Ragnar had breached Vingulmark with almost insulting ease.
The gates hung open like broken jaws, Grjötgard's bloodied handiwork still smoking from the violence. Arrows protruded from the giant warrior's arms and shoulder, yet he stood tall beside Ragnar's horse as if the wounds were mere scratches. The courtyard beyond was already littered with the dead—bodies riddled with fresh arrows, limbs scattered where Grjötgard had carved his path. What little resistance remained had evaporated the instant Ragnar rode through the archway.
Every soldier, every Viking defender still breathing, froze in place. No one raised a shield. No one lifted a sword. They simply stared, wide-eyed, as the King of Vestfold advanced at a slow, deliberate walk on his horse. The air itself seemed to thicken with fear.
