Chapter 2: The Oath of Blood and Ice

  "The hammer of the gods will drive our ships to new lands..."

  Scene 1: The Blood Oath of the Stormborn

  The Endless Sea stretched before them, black as a god’s forgotten dream.

  The Stormborn fleet sailed beneath a sky shrouded in storm, its clouds moving like restless titans, shifting in slow, deliberate waves. The wind cut through the frozen night, whispering through the taut sails, pulling at the longships like unseen hands. The water below churned—not with tide or storm alone, but with something deeper, something watching.

  On the Stormbreaker, the largest of the longships, Prince Ragnor stood upon the prow. His gaze swept over the fleet—thirty ships strong, bristling with warriors hungry for battle, their armor catching the pale light of the full moon. This was no mere voyage. This was destiny written in steel and fire.

  The gods would see them now.

  A great drum pounded, slow and deliberate, marking the hour. It was time.

  The warriors gathered on the deck, their boots heavy against the frozen wood, their breaths curling into the air like the last embers of a dying fire. The Blood Oath had been spoken before every great war, every great conquest, since the dawn of their ancestors.

  Now, it would be spoken again.

  Ragnor unsheathed his blade—Vindsarga, the Storm’s Fang. The steel gleamed in the moonlight, sharp enough to carve fate itself.

  "Brothers. Sisters." His voice rose over the wind, steady, unyielding. "We have left our homeland behind. We do not return."

  A murmur swept through the warriors, a solemn acknowledgment of what had been left behind—their families, their homes, the frozen halls of Skjoldheim.

  Ragnor raised his blade. "We sail not for land, but for legend. We do not beg the gods for favor—we take what is ours. The rivers of Albion will run red before we are done."

  The warriors slammed their fists against their chests, a low growl of approval rising in their throats.

  Beside him, Jarl Ulfric Frostborn stood like a mountain, his presence a silent storm. He extended his hand—bare against the cold—and Ragnor raised the blade, dragging the sharp edge across his father’s palm.

  Blood welled.

  It dripped onto the steel of Vindsarga, red against silver.

  The Jarl gripped his axe, smearing the blood across its blade. "The gods have turned their backs on us," Ulfric rumbled. "So we carve our own path."

  One by one, the warriors stepped forward, baring their hands, drawing their own steel, marking their palms with the crimson of an oath that could not be broken. Blood stained the deck, dark and thick, carried away by the sea’s hungry tide.

  Sigurd watched from the edge of the gathering, his expression unreadable. His blade was drawn, but his hand remained unmarked.

  Ragnor turned toward him, his voice an unspoken challenge. "Will you bleed, brother?"

  Sigurd’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile. Without hesitation, he pressed his palm to his dagger’s edge, his blood falling in slow, deliberate drops onto the wood.

  "The blood of kings spills the same as any other," he murmured.

  The ritual was complete.

  The warriors raised their weapons, steel gleaming under the watching eye of the moon.

  "We swear upon the storm!"

  Their voices rose together, a war cry that shook the heavens.

  "We swear upon the sea!"

  The waves answered, rising and falling in time with their words.

  "We swear upon our blades!"

  The wind howled, wrapping around them like unseen hands, pulling at their cloaks, twisting through their hair.

  And then—silence.

  The sea, which had never been still, ceased its movement.

  The wind, which had roared, fell to nothing.

  It was as if the world itself had drawn breath, waiting, listening.

  Then, in the far distance, lightning split the sky.

  Not above them.

  Not behind them.

  Ahead.

  Ragnor’s fingers tightened around his blade. His warriors had sworn their oaths. Their fates were bound in blood and steel.

  And something in the storm had heard them.

  Scene 2: The Challenge of Gunnar the Red

  The sea stretched wide and black around them, endless, merciless. The wind had returned, howling through the fleet’s sails, driving them toward the unseen shores of Albion. Waves crashed against the hulls of their ships, spraying cold mist into the night. The warriors of the Stormborn fleet had settled into their routines—tending to weapons, checking provisions, whispering in hushed voices about what awaited them across the sea.

  But beneath the steady rhythm of the voyage, the seeds of doubt had begun to take root.

  It was Sigurd who had planted them.

  He moved through the fleet like a shadow, speaking in low, measured tones, his words subtle as a serpent's tongue. He never accused Ragnor outright, never raised a sword against him. But he did not have to.

  Others would.

