Sola hurriedly dressed and followed her personal handmaid to Ragnar's chambers. A dense crowd had already gathered outside his door—servants, palace guards, young squires like Alfred, and cabinet mbers who had rushed over at the news, along with Aslaug, Sigurd, and Ynja.
Scanning the assembled crowd, she noticed only one person missing: the Fourth Prince, Ubbe.
Sensing trouble, Sola rushed to the side of her brother, Hrolf, who served as the Governor of Londinium and Minister of Foreign Affairs. "Hurry, find him and bring him back imdiately!"
"Understood," Hrolf replied, his expression grave. He imdiately dispatched an attendant to search outside the palace.
A few minutes later, an elderly shaman erged from the bedchamber. His voice was slow and solemn. "The gods are calling Ragnar's na in Valhalla. He cannot linger in the mortal realm for much longer. Please, make haste."
Before the shaman could even finish speaking, Aslaug pushed her way into the room, leading Sigurd and Ynja by the hand. Pri Minister Gorm, the newly appointed Minister of the Seas, Theowulf, and Palace Steward Paffis followed closely on her heels, leaving only Sola and Hrolf lingering by the door.
"Just where is that useless boy fooling around?"
Hrolf gripped his sister's wrist tightly and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Calm down. Let us go inside first. I am the Governor of Londinium; at the very least, the city defense force answers to ."
Sola took a deep breath and walked straight to the edge of her husband's bed. Gazing down at his haggard face and his stark white hair and beard, she could not stop the tears from spilling over.
Ignoring the concerned gazes of his two wives, Ragnar gripped Gorm's wrist with all his remaining strength and spoke in broken gasps.
"...Ivar... Ireland... Bjorn was never granted a noble title back then, and he has always resented for it. He deliberately sailed off to the diterranean Sea, and the North Sea... I failed him... Halfdan is impulsive by nature. Write a letter to him... tell him to... wheeze... wheeze..."
Listening to their husband's faint, rattling breaths, both queens burned with anxiety. After a mont of internal struggle, Aslaug pulled Sigurd to the edge of the bed. "This is your most beloved youngest son. What will he inherit?"
Exhausting the last of his strength, Ragnar reached out his right hand to stroke his youngest son's cheek. With trendous difficulty, he squeezed out his final words. "The temple at the Royal Manor."
Having spoken, his right hand fell toward his Damascus steel sword, Kingship. The mont his fingers brushed the hilt, his entire body suddenly went slack. According to Viking tradition, a warrior must always hold a weapon at the mont of death.
And so, after enduring months of coma, the most renowned ruler of Viking society, Ragnar Lothbrok, passed away in Londinium.
With no ti left to grieve, the two queens imdiately turned to Pri Minister Gorm. "What is at the temple in the Royal Manor?"
Gorm's expression was steeped in sorrow. "Before his last campaign, His Majesty deliberately left behind a royal edict, enshrining it within the temple at the Royal Manor. I do not know its exact contents, but it must detail his arrangents for his five heirs."
A royal edict?
Sola's gaze instantly sharpened. She exchanged a fleeting, aningful look with Hrolf. Catching his sister's intent, Hrolf gave a firm nod and bolted from the room as fast as his legs could carry him.
Just outside the palace gates, he nearly collided with a heavily intoxicated Ubbe. Oblivious to what had just transpired, the prince offered his uncle a foolish, drunken grin.
Suppressing his swelling fury, Hrolf snatched up a handful of freezing snow and scrubbed it hard against his nephew's face. "His Majesty has passed away! Get inside and find your mother right now!"
Without waiting for a response, Hrolf vaulted into his saddle and galloped off into the swirling flurries of snow.
At that sa mont, back in Ragnar's bedchamber.
No one seed particularly surprised by Hrolf's abrupt departure. The rest of the room kept their eyes fixed on Pri Minister Gorm, waiting for his next words.
"I shall retrieve the royal edict personally," Gorm announced. "The rest of you must remain in this room to prevent the situation from spiraling out of control."
