"Whither fled Ivar the Boneless?"
It was a question that crawled through the foggy moors and dimly lit taverns of Northumbria like a shadow. It was a terrifying whisper exchanged between nervous farmers huddled around crackling hearths, and a frantic murmur echoing through the grand halls of English lords.
Three long years...
For three entire years, the lands of England had not seen a single trace of Ivar the Boneless.
Some folks confidently claimed that Ivar had finally succumbed to his cursed, brittle bones, dying a quiet and pathetic death in a distant land. Others swore they heard a tale from a drunken, one-eyed sailor that Ivar had been betrayed by his own men, his twisted body thrown into a muddy river to rot.
For a brief, naive moment, the people of Northumbria had almost started to feel safe...