  "The gods did not answer our oath," he had murmured to the right men, the ones already uneasy. "Perhaps they saw a weakness we did not."

  And now, one of them had come forward.

  Gunnar the Red.

  He was a giant of a man, broad-shouldered and scarred from battles long past. His hair, wild and knotted, burned like fire in the torchlight. The wolf’s pelt draped across his shoulders marked him as one of the Black Wolf’s chosen, a warrior who had been watching Ragnor closely since they set sail.

  And now, he had seen enough.

  The warriors gathered on the deck of the Stormbreaker, their boots heavy against the wood, their faces carved with expectation. The drums had fallen silent, and the night air hummed with tension.

  Gunnar stepped forward, his axe resting against his shoulder, his expression locked in quiet challenge.

  "Stormborn," he called, his voice like a boulder rolling through the dark. "A wolf does not follow a cub into battle."

  A murmur spread through the warriors—a spark waiting to catch fire.

  Ragnor, standing at the center of the deck, did not move. His fingers curled against the hilt of Vindsarga, the Storm’s Fang.

  "You question my right to lead?"

  Gunnar’s grin was slow, deliberate. "I do not question it. I deny it."

  The murmur became a roar.

  Ragnor stepped forward, his gaze locked on Gunnar, the cold steel in his veins keeping his voice calm. "Then you know what must happen."

  Gunnar nodded.

  He did not hesitate.

  The Black Wolf demanded blood, and he would spill it.

  A ring formed around them, warriors shifting back, their eyes gleaming in the firelight. The duel had been declared—a trial by combat before the gods, before their ancestors, before the sea itself.

  Gunnar dropped his cloak, baring arms thick as iron, his muscles rippling with the strength of a man who had spent a lifetime breaking lesser warriors in half.

  He grinned. "I will kill you quickly, Ragnor. It is only right that you die before you lead us to ruin."

  Ragnor did not answer.

  He drew Vindsarga, the blade gleaming in the moonlight. The hunger of steel filled the air.

  And then—the fight began.

  Gunnar lunged.

  It was like a boulder crashing down a mountain, sudden and violent. His axe came down, a stroke meant to cleave Ragnor in two.

  Ragnor sidestepped, the wind rushing past his face as the axe splintered wood where he had just stood.

  The warriors cheered, calling for blood.

  Gunnar turned, his speed unnatural for a man his size, and swung again. Ragnor barely brought up his sword in time to catch the blow. The impact rattled his bones, the force of it nearly sending him to his knees.

  Gunnar grinned. "You are quick, little prince. But not quick enough."

  Ragnor felt the shift in the fight.

  Gunnar was stronger.

  Gunnar was faster than he should have been.

  The whispers of the Black Wolf coiled through his mind, and Ragnor knew: this was no ordinary warrior.

  But he did not need to be stronger.

  He only needed to be smarter.

  The next strike came, and this time, Ragnor moved with it—not against it. Instead of blocking the axe, he let it swing wide, twisting his body in a fluid motion, stepping inside Gunnar’s guard.

  For the first time, Gunnar’s eyes widened in surprise.

  Ragnor drove his knee up—hard—into Gunnar’s ribs. The impact sent a crack through the air, and Gunnar stumbled back, coughing blood.

  The crowd roared.

  Gunnar snarled, wiping his mouth. His eyes burned—with fury, with pain.

  And something else.

  Fear.

  Ragnor pressed forward. He could not stop now.

  He feinted left—Gunnar took the bait, swinging his axe to block a blow that never came.

  Ragnor spun, his blade slicing low and fast, cutting through flesh.

  Gunnar dropped to one knee.

  The warriors screamed, the smell of blood thick in the air.

  Ragnor drove his sword forward, burying it deep into Gunnar’s chest.

  The great warrior stilled. His breath came in ragged gasps, his blood soaking into the wood beneath him.

  And then, as the last of his life drained from his eyes, he whispered:

  "The sea is coming for you, Ragnor."

  His fingers twitched.

  His lips curled into a faint, knowing smile.

  "It will take you… as it took me."

  Ragnor ripped the blade free.

  Gunnar fell.

  The warriors were silent.

  And then—they roared.

  They pounded their shields, their voices rising to the storm, crying out in triumph.

  Ragnor had won.

  But as he wiped the blood from his blade, his chest tightened.

  Gunnar had been stronger. Faster. Unnatural.

