The year is 1067. The year after the bloody coronation of William the Bastard as King of England. The cross now flies where the banners of pagan kings once flew. The old temples have fallen, the sacred groves have been cut down, and in their place cathedrals of stone and letters are rising. Christians do not rule by the sword alone, they rule by what comes after war: order, law, and the book.
While other gods are silent, the Christian God still speaks. In homilies, charters, and the seals of kings. His presence is not thunderous, it is inevitable. Priests are not warriors, yet they march alongside the army. Their weapons are words—thoughtful and carefully written. One curse from the mouth of a bishop is more powerful than a thousand swords.
The goal is not just faith – it is unification. The world must unite under one heavenly king and his representative on earth. The church interferes in inheritance, in coronations, in life and death. A king without a blessing is just a man with a crown. A crown without a cross is just gold. But a crown with a cross is law. God is written into every document, every treaty, every war.
The knight of the 11th century is not just a warrior. He is a defender of the faith. When the Normans roll through England, they do not believe they are merely conquering the land—they believe they are redeeming the world. They cleanse away the pagan filth, eradicate heresy, correct the erring. Every vanquished is either converted or dead. Every new church built on the ashes of the old is proof of victory.
The Inquisition is not yet named. The stakes are not yet burning. But names are already being written down today. It is being watched who does not go to mass, who worships trees, who whispers the names of the old gods. Christians are not afraid of enemies from without. They are afraid of those who doubt within. That is why they remember. They wait. And when the time comes, the judgments will come.
On the surface, everything is pure – white robes, marble altars, the singing of Latin psalms. But underneath, the same blood flows, the same desire for power. Christians are not one nation, but they share one faith – and that makes them a system. They are not just enemies, they are a structure that cannot be defeated with a spear. And once the world rises against them, they do not break. They just fall silent. And then they strike – because they believe that victory has already been won. The world just has not understood it yet.
The year is 1067. On the edge of icy wind and gloom, where the sun only lazily skims the horizon, the North awakens again. Its breath is sharp as an axe. Its will hard as a rock. While the world tries to forget, the Northmen – the sons of Odin – remember. Every humiliation. Every betrayal. Every drop of blood that has fallen on foreign soil.
They have been silent for a long time. Calmed by trade, softened by the faith that foreigners have forced upon them. But in the darkness of the fjords and in the smoke of the hall fires, an old name is whispered: Harald. And with it comes the whisper of something much older.
Viking is not a nation – it is a memory. It is a way of life. Hands calloused, eyes accustomed to the dark, mouths that know the taste of salt and the flesh of battle. In every man born beyond the Arctic Circle, there is a wolf. And a wolf does not forget hunger.
Dragonships are being built again. Armories are being filled again. Shields are being made again, their colors visible from afar – not for protection, but so the enemy can know who is coming. The storm is coming.
In the temples of Odin, dusted and filled again, the wood creaks under the weight of sacrifices. Men and women return to the gods that Christendom has called folly. But what is the use of prayer that does not lead to the sword?
Not a god, but a whisper in the heads of the jarls who remember glory. It tells them: “England is weak. Pride is tearing France apart. And Rome? Just a golden cage for the flocks.” These words are not a command. They are a torch. And the men of the North are dry moss that has waited for a spark for years.
The first ships are already standing on the northern cliffs. The same fire burns in their eyes as in the time of Ragnar. And though many of their fathers have succumbed to the temptations of peace, the sons do not want peace. They want blood. They want England. They want their glory back.
Wealth is only a consequence. Faith has always been a cover. Honor, heritage and one nation. Because being a Viking is not about where you go, but what burns behind you.
And so, while crosses, sickles, and crescents shake Europe, the North takes a breath again. It does not ask permission. It does not make offers. It simply sets out—sword in hand, shield on back, and death-song in throat.
They strike like a tide. Not as a message, but as revenge. Every blow of the axe is a cry of memory. Every conquest is a claim to a past that was stolen.
The world will feel the breath of the north again. Not in chronicles, not in myths – but in deeds. The longships will set out, and with them the anger that has been suppressed for too long.
For whatever the world may think – the dragon has spread its wings again. And when the shadow of those wings descends on the shores of England, they will know that memory does not kill – memory attacks.
The year is 1067. While the north burns with vengeance and the Christian West tightens its bonds with iron and fire, a hot wind blows from the south – quiet but full of power.
It is the breath of the desert, bringing the words of Allah and the shadows of horsemen who know death better than their brothers. They call them Saracens. But they themselves call themselves believers. Servants of the merciful God and, if necessary, his sword.
Amid the burning cities and silent deserts, the same flame burns as in the north – only it is not fed by fire, but by the word. The Saracen faith is not bloodthirsty, but it does not forgive. Every step is guided by Sharia. Every decision – subordinated to the will of God. There is no room for schism. You are either a believer or an enemy. And against an enemy, everything is permitted.
The Grand Vizier’s gaze is cold, his smile gentle, but his heart belongs to the whole world. His vision is not limited by borders – it reaches across the sea, across the mountains, across the empire. Islam is faith and state. Faith and law. And he is its voice.
The Saracens are not barbarians, as the Franks believe. They are scholars. Physicians. Mathematicians. Cities like Cairo, Cordoba, and Baghdad shine with science despite a Europe plunged into darkness. But beneath the glitter of calligraphy lies a sword.
A sword curved like the moon that they carry on their banners. A sword that dances in the hands of riders swifter than a shadow. And each of them fights with the certainty that death is victory if it comes on the path of faith.
The Saracen world is not an empire in the ordinary sense of the word. It is a stream – like the Nile or the Euphrates. It changes shape but never direction. Even though the Crusaders have not yet come, even though Constantinople still holds the keys to Anatolia, in the heart of every man who prays to the south the flame of a future reckoning burns.
When the time comes, Allah will summon his faithful. And they will come – not for wealth, but for justice. And they will not depart until it is fulfilled.
While Europeans wage wars for crowns, Saracens fight for the soul of the world. Their battles are not just about land – they are about truth. For them, every victory is a confirmation of faith.
And every defeat is a test. In their mosques they hear the voice of God, who knows no silence. And his word is as sharp as their blade – direct and unwavering.
The Saracen ships are inconspicuous. Their feet are silent. But where they set foot, the rhythm of the world changes. Cities adapt. Cultures adopt their calendar. And enemies become subjects or martyrs.
And so, while the North promises destruction and the Christians build thrones, the Saracens wait. Not in ignorance—but in patience. Because they believe that victory is not a question of strength. It is a question of time. And they have all the time in the world.
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