Chapter 1.5: The Last Raid of Skjoldheim

  "Before the sea claimed them, before the storm tested them, they drew first blood upon the land."

  Scene 1: The Call to Blood

  The fjord lay still beneath the shroud of twilight, its waters dark as a wound yet to bleed. The Stormborn fleet rested in silence, their hulls tethered together like beasts in slumber. Beyond the cliffs, the wind sighed its cold breath through the skeletal branches of dead trees, whispering secrets only the old ones could hear.

  Above, the sky was an iron veil, the first stars peering down with a knowing gaze. They had seen this before. They would see it again.

  Within the center of the fleet, aboard the Stormbreaker, warriors gathered around the glow of a shield-formed brazier, their faces carved with shadow and fire. They sat upon overturned barrels, leaning against the ship’s ribs, sharpening blades that would soon taste warm flesh.

  Jarl Ulfric Frostborn stood before them, his stance as immovable as the mountains that had birthed their kind. A leader of men, a father of warriors, a king of a dying land.

  "Tomorrow, before the first breath of the sun, we take what is owed," Ulfric said, his voice steady as the earth beneath them. "We set fire to Skjoldheim’s bones and carve our names into its ash."

  The warriors struck their fists to their chests, a growl rising among them like the low rumble of a storm’s first murmur.

  "But it is not my hand that shall lead this raid," Ulfric continued, his frost-worn gaze falling upon his eldest son. "It is Ragnor’s."

  A silence settled among the men. Some nodded in approval. Others exchanged wary glances.

  Prince Ragnor stepped forward, his breath rising in the cold like mist curling from a hot blade. He had known this was coming.

  A test. A proving.

  A rite not of passage, but of dominion.

  Ragnor met his father’s gaze and inclined his head in solemn acknowledgment. "I will lead them. And I will bring them victory."

  The warriors shouted their approval, some striking the hafts of their axes against the deck. The rhythm of war. The song of their people.

  But not all voices joined the chorus.

  "A bold claim," came the smooth, deliberate tone of Sigurd.

  Ragnor did not need to turn to know his brother stood behind him. The shadow that had always walked at his back.

  Sigurd’s smile was barely visible in the dim light, but it was there. "And how will you do this, brother?" he asked, stepping closer. "By sparing your enemies as you did last winter? Or by fighting with honor against those who would gut you in your sleep?"

  The warriors chuckled lowly, some glancing between the two sons of Ulfric, eyes alight with the thrill of contest.

  "You doubt me, brother?" Ragnor asked, his voice even, yet carrying an edge beneath the words.

  Sigurd’s lips barely parted, his breath misting between them. "I do not doubt," he murmured. "I simply wait to see."

  Ulfric raised a hand, cutting the tension like an axe to kindling. "Enough," he commanded. "Tomorrow, there will be blood enough for both of you."

  The gathering dispersed, warriors returning to their blades, their thoughts, their quiet prayers to gods who had long since stopped listening.

  The wind shifted.

  A strange, slow exhale through the fjord, carrying a whisper too faint for the ear yet heavy upon the soul.

  One of the older warriors—Hrothulf the Grey, a man who had seen more winters than any of them—paused at the ship’s edge, fingers tightening over the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword.

  "The land knows we're coming," he muttered.

  His voice was low, almost lost beneath the crackling fire.

  But Ragnor heard it.

  And though he did not answer, he felt the weight of the words settle upon his shoulders.

  Scene 2: The Wolves Descend

  Dawn broke like a blade upon the land, cutting through the thick mist that clung to the fjord.

  The Stormborn moved as one, slipping through the stillness with the precision of wolves on the hunt. Their ships glided toward the shore, their oars silent, the sea lapping against their hulls in whispers. No horns sounded, no battle cries yet rose—the raid would begin in the cold hush of morning, where the enemy still dreamed of peace.

  Ragnor stood at the prow of the Stormbreaker, his eyes locked upon the village ahead. Skjoldheim was little more than a cluster of thatched-roof homes and timber halls, nestled between the cliffs and the frozen shore. Smoke still curled from dying hearths. A single dog barked in the distance, then fell silent.

  He inhaled sharply, the scent of brine and damp wood filling his lungs. This was his test. His first conquest as war leader.

  Beside him, Sigurd adjusted the grip on his axe, the faintest smirk playing at his lips. "No hesitation now, brother. Unless you mean to wake them gently?"

  Ragnor did not answer. He raised his hand—the signal.

  The warriors tensed.

