The winter roads bled mud beneath the hooves of Eadric's riders as they moved west — banners snapping in the cold wind, the dragon of East Anglia bright against the gray sky.
Behind him, the host stretched for miles: hardened thegns, Frankish lancers, and local fyrdsmen who had answered their king's call. None spoke of peace, yet all knew he rode to prevent a war.
Sarum stood at the edge of Wessex's heart — an ancient fortress of stone and prayer, now garrisoned by Edward's wary men. Beyond it, Winchester still smoldered, and the death of the prince hung over every campfire tale like a curse.
Eadric rode at the vanguard, his queen's token — a silver brooch once Alfred's — pinned at his cloak. His thoughts were heavy with the words Æthelswith had whispered before he left:
"He is your brother by oath and blood. But pride blinds men faster than swords ever can."
He had sworn to prove her wrong — to keep England from breaking under the weight of vengeance and lies. Yet each mile west made that promise heavier.
At dusk, he halted on a rise overlooking the Salisbury plain. Scouts returned with tidings: Edward's army waited in the valley beyond, their campfires like stars fallen to earth. The banners of Wessex fluttered beside the sigil of Mercia — a show of strength and warning both.
Eadric turned to his captains.
"Let it not be said East Anglia sought this war," he said. "We march to speak first — and strike only if England leaves us no choice."
Sir Cuthred, his banner-knight, spat into the dirt. "If he'll listen, my king. Wessex has long ears for slander, but none for reason."
Eadric's eyes hardened. "Then I'll make reason louder than lies."
That night, he sent a herald beneath a white banner to Edward's lines, bearing a message sealed with his royal crest:
"From Eadric, King of East Anglia, brother in oath and faith — I come to Sarum not as foe, but as friend betrayed by deceit. Let us meet in truth before the blood of England feeds the crows."
The messenger rode into the dark, his torch flickering against the mist.
In the distance, horns answered — not in greeting, but in warning.
Eadric watched the lights of Edward's camp glimmer like a wall of fire across the valley. His hand rested on his sword, but his heart beat to another rhythm: the last fragile hope that words could still save what steel would soon destroy.