  And his last words…

  They did not feel like a warning.

  They felt like a prophecy.

  Scene 3: The Witch Among Them

  The air below deck was thick—thick with sweat, thick with the smell of damp wood and salt, thick with the weight of unspoken things.

  Lanterns flickered against the beams, their flames swaying with the ship’s slow, ceaseless movement. Shadows danced in the corners, shifting unnaturally, cast long by the light yet seeming to move of their own accord.

  Here, in the deep belly of the Stormbreaker, the prisoners were kept.

  And among them, Eira watched.

  She sat against the wall, her hands bound in iron, but there was no fear in her golden eyes. They gleamed like embers in the dim light, reflecting the flickering lanterns, reflecting something deeper, something unseen.

  She did not speak. She did not need to.

  She had already been heard.

  The others—the broken men huddled against the ship’s ribs, the warriors once of Skjoldheim now reduced to captives—they would not meet her gaze. They whispered among themselves, muttering prayers to gods who no longer listened.

  Because Eira was not like them.

  And they knew it.

  Heavy boots struck the wooden planks above. A door groaned open.

  She did not need to look up to know who had come for her.

  The Prince of the Stormborn stepped down into the lantern-lit gloom, his presence pressing against the air itself. His cloak still bore the blood of Gunnar the Red, and his eyes—ice-bright and burning—were shadowed with something heavier than victory.

  Ragnor.

  She smiled.

  "Come to see your fate, Stormborn?"

  The guards at his back shifted, their hands tightening on the hilts of their blades.

  Ragnor did not react. He stepped closer, his boots slow and deliberate against the creaking wood.

  "You knew I would come," he said.

  It was not a question.

  Eira tilted her head. "Of course."

  He studied her, his gaze cold, calculating. She was unlike any prisoner he had ever seen. There was no fear in her, no plea for mercy, no hatred. Only patience. As if she were waiting.

  Ragnor’s jaw tightened.

  "You told them I am the hunted." His voice was calm, but beneath it, something crackled—something sharp, something edged with doubt.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Eira did not blink. "Because you are."

  The ship rocked, and the lantern-light shuddered, throwing shadows that stretched and twisted against the walls.

  Ragnor exhaled slowly. "You speak in riddles. I have no use for riddles."

  Eira's gaze flickered to the dagger at his belt. The one given to him by the Blind Seer. The one that pulsed with something old, something living.

  "No," she said softly. "But the sea does."

  Ragnor’s fingers curled into fists. He was not a man given to superstition. He did not trust magic. He did not fear prophecy.

  And yet…

  The storm had heard their oath. The sea had taken Gunnar. And now—this woman, this prisoner, this witch—she spoke as if she knew the end of the story before it had even begun.

  "What waits for us in Albion?" he asked.

  Eira smiled, slow and knowing. "You think Albion is a prize to be won. A land to conquer."

  She leaned forward slightly, the chains at her wrists clinking softly.

  "It is not."

  The lantern-light flickered again, and Ragnor felt it then—a shift in the air, a ripple in something unseen.

  Eira’s voice dropped to a whisper, soft as the wind before the storm.

  "It is a prison."

  The words struck harder than any blade.

  The guards stiffened, exchanging uneasy glances. The ship creaked, as if the ocean itself had sighed.

  Ragnor’s heart slowed, then quickened. "A prison?"

  Eira nodded once. "And you are not the hunter, Stormborn."

  A pause.

  A breath.

  "You are the hunted."

  Silence.

  Outside, beyond the thick walls of the ship, the waves whispered.

  Ragnor turned sharply. "Leave her. No one is to speak with her again."

  The guards nodded quickly, eager to be away from the prisoner who spoke as if she could see through time.

  Eira did not protest. She did not call after him. She only watched as he disappeared up the steps.

  Because she already knew.

  The sea had heard their oath.

  And it was waiting.

  Scene 4: Sigurd’s Web (The Spread of Doubt)

  The sea lay dark and restless, stretching endlessly beneath a sky that seemed to hold its breath. The Stormborn fleet cut through the waves, their black sails swelling with the wind, their hulls creaking like the ribs of some great beast.

  Yet the true storm was not in the sky.

  It moved among the ships, unseen, whispering in quiet voices, curling like mist through the minds of men.

  It was Sigurd.

  He was not the strongest warrior, nor the loudest, nor the most reckless. He did not need to be. He had learned long ago that the blade was not the sharpest weapon.