  Then, with a swift downward motion, he dropped his hand.

  And hell came to Skjoldheim.

  The first wave of warriors surged onto the shore, boots sinking into the wet sand as they sprinted toward the village. Torches flared to life. Shadows moved between homes. Steel met wood.

  A single, piercing scream shattered the morning calm.

  Ragnor leapt from the prow, landing heavily upon the frozen earth. His sword came free in a single, smooth motion as he pressed forward, warriors spilling around him like a tide.

  A man stumbled from a hut, eyes wide with confusion—then fear—before a Stormborn axe split his chest. A woman shrieked as she fled toward the woods, only for another warrior to pull her down.

  Blood soaked the snow.

  The raiders moved like phantoms through the village, cutting down the few defenders who managed to reach their weapons. Some fought back—old men with rusted swords, younger ones with shaking hands gripping spears.

  None lasted long.

  Ragnor met his first opponent just outside the longhouse.

  A village elder, clad in furs, his hair white as the frost, stood defiantly with a long hunting knife. His breath curled into the morning air, his hands steady despite the chaos.

  "You are the eldest son of Ulfric," the man said, not as a question, but as a knowing statement.

  Ragnor did not answer.

  The elder exhaled, lowering his knife slightly. "A king of ghosts," he murmured. "Leading men to their graves."

  Ragnor’s grip tightened upon his sword, but before he could speak, a blade flashed past his shoulder.

  Sigurd.

  The old man’s throat parted in a spray of red before his body even realized it had been struck. He crumpled, the knife slipping from his fingers.

  Sigurd wiped his blade on the dead man’s cloak. "You hesitate, brother. That will kill you before the enemy ever does."

  Ragnor did not respond.

  The village burned.

  The warriors dragged the last of the prisoners from their homes, forcing them into a huddled mass near the center of the village. Men, women, and children—some sobbing, others silent, their eyes already empty.

  Ulfric approached, surveying the destruction with a cool gaze.

  "Take what we need," he commanded. "Food, iron, timber. The rest burns."

  The warriors set to work. Some looted the homes, others herded the prisoners toward the waiting ships. A few still lingered, dragging blades across throats, taking their fill before the fires claimed the bodies.

  Ragnor turned away.

  The raid was over.

  But the land remained silent.

  And that silence was louder than war.

  Scene 3: The Woman in the Ruins

  The fires of Skjoldheim still smoldered, their embers carried by the rising wind. The distant wails of the dying had faded into the whispers of the trees, swallowed by the land itself.

  But something else lingered here. Something older than the ruins, older than the Stormborn who now claimed the ashes as their own.

  Ragnor felt it before he saw it.

  It was a presence—a watching thing, patient and unmoving, as if it had been here long before the raid and would remain long after they were gone.

  He moved toward the western ridge, where the land sloped into a forgotten glade. Among the crumbled remnants of an old shrine, veiled in frost and ivy, stood a woman.

  She did not run. She did not cry.

  She waited.

  Ragnor stepped forward, gripping the hilt of his sword. His warriors flanked him, blades drawn.

  Her hair was red as a dying sun, spilling over her shoulders in unbound waves. Her skin was pale, her sharp, golden eyes unblinking, locked onto his own as if she could see past flesh and into the marrow of his soul.

  She was neither afraid nor defiant.

  She simply watched.

  Sigurd’s voice came low beside him. “This is no villager.”

  One of the warriors stepped forward, raising his axe. “Shall I cut her down, my lord?”

  The woman did not move.

  The axe came down—

  And stopped.

  Steel met air.

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  The warrior staggered back, eyes wide, the axe slipping from his fingers. His face had drained of color, as if he had struck something that did not belong to this world.

  A mutter rose among the men. “She is a witch.”

  Ragnor narrowed his gaze. “Who are you?”

  The woman tilted her head slightly. Then, in a voice soft yet clear, she spoke.

  "I was waiting for you."

  A chill ran through Ragnor’s spine, though he did not let it show.

  Ulfric’s voice rang out from behind them. “Take her.”

  The warriors hesitated.

  Ragnor looked to his father. “Why?”

  Ulfric’s expression was unreadable. “Because the gods are silent, and the old ways no longer hold. But omens still speak.” He nodded toward the woman. “And this one speaks with her presence alone.”

  The warriors bound her hands, but she did not resist. She merely smiled, though the expression did not touch her eyes.

  Ragnor did not like it.

  But he said nothing as they took her down to the ships.

  The flames of Skjoldheim burned behind them.

