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That night, Leofric did something his father would have called madness. He rode west—not to the remaining Saxon lords, who would squabble for command, but to a hill fort held by a rival Dane, Torf-Einar, a man Skarth had exiled for refusing to sacrifice Christians.

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“We cannot fight them head to head,” Leofric said, rising. “Not yet. But a war is not one battle. A war is harvests burned, loyalties turned, and kings who die alone in the dark.” That night, Leofric did something his father would

Leofric looked east. Through the haze, he saw them: a hundred Viking long-bearded warriors dragging timbers, and at their head, a man taller than any other—Jarl Skarth, called “the Boneless” for the way he could twist through a shield-wall, not from any weakness. Skarth had already claimed three kingdoms. Now he stared at Wessex, the last ember of English rule. “Not yet