No one voiced any objections. As Gorm strode briskly from the chamber and the heavy doors clicked shut, Palace Steward Paffis subtly winked at a servant waiting outside the room.
Slipping silently away from the crowded corridor, the servant made his way out to the plaza. He spotted Ubbe sitting numbly on the stone steps, his dark coat dusted with a thin layer of snow. Not daring to disturb the dazed prince, the servant slipped out through a side gate of the royal palace. He broke into a brisk jog down the streets, weaving through cramped, winding alleyways until he arrived at a surprisingly spacious courtyard.
This courtyard was inhabited by a filthy, unruly band of Danish raiders. Enchanted by the bustling wealth of Londinium, they had loitered in the city, refusing to leave. Paffis had secretly bought their loyalty, keeping them housed here for tis of sudden need.
"Svalin, my master requires your services."
The servant locked eyes with the chieftain of the group and quickly briefed him on the unfolding crisis. Svalin's voice trembled in shock. "His Majesty is dead? That is far too sudden."
"His Majesty's soul journeys to Valhalla, but our lives in the mortal realm must continue. The Palace Steward and Queen Aslaug require your assistance. Once the deed is done, noble titles, silver, and the finest wines will be yours for the taking."
Having successfully swayed the raiders, the servant led them on a frantic dash out the city's north gate. At a secluded property on the outskirts, they uncovered a cache of weaponry and forty horses. "Those who can ride, follow ! The rest of you, hold your ground here."
Ti was of the essence. The servant and his mounted band rode like the wind. By the ti they reached the Royal Manor, they spotted over fifty riders already swarming outside the main gates. The group was a mix of heavily armored city defense guards and plainclothes fighters—likely Hrolf's personal retainers or hired sellswords.
Faced with the Governor bringing such a massive, unidentified ard force to their doorstep, the manor guards instinctively sensed grave danger. They huddled behind the high walls, absolutely refusing to open the gates.
"Thank the gods we made it in ti," the servant breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He guided his n on a wide detour around to the rear of the manor, eventually locating a small, hidden opening concealed by dense thickets.
"Wait here and stay out of sight," he commanded. "Do not alert the others. Unless you hear my whistle, you must not charge into the courtyard under any circumstances."
Without another word, the servant squeezed through the gap alone. He sprinted madly across the grounds and darted into the temple, where he discovered a dust-covered wooden box tucked behind the towering statue of Odin.
"Found it."
Picking the brass lock with a piece of wire, the servant quickly scanned the royal edict within. His expression darkened, flashing with a complex mix of dread and utter astonishnt.
"So this was His Majesty's grand design?" he muttered. "It defies all convention, yet... it actually holds so feasibility. What a pity."
With that, he stuffed the genuine edict into his robes and withdrew a forged decree that had been prepared well in advance, carefully placing it inside the wooden box. Outside, the commotion at the front gates was escalating rapidly. The thunderous booms of a battering ram echoed through the air.
"Madness. They have all gone mad." Having secured the box, the servant slipped out of the temple and retraced his steps to the periter of the estate.
"What is the situation?" the raiders asked, looking anxious.
The servant forced a wry smile. "The edict decrees that the Fifth Prince, Sigurd, is to inherit the throne. It seems our dramatic intervention was for nothing. But fear not—as long as you all keep your mouths shut, the Queen and the Palace Steward will definitely reward you."
At that exact mont, Pri Minister Gorm arrived at the Royal Manor with a retinue of over twenty guards. Barking orders at the defenders to open the gates, he marched into the estate under Hrolf's fiercely anxious gaze.
Five minutes later, Gorm erged from the manor, gripping a wooden box tightly in his hands. Hrolf imdiately lunged forward. "What does it say? Who inherits the throne?"
Gorm offered no response. With trendous difficulty, he clambered onto his horse. He had never been a skilled rider, but given the dire ergency, he simply gritted his teeth and spurred his mount into a frantic gallop back toward Londinium.
A flash of deep apprehension crossed Hrolf's eyes. "Follow him!"
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