  And for the first time since the raid began, the wind howled.

  Scene 4: Blood on the Sand

  The tide had begun its slow crawl back onto the shore, washing away the blood and footprints left behind in the battle’s wake. The Stormborn warriors moved between the wreckage of Skjoldheim, gathering supplies, securing the prisoners, and stacking the bodies of the fallen. Smoke still rose in twisting fingers toward the gray sky, the scent of burning thatch mixing with the salt wind.

  Ragnor stood alone at the edge of the sea, watching the crimson foam that lapped at his boots. It was always this way after battle—the silence.

  It was never the screams of the dying that lingered.

  It was the stillness that came after.

  Boots crunched over damp sand.

  Ragnor did not need to turn to know who approached.

  “That was poorly done,” Sigurd’s voice came smooth, yet edged with something close to amusement.

  Ragnor did not answer.

  Sigurd stepped beside him, tilting his head as if surveying his brother’s work. “You let too many live.”

  Ragnor exhaled sharply, eyes locked on the horizon. “And yet, we have what we came for. Food, iron, timber.”

  “And prisoners.”

  Ragnor finally turned, his gaze cold. “Some are worth more alive than dead.”

  Sigurd smiled, slow and knowing. “That is what Father says when he thinks the gods do not listen.”

  The words slithered between them, curling into the air like the smoke that still rose from the village.

  Ragnor’s grip tightened over the hilt of his sword. “You doubt my choices?”

  Sigurd’s smile did not falter. “I do not doubt, brother.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I simply see further than you.”

  Ragnor narrowed his gaze. “Then tell me, brother—what do you see?”

  Sigurd exhaled, casting a glance toward the prisoners being led to the boats. “I see a war leader who questions his own strength. I see warriors who begin to wonder if the gods have truly chosen him. I see a fleet that sails toward an uncertain future, and a brother who still does not understand the nature of power.”

  Ragnor clenched his jaw, unmoving.

  Sigurd let the silence stretch, then chuckled softly. “I wonder… how far you will make it before the sea swallows you whole?”

  Ragnor turned fully now, stepping closer until they were nearly nose to nose. “If you wish to challenge me, then do it.”

  Sigurd’s smirk remained, but something colder flickered behind his eyes.

  “Oh, I do not need to challenge you, Ragnor.”

  His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it held the weight of something deeper, something unseen.

  “The sea will do it for me.”

  He left Ragnor standing there, the wind pulling at his furs, the tide licking at the shore.

  For a long moment, Ragnor did not move.

  Then, without a word, he turned back toward the waiting ships.

  The storm had not yet come.

  But its shadow was already cast.

  Scene 5: The Sea Takes Its Own

  The Stormborn fleet loomed against the breaking dawn, their hulls dark and heavy upon the tide, warriors moving in shadowed figures across their decks. The longships rocked with the pull of the current, their dragon-prowed keels facing outward as if already eager to be free of the land.

  The air was thick with smoke and salt, blood and silence.

  Ragnor walked among the warriors, ensuring their spoils had been secured—barrels of salted fish, sacks of grain, iron from the village smith, axes and spears pried from the dead hands of Skjoldheim’s warriors. The prisoners had been divided—some to serve as laborers for the fleet, others as offerings to the gods before departure.

  And yet, the air felt wrong.

  The wind carried a sharp, unnatural weight, as if the very land resented their presence.

  Then came the scream.

  A warrior collapsed on the shore, his body convulsing violently, his eyes rolling back into his skull. His mouth opened in a silent, gaping horror before a sound like the wind howling through dead trees poured from his lips.

  The Stormborn froze.

  The man’s body arched unnaturally, his spine bending as if something unseen gripped him from within. A choking gasp rattled from his throat, and then, in a voice that was not his own, he spoke:

  "The sea has seen you."

  The words were whispered, yet they cut through the air like steel.

  "It waits."

  A murmur rippled through the warriors. Some reached for their weapons, others stepped back, their expressions carved from unease.

  Ragnor rushed forward, gripping the man’s shoulders. “What do you see?”

  The warrior’s eyes snapped toward Ragnor—but they were no longer his eyes.

  They were black. Deep as the abyss. Reflecting nothing.

  And then, in a voice that belonged to no man, he spoke one final time:

  "It will take you, son of Ulfric."

  Then, as if the strings holding him upright had been severed, his body collapsed.

  Dead.

  Silence descended upon the shore, heavier than any battle cry.

  Ulfric stepped forward, his face carved from stone. “Burn him.”