  Doubt was.

  And so, on this night, as the Stormborn warriors drank and sharpened their blades, as they laughed and cursed and whispered of Albion, Sigurd moved among them.

  He did not speak first.

  He listened.

  He let the discontent find him.

  "Gunnar should have won," someone muttered, his voice low, careful.

  Sigurd tilted his head slightly, as if overhearing something unimportant.

  "Gunnar was strong," another agreed. "And the gods favor the strong."

  Sigurd smiled to himself. Good. They were already saying it.

  He stepped forward then, into the glow of the fire. Not as a leader. Not as a challenger.

  As a brother.

  "The gods are silent," he said, his voice measured, just loud enough for the right ears to hear.

  A few warriors turned to him. Some nodded.

  "When my father swore his first Blood Oath," Sigurd continued, "the wind howled. The storm raged. The gods answered."

  His fingers traced the rim of his drinking horn, his voice almost thoughtful.

  "But this time?"

  The fire crackled.

  The wind whispered.

  "Nothing."

  The warriors exchanged uneasy glances.

  Sigurd let the silence grow, let the doubt coil tighter around them, pressing into the places where fear had already taken root.

  Then he sighed, shaking his head. "Perhaps the gods did not hear us."

  A warrior scoffed. "The gods hear all."

  Sigurd smiled, slow and knowing. He let his next words drop like a dagger.

  "Then perhaps they chose not to answer."

  The fire seemed colder then.

  The wind a little sharper.

  Sigurd stood, stretching, drinking in their silence like wine.

  "The sea does not lie, brothers. It took Gunnar. It took our strongest warriors. It took our ships. And now…" He gestured vaguely toward the Stormbreaker, where Ragnor stood unseen, alone.

  "It waits."

  He turned away then, moving without haste, leaving the words behind him like footprints in the snow.

  Because he knew how this game was played.

  Doubt is not a sword.

  It is a seed.

  And tonight, he had planted enough.

  Scene 5: Eira’s True Sight (The Unspoken Truths of Albion)

  The storm had not yet come.

  But Ragnor could feel it.

  The weight of the sky had grown thicker, the air heavier, like the moments before the first strike of lightning. He had seen this before, on the battlefields of Skjoldheim—the hush before the slaughter, the breath before the storm.

  And yet, this was different.

  This was not a battle.

  This was something older.

  Something watching.

  He clenched his jaw, descending into the depths of the Stormbreaker, past the warriors who whispered in his wake, past the torches that barely flickered against the damp wood.

  He had told himself he would not return to her.

  And yet, here he was.

  The door to the prisoner hold groaned as he pushed it open, stepping into the dim chamber where the captured Skjoldheim warriors huddled in their chains.

  And there, in the darkest corner, bound but not broken, sat Eira.

  She had been waiting.

  "Stormborn," she greeted, her voice like the crackle of fire on ice.

  Ragnor halted.

  Her golden eyes shone even in the dark, reflecting the dim torchlight, reflecting something else—something he could not name.

  He hated that she unnerved him.

  He hated that her words had stayed with him, clawing at the edges of his thoughts even as he tried to banish them.

  And he hated that he could not ignore her.

  "Tell me what you meant." His voice was hard, cutting through the stillness. "Albion is a prison? Explain."

  Eira tilted her head, amusement flickering at the edge of her lips.

  "You do not believe me."

  "I believe you know more than you say."

  She smiled then, slow and knowing.

  "A wise man does not ask questions if he is not ready for the answer."

  Ragnor’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, his presence heavy, unrelenting.

  "Speak plainly."

  Eira studied him.

  Then, without warning, she moved.

  She lunged forward—or she would have, had the chains not held her back. They clanked against the iron rings that bound her, but her face came so close to his that he could see the golden flecks in her eyes, could see the strange runes faintly glimmering across her skin.

  And then—she touched him.

  Her fingers brushed his wrist—just a whisper of contact.

  The world broke.

  The ship vanished.

  The sea was gone.

  And in its place—

  Flames.

  Flames that did not burn but consumed, devouring the land, the sky, the stars. A city torn apart, its walls blackened, its towers shattered. And beneath it, beneath the ruins, something moved.

  Something vast.

  Something that should not be awake.

  Ragnor staggered back, gasping, the vision ripping away as swiftly as it had come.

