Sihtric was ever loyal, a man of duty and honour. When Uhtred told him to ride north, he did not question it. He left without complaint, knowing his task, and did not return for many weeks. When at last he came back, he brought news that lifted their spirits. Fortune had favoured them, and Uhtred, pleased, at once began to plot his next move. But Sihtric, his task done, thought only of rest—at least for a day or two, if the gods allowed it.

The journey had been long, but the weight of it rolled from him like the sea spray that had lashed him on his way home. He looked different. His half-shaven hair was stark, drawing the eye to the sharp lines of his face, and where bare skin met dark curls, a single lock had been tied with silver. He still carried the scent of salt, but he was not worn down by the voyage. No, he looked sharp, almost polished, as if the hardship had only refined him.

He walked through the gates of Coccham with steady steps, each movement careful, precise—a man who knew his worth. He had spoken to Uhtred, given his report, but now his mind was elsewhere. Sihtric had never been one for many words; his loyalty and his deeds spoke for him. His keen eyes swept the hall, searching.

Then, he saw them. Their eyes met. A flicker of knowing passed between them, quiet but certain. He dipped his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

The hall was warm, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and ale. Men laughed, voices rough with drink, but Sihtric paid them no mind. His gaze stayed fixed, locked onto the one who had held his thoughts for much of the journey.

They stood near the hearth, firelight dancing over their face, casting shadows that only sharpened their features. There was no grand greeting, no rush of words. That was not their way. Instead, there was a long moment of silence, a quiet understanding as he made his approach.

“I have returned,” he said simply.