  The warriors hesitated only a moment before dragging the corpse away.

  Ragnor remained still, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His pulse thundered in his ears. What had he just witnessed? A sickness? A curse? A warning?

  A hand brushed his shoulder.

  He turned sharply, finding himself face to face with Eira.

  She had not spoken since she was taken from the ruins.

  But now, she whispered softly—too softly for any but him to hear.

  "The sea knows your name, Stormborn."

  Ragnor stared at her.

  And for the first time in his life, he felt truly hunted.

  Scene 6: Aboard the Stormbreaker

  The Stormborn fleet drifted upon the dark waters, bound together like a floating war camp.

  The longships, lashed by thick ropes, formed a tight crescent, their dragon-prowed keels rocking with the steady rhythm of the tide. Torches flickered along their decks, the only beacons in the vast, endless night.

  Above them, the sky remained silent. A heavy blanket of stars stretched from one horizon to the other, the moon watching like a cold, indifferent god.

  The warriors moved through their ships, some settling into furs, others sharpening their weapons by the dim torchlight. They spoke in low murmurs, the tension from the raid still lingering in their bones.

  Ragnor stood at the stern of the Stormbreaker, his eyes scanning the gathered fleet. Each ship carried twenty to thirty men, their oars stacked neatly along the gunwales. The larger warships, like his father’s Icefang, carried the chieftains and their most seasoned warriors.

  Sigurd’s ship—The Black Wolf—rested further back in the formation, just within reach but always distant. Like its master.

  This was their world now. The sea. The sky. The silence.

  A warrior approached, his boots thudding against the damp deck. Bjorn the Silent, one of Ragnor’s most trusted men, placed a hand on the railing.

  “The men are restless,” he said.

  Ragnor nodded. “They always are before a long voyage.”

  Bjorn hesitated. “It’s not just the voyage.” His voice was low. “They saw what happened on the shore. The black-eyed man. The words he spoke.”

  Ragnor exhaled slowly. “Do you believe in omens, Bjorn?”

  Bjorn was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I believe in what I see.”

  And that was the truth of it.

  Ragnor looked across the water. Fires burned low. The warriors spoke in hushed tones. But he could see it in their faces—the weight of something unseen pressing against them.

  Behind him, footsteps creaked along the deck.

  Ulfric.

  His father came to stand beside him, arms folded, his gaze sweeping the sea.

  “They whisper,” Ulfric said.

  Ragnor clenched his jaw. “They fear what they do not understand.”

  Ulfric nodded. “As they always have. As they always will.”

  Silence stretched between them. The only sound was the lapping of waves against the hulls.

  Then, Ulfric spoke again. “We set sail at dawn. If the gods watch, they will judge us then.”

  With that, he turned and strode away, disappearing into the shadows of the ship.

  Ragnor remained, his fingers tapping against the worn wood of the railing. He exhaled sharply, willing himself to shake off the weight pressing against his thoughts.

  Below deck, Eira remained bound.

  She had not spoken since the shore.

  But Ragnor could feel her watching.

  Somewhere in the darkness, the sea whispered.

  Scene 7: Sigurd Moves in the Dark

  The night stretched long upon the sea.

  The warriors of the Stormborn fleet lay scattered across their decks, some curled in their furs, others sharpening blades or whispering of the coming war. The longships rocked in unison, bound together by thick ropes, drifting upon the dark tide like a slumbering beast.

  But not all men slept.

  Sigurd moved through the fleet like a shadow, his boots silent upon the wet planks, his cloak drawn against the cold. The Black Wolf prowled among its pack.

  He stopped at the stern of a smaller warship, leaning against the railing where a group of warriors huddled, voices low.

  They did not see him at first.

  Not until he spoke.

  "You fear the sea."

  The men startled, one reaching for his knife. But when they saw who stood before them, they hesitated.

  "You saw what happened on the shore," Sigurd continued, his voice smooth as oil over steel. "You heard what the dead man said."

  One of the warriors, a broad-shouldered raider named Hakon, gritted his teeth. "It was madness. A sickness."

  Sigurd smiled. "Was it?"

  Silence.

  The men glanced at one another, waiting for someone to break the quiet.

  Sigurd stepped forward, lowering his voice. "You saw it with your own eyes. The gods have turned from us. The sea has claimed our fate. And yet we follow a man who cannot see the storm gathering before him."

  Hakon shifted, uncomfortable. "Ragnor is our war leader."

  "For now."

  The words slithered into the night, wrapping around the men like a creeping mist.