  He was in the hold again.

  Eira still sat before him.

  But now—her expression was different.

  Gone was the amusement. Gone was the smile.

  In its place, a terrible certainty.

  "You think Albion is just a kingdom," she said softly.

  Ragnor’s breathing was ragged. His pulse thundered in his ears.

  He said nothing.

  Eira tilted her head, her eyes burning like embers in the dark.

  "It is not."

  A pause.

  "It is a grave."

  Silence.

  A single drop of water fell from the ceiling, breaking the hush.

  Ragnor turned sharply, his footsteps quick, sharp, deliberate as he left the hold, slamming the door behind him.

  Eira watched him go.

  She did not smile.

  Because she knew—

  It was already too late.

  Scene 6: The Wrath of the Sea God (The Storm Awakens)

  The wind changed.

  It came suddenly, twisting through the sails, turning sharp and biting. The sky groaned, thick clouds rolling overhead, smothering the stars in darkness. The sea beneath them shifted, not with the natural movement of the tide, but with something deep, unseen, waiting.

  Ragnor stood at the prow of the Stormbreaker, gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  Something was wrong.

  The air felt heavy, pressing against his lungs. The warriors aboard the ship felt it too—a hush had fallen over them, their voices fading into uneasy silence. The sea was listening.

  Then—

  A sound.

  A deep, reverberating groan that did not come from the ship, nor from the wind, but from the water itself.

  Ragnor’s breath slowed. His grip tightened.

  The ocean was awake.

  The first wave struck without warning.

  A massive wall of water slammed into the side of the fleet, throwing men to their knees, sending barrels and supplies crashing against the decks. The Stormbreaker rocked violently, and Ragnor had to brace himself against the impact.

  Shouts rang out across the fleet.

  "Hold fast!" Ulfric’s voice roared from the other ship, but the wind ripped the words away, scattering them like leaves in a storm.

  Ragnor turned sharply. In the distance, the horizon had vanished—swallowed by an approaching wall of black clouds, a storm unlike any he had ever seen. Lightning flashed within it, but the bolts did not touch the water.

  They danced in the sky, twisting unnaturally, forming shapes—symbols—sigils of an ancient hand.

  And then—

  The sea rose.

  Not as a wave, not as the rage of the wind, but as something alive.

  The water beneath the Stormbreaker convulsed, and from the depths, a shadow began to rise.

  It started as a ripple.

  Then a swell.

  Then—a shape.

  A towering mass, dark and writhing, surfaced from the abyss.

  The warriors stilled, their breath stolen from their chests.

  "Gods preserve us…" one of them whispered.

  The thing kept rising.

  A shape of coiling limbs, of scaled flesh and twisting darkness, pulled itself from the sea. It had no face, but it had eyes—hundreds of them, scattered across its shifting form, each one a glowing, hungry ember in the storm’s fury.

  And those eyes turned toward the fleet.

  Toward Ragnor.

  A warrior screamed.

  And the sea attacked.

  Tentacles as thick as trees lashed out, wrapping around the hull of a nearby ship—crushing it like a child's toy. Warriors were flung into the air, their screams swallowed by the wind before they even hit the water.

  Another ship cracked in half, pulled beneath the waves in an instant.

  "Loose arrows!" someone roared.

  The Stormborn fired, their arrows slicing through the rain, but the beast did not flinch. The storm howled, and another ship was dragged beneath the surface.

  Ragnor drew Vindsarga, the Storm’s Fang, his breath coming fast.

  This was not war.

  This was annihilation.

  And then—a voice rang out.

  "STOP!"

  Ragnor turned sharply.

  Eira stood on the deck.

  Her hair was wild in the wind, her golden eyes glowing, her hands raised. She had broken free of her chains.

  The moment her voice touched the storm—the beast hesitated.

  The air shifted, like a breath being drawn.

  "You will all die unless you let me help!" she shouted over the wind.

  Ragnor’s heart pounded.

  He could barely think past the howling storm, past the screams of dying men—

  But he saw it.

  The beast had stopped.

  Not much. But enough.

  He had no choice.

  "DO IT!" he roared.

  Eira threw out her hands.

  The storm shuddered.

  Lightning raced across the sky, but instead of striking the ships, it bent—twisting toward Eira like a serpent obeying a master’s call.

  She spoke words that Ragnor did not understand.

