suddenly yelled from the crowd. "Stop!"

A man pushed his way through the group, his eyes wide as he stared at Ivar’s face. He was a tall man, with a thick beard and a scar running down his left cheek.

He looked familiar, but Ivar’s mind was too foggy to place him.

"By the gods..." the man whispered, taking a step back. "It’s him!"

"Who is he, Hastein?" one of the men carrying Ivar asked.

Hastein stared at Ivar, his expression a mix of shock and something else... something that looked a lot like fear.

"I know him..." Hastein finally said, "I fought beside him years ago."

"Who is it then?"

"It’s Ivar... Ivar the Boneless..."

A collective gasp echoed through the crowd. Everyone knew the stories of the Viking warlord who had conquered kingdoms and left a trail of blood in his wake.

"The Boneless?" the man holding Ivar’s right arm said, his voice trembling. "Are you sure?"

"I’m sure..." Hastein replied, "I’d recognize that face anywhere."

Ivar coughed, his lungs burning. "What are you staring at?" he rasped. "Get me to a healer, you fools."

Before anyone could move, another voice echoed through the night.

"Step aside!"

A man pushed his way through the crowd, his face partially obscured by a dark hood. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he moved with a confident swagger that commanded attention.

"I’ll take him." the hooded man said, reaching out to grab Ivar from the two men.

"Who are you?" Hastein demanded, stepping in front of the stranger.

"I’m his brother." the hooded man replied smoothly. "And I’m taking him home."

Hastein narrowed his eyes, "His brother? Ivar doesn’t have any brothers left."

"You don’t know everything, Hastein." the hooded man said, "Now step aside, or I’ll make sure you regret it."

Hastein hesitated, but something in the stranger’s tone made him back down. He stepped aside, allowing the hooded man to take Ivar.

"I’ve got you, brother..." the man whispered as he lifted Ivar into his arms.

Ivar looked up at the stranger’s face, trying to recognize him. But his vision was blurring, and his mind was slipping away.

"Who are you?" he mumbled, his eyes closing.

The hooded man smiled, a knowing smile that sent a shiver down Ivar’s spine.

"Don’t worry, Ivar." the man whispered. "You’re safe now."

"Who are you?" Ivar rasped.

"Eat..." the man said.

Ivar took a tentative sip of the stew. It was hot and flavorful, and it warmed his chilled body.

"I asked you a question." Ivar said, his voice stronger now. "Who are you?"

The man pulled back his hood, revealing a face that was both familiar and strangely different. He had the same sharp features and piercing eyes as Ivar, but his hair was darker, and he looked older, more weathered.

"I told you..." the man said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I’m your brother."

Ivar stared at him, he had brothers, yes, but they were all dead or missing. How could this man be his brother?

"What’s your name?" Ivar asked.

The man leaned closer, his eyes locked on Ivar’s.

"My name is Ubba." he said.

Ivar’s eyes widened in shock. Ubba. His brother. The one he had thought was dead for years.

"Ubba?" Ivar whispered, disbelief washing over him. "How... how is this possible?"

"It’s a long story, brother," he said. "But right now, you need to rest. We have a lot of work to do."

Ivar lay back down, his mind buzzing with questions. Ubba was alive. His brother was here. What did this mean? What were they going to do?

He closed his eyes, listening to the crackling of the fire.

Perhaps he wasn’t alone after all. Perhaps he and Ubba could rebuild their army, reclaim their honor, and take revenge on those who had wronged them.

The thought brought a faint smile to his lips.

He opened his eyes.

"So, brother..." Ivar whispered, his throat dry. "What’s the plan?"

Ubba let out a low chuckle.

"The plan is to not die." Ubba said, "We need to move. The locals will be swarming that burnt barn by morning, and we cannot be anywhere near here when they do."

Waiting just a few paces outside, dark-haired horse. It huffed a cloud of white breath into the cold air, stamping its hooves impatiently.

Ubba threw Ivar over the saddle, making sure he was balanced before securing him with a leather strap.

"Where are we going?" Ivar asked, his fingers gripping the horse’s mane to steady himself.

Ubba took hold of the leather reins and began to lead the horse by foot.

He looked back at his brother with a serious expression. "I will tell you on the way. Just keep your eyes open and try not to bleed out on the saddle."

Ivar had lost his entire family 3 years ago. His warriors in Dublin had rushed to save him after learning of his severe injuries, but for 3 long years, Ivar had felt completely alone in the world.

Seeing Ubba alive felt like a strange, impossible dream.

"How did you survive?" Ivar finally asked, "We all thought you died in that ambush."

Ubba kept his eyes fixed on the dark path ahead, his boots trudging steadily through the mud.

When the ambush happened 3 years ago, Ubba had taken a nasty blow to the head and fallen under a pile of 4 dead bodies.

He played dead for 2 whole days, drinking rainwater from mud puddles to stay alive.

When the enemy finally left, he crawled his way to the coast, stole a small fishing boat, and sailed across the sea to Ireland.

He had been hiding in the bogs ever since, keeping his head down and gathering information from traveling merchants and spies.

After hearing such words Ivar felt a heavy knot form in his chest. His brother had been so close this entire time, yet they had both been too broken and paranoid to find one another.

"The world is not the same as we left it, Ivar." Ubba continued, "While we were licking our wounds in the mud, Ragnar has been busy conquering it."

Ubba explained further. Ragnar had made secret pacts with Basil I, the Byzantine emperor.

Basil sent his powerful army, led by a general named Nikephoros, to attack Francia from the south.

At the exact same time, Al-Mu’tamid, the ruler of the Andalusians, did the exact same thing to seize his own piece of the Frankish pie.

The Andalusian leader admired Ragnar’s massive intellect, making a deal to carve up Francia together.

The Frankish kingdom was completely shattered, caught in a massive trap set by the Iron Kingdom.

"As such..." Ubba muttered, kicking a stone out of his path, "we are living in Ragnar’s world now. Even Erik is packing his ships to go colonize a frozen rock called Iceland just because Ragnar told him to."

Ivar listened in silence.

They walked for hours. The deep black of the night slowly faded into a dull, morning.

The sun finally peeked over the rolling Irish hills, casting long shadows across the damp earth.

Eventually, Ubba led the horse down a hidden dirt path that ended at a small, secluded wooden house nestled near a rocky cliffside by the sea.

It looked abandoned, with moss growing over the timber roof and the windows boarded up tightly.

"We are here." Ubba said, letting go of the reins.

He stepped up to the horse, unbuckled the leather straps, and lifted Ivar down.

Ivar hissed in pain as his boots hit the ground, his legs buckling beneath him. Ubba caught him, slinging Ivar’s arm over his broad shoulder and half-carrying, half-dragging him toward the wooden door.

Ubba kicked the door open. The inside of the house was simple and dusty. There was a small stone hearth, a sturdy wooden table, and a rough straw bed pushed into the far corner.

Ubba carried Ivar to the bed and gently laid him down. Ivar sank into the scratchy straw, letting out a long sigh.

"Rest." Ubba said, walking over to the small hearth and striking a flint to light a pre-laid fire. "You look like a walking corpse, damnit."

"I feel like one..." Ivar mumbled, staring up at the wooden rafters. "But you didn’t drag me all the way out here just to give me a nap."

Ubba walked over to the far side of the room, approaching a heavy, iron-bound wooden chest hidden beneath a pile of old animal furs.

He carried the object over to the wooden table and carefully unrolled the cloth. Ivar propped himself up on his elbows.

Sitting on the table was a crossbow. But it was completely unlike any crossbow Ivar had ever seen in his life.

It had a polished wooden stock, but instead of a standard string and tension bow, it featured a thick, hollow iron tube mounted right on the top.

Next to the trigger was a complex mechanism made of steel and flint.

You take a small leather pouch filled with black gunpowder and pour exactly one measure of it into the back of the iron tube.

Then, you slide a heavy, solid iron bolt down the front of the barrel. When you pull the trigger, the steel mechanism snaps forward, striking the flint and creating a bright spark.

The spark ignites the black powder inside the iron chamber. The resulting explosion creates a massive buildup of gas that violently pushes the iron bolt out of the tube at a speed no human arm or bowstring could ever possibly match.

It can pierce through a thick oak shield and the man holding it from 100 paces away.

"What in the gods’ names is that?" Ivar whispered, "Where did you get a weapon like this?"

Ubba grinned, resting his hand proudly on the stock of the crossbow. "It is a gunpowder crossbow. A prototype. And I didn’t steal it from a random soldier, brother."

Ubba leaned forward, "Louis the Stammerer himself made it."

Louis the Stammerer? Louis was Ragnar’s closest and most loyal friend. He was the genius who built the very weapons Ragnar designed.

He was also the rightful, exiled heir to the throne of Francia, waiting for Ragnar to help him take back his crown from his usurper uncle.

Why would Louis the Stammerer, the Iron Father’s best friend and chief engineer, build a weapon and give it to a missing Viking warlord hiding in Ireland?