  Another warrior, younger and leaner, Eirik the Sharp, narrowed his eyes. "You say this as if it will change."

  Sigurd smirked.

  "I say only what is already true." He looked to each of them in turn. "The sea does not love fools. And neither do warriors."

  He did not wait for an answer.

  He turned and disappeared into the dark, moving toward another ship, another whisper, another thread of doubt to weave into something greater.

  By dawn, the first seeds of poison would have taken root.

  And when the storm came, it would be Ragnor who stood alone.

  Scene 8: A Warning from the Waves

  The ship rocked gently beneath him, a slow rhythm that matched the distant pulse of the tide. Ragnor could not sleep.

  The whispers of the fleet carried through the night—warriors murmuring of omens, of the black-eyed man, of the curse that lingered over them like a waiting storm. He could feel it, too. A weight, a presence in the air that had not been there before.

  And then there was her.

  Eira.

  Bound below deck, kept in the shadows beneath the wooden ribs of the Stormbreaker.

  Ragnor descended the steps into the hold, the torch in his hand casting flickering light against the damp walls. The scent of salt and aged timber clung to the space, mixing with the faint, metallic tang of blood.

  She was waiting.

  Still bound, still silent, still watching.

  The firelight caught the sharp angles of her face, the way her golden eyes reflected the glow as if they held embers of their own.

  "You do not sleep," she said softly.

  Ragnor exhaled, stepping closer, the flickering flame painting shadows across his features. "Neither do you."

  She tilted her head slightly. "I have no need for it."

  Ragnor frowned but did not press the point. He studied her for a long moment, searching her face for something—an answer, a sign, a weakness. But she was unreadable, as still as the deep sea.

  "What are you?" he asked at last.

  Eira’s gaze did not waver. "A messenger."

  "For whom?"

  A small, knowing smile. "Not for your gods."

  The words sent a cold thread of unease through him, though he refused to show it. He stepped closer, the torch casting a golden halo against the wood. "Then for whom?"

  Eira inhaled deeply, as if drinking in the air itself. Then, in a voice softer than a whisper but sharper than a blade, she spoke.

  "The sea knows your name, Stormborn."

  Ragnor’s grip tightened over the hilt of his sword. "You said that before."

  Eira’s expression did not change. "Because it is true."

  Silence stretched between them, heavy and cold.

  Then she leaned forward slightly, her eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight.

  "It will take you, as it has taken others."

  Ragnor felt something stir deep in his chest—a flicker of something foreign, something he did not like.

  Doubt.

  He stepped back, letting the shadows swallow her once more.

  He did not know if it was the flickering of the torchlight or something else entirely, but as he turned to leave, he could have sworn he saw her smile.

  Scene 9: The Wind Calls the Storm

  The night stretched long over the sea. Still, dark, waiting.

  The Stormborn fleet drifted in silence, their ships bound together by thick ropes, warriors asleep beneath the sky’s cold gaze. The only sounds were the rhythmic creaking of wood, the occasional murmur of restless men, and the distant call of a lone seabird—a hollow sound against the endless water.

  Ragnor did not sleep.

  He stood at the bow of the Stormbreaker, hands gripping the carved railing, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The unease sat heavy upon him.

  The sea was too calm.

  The air was too still.

  The wind had shifted.

  Behind him, Bjorn the Silent approached, his presence a steady weight at Ragnor’s side.

  “You feel it too,” Bjorn muttered.

  Ragnor exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. “A storm is coming.”

  Bjorn nodded. “But not of the skies.”

  Ragnor said nothing, only continued to watch.

  Then, far beyond the edge of sight, the water rippled.

  A single pulse.

  A disturbance.

  Bjorn tensed beside him, his fingers curling over the haft of his axe. “Did you see that?”

  Ragnor did not answer.

  Another ripple.

  Another breath of wind, colder than before.

  And then, the ropes binding the fleet trembled.

  A slow creaking of wood. A whisper of movement beneath the hulls.

  Somewhere among the ships, a warrior stirred from sleep, looking toward the water with heavy-lidded eyes. Others muttered in their slumber, tossing, turning, their dreams restless.

  The wind carried something beneath its breath.

  A wordless murmur. A presence felt but unseen.

  Then Ulfric’s voice rang across the fleet, low and certain.

  "We have already been seen."

  Ragnor clenched his jaw.

  He could not say how he knew, but in that moment, he understood—

  They were not alone on this sea.

  And whatever waited in the depths was already watching.