  The beast screeched, a sound that did not belong in this world, a sound that made bones tremble and minds shatter. It reeled back, its many eyes burning with fury—

  And then—

  The sea swallowed it.

  The creature vanished beneath the waves, dragging the wreckage of broken ships with it. The clouds split, the lightning ceased, and the wind died.

  Just like that.

  The ocean stilled.

  But the Stormborn did not cheer.

  They did not celebrate.

  They only stared at Eira, at the woman who had called the storm to heel, and whispered the word that would follow her like a shadow.

  "Witch."

  Scene 7: Battle on the Waves (The Stormborn vs. the Kraken)

  The sea was broken.

  Ships drifted among the wreckage, the scent of blood and brine thick in the air. The Stormborn fleet had been halved, their proud longships now little more than shattered wood, their warriors clinging to the decks, breathless, shaken.

  And yet—it was not over.

  The water trembled.

  Ragnor felt it first—a deep, unnatural stillness, the kind that came not with peace, but with expectation.

  Then—

  The sea rose.

  From the depths, from the black abyss beneath their hulls, the beast returned.

  A shadow. A shape. A nightmare.

  It did not lurch, did not crash through the waves in mindless rage. It emerged slowly, as if rising from sleep—its tentacles unfurling, stretching skyward, curling around the wind like fingers against silk.

  The warriors cried out, their voices swallowed by the storm.

  "GODS PRESERVE US!"

  Ragnor tightened his grip on Vindsarga. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, but he did not look away.

  If this was the end, then he would meet it standing.

  The beast moved.

  A tentacle, thick as a ship’s mast, surged forward.

  The first strike was merciless.

  A longship was caught in its grasp, warriors screaming as the wood groaned and splintered beneath the pressure. Their shouts were cut short as the beast dragged them beneath the waves, their torches vanishing one by one into the abyss.

  Another ship was next.

  The Stormborn fought.

  Arrows rained. Axes sliced through the air, hacking at the monstrous limbs, but the beast did not bleed.

  It did not die.

  A ballista bolt from one of the remaining ships pierced its flesh—but it did not flinch.

  It only turned its many, burning eyes toward the Stormbreaker.

  Toward Ragnor.

  "It’s coming for us!" a warrior shouted.

  Ragnor’s mind raced. He had fought men, armies, warlords, kings—but this was something else.

  Something beyond swords and steel.

  "Fire!" he roared, and another volley of arrows streaked through the rain, embedding into the creature’s slick hide.

  It did not matter.

  The tentacle lashed out.

  The Stormbreaker shuddered, warriors thrown from their feet as the beast coiled around the hull, crushing it, splintering the wood beneath its grip.

  And then—Eira moved.

  The witch.

  She stood, her golden eyes aflame, her hands raised against the storm.

  Lightning answered her.

  It did not fall from the heavens—it bent toward her, a raw surge of power crackling across her fingertips, coiling like a living thing.

  And then—she spoke.

  Not in the tongue of men.

  Not in the tongue of gods.

  But in a language older than both.

  The beast froze.

  The sea stilled.

  And then—it screamed.

  A sound that shattered the air, that split the night in two, that sent men to their knees clutching their ears in agony.

  The creature writhed, its tentacles thrashing, smashing into the water, but it did not retreat.

  Not yet.

  Eira held out her hands, her voice rising in a final command.

  The storm answered.

  The sky broke open, and from the blackened clouds, a single bolt of lightning struck the beast.

  A blinding blast of white fire.

  The ocean exploded in a wave of light.

  The warriors shielded their eyes as the beast convulsed, its form twisting, coiling, shuddering—

  And then, with one final inhuman wail, it vanished.

  The waves crashed down.

  The storm died.

  And the sea was silent once more.

  The warriors did not cheer.

  They only stared at Eira, at the woman who had commanded the storm, who had driven back the gods' beast, and knew—

  She was something else.

  Something not of this world.

  One of the warriors whispered the word that had already taken root in their minds.

  "Witch."

  And from the shadows, hidden among the men, Sigurd smiled.

  Scene 8: The Cost of Arrogance (Counting the Dead, Weighing the Losses)

  The sea was calm again.

  Too calm.

  The kind of calm that comes after something has been taken.

  The Stormborn fleet, once a force of legend, now drifted like broken bones upon the water. Where there had been thirty ships, now only half remained, scattered across the open sea like survivors of a battle no one had won.

  The water was thick with wreckage—splintered hulls, shattered oars, bodies floating face-down, unclaimed by the gods.

  This was not victory.

  It was a reckoning.

  Ragnor stood at the prow of the Stormbreaker, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides. His warriors moved in silence—gathering the dead, repairing the damage, muttering prayers to the gods who had refused to answer.

  Ulfric stood beside him, arms crossed. His face was carved from iron and grief, but he did not speak. He had been to war too many times to waste breath on empty words.

  Instead, it was Sigurd who broke the silence.

  "This was folly."

  The word slashed through the air.

  Ragnor turned, eyes burning. "Speak carefully, brother."

  Sigurd met his gaze. There was no rage in him. Only certainty.

  "You led us into the storm," he said. "You swore the gods would favor us. You swore we would reach Albion as warriors. But tell me—" he gestured to the broken fleet, to the dead being pulled from the water, their bodies pale as the moonlight.

  "Do they look like warriors to you?"

  The warriors listened.

  Some stopped what they were doing, their eyes flicking between the two brothers.

  A seed had been planted in their minds.

  Doubt.

  Ragnor’s chest tightened.

  He knew this was coming. He had seen Sigurd working—not with a blade, but with whispers, with shadows, with doubt.

  And he knew the truth in his words.

  But he could not allow weakness to take root here.

  Not now.

  "If we had turned back," Ragnor said, his voice cold, "we would have been nothing."

  Sigurd scoffed. "And what are we now?"

  The wind howled through the torn sails.

  A fleet of the damned.

  Ragnor’s fingers curled into fists. He turned away. "Enough."

  But as he walked across the deck, stepping over the bloodstains left by those who had not survived, he heard them.

  The whispers.

  The warriors speaking in hushed voices.

  Some in fear.

  Some in anger.

  And some—in agreement with Sigurd.

  Ragnor knew then—this battle had not ended with the storm.

  It had only begun.

  Scene 9: The Cursed Shore (A False Salvation)

  The cry went up before dawn.

  A voice, hoarse with exhaustion, shouting from the mast.

  "LAND!"

  Ragnor snapped awake.

  The deck beneath him was still damp from the night’s storm, and the air still carried the taste of salt, blood, and death. He pushed himself to his feet, heart hammering, and strode to the prow.

  There—beyond the waves, beyond the broken fleet—it rose.

  A shoreline.

  Dark, shrouded in morning mist, the outline of towering cliffs loomed like the ribs of some long-dead beast.

  The warriors stirred, dragging themselves to the edge of the ship. Some murmured prayers, others simply stared, dazed—as if they could not believe they had survived long enough to see land again.

  Sigurd stepped to Ragnor’s side.

  "You see?" he murmured. "We are not cursed after all."

  Ragnor did not answer.

  Because something was wrong.

  The sea had been cruel. But the silence of the land was worse.

  There was no wind. No cry of gulls. No sound of waves breaking upon the shore.

  Only stillness.

  And in that stillness—a waiting.

  Ulfric approached, his arms crossed. "Albion?"

  Ragnor exhaled slowly. "No."

  The warriors around him stilled.

  Sigurd frowned. "What?"

  "This is not Albion," Ragnor said. "This is something else."

  The words left his mouth before he could explain them.

  But he knew it was true.

  The air smelled wrong. Not of salt and trees, but of something ancient, something buried beneath the earth.

  Something that had been disturbed.

  And then—Eira stepped forward.

  The witch had been silent since the storm, her face unreadable. But now, she looked to the cliffs, and in the dim morning light, her golden eyes burned like embers.

  "This land remembers," she whispered.

  Ragnor turned to her sharply.

  "What?"

  Eira did not blink.

  "It remembers those who walked here before. And it does not forget."

  A cold shudder rippled through the warriors.

  Ragnor ignored it.

  He turned back to the shore, the mist curling like breath from a sleeping beast.

  They had no choice.

  They could not survive another night at sea—not with their dead, their broken ships, their dwindling supplies.

  They had to land.

  Even if the land did not want them.

  He raised his hand.

  "Prepare to make landfall."

  The warriors hesitated. Only for a moment.

  Then they moved, unfastening the ropes, guiding the ships toward the black sands.

  The first hull scraped against the shore.

  The warriors stepped forward, their boots sinking into the earth—the first Stormborn to set foot upon this place.

  And in the distance—

  From somewhere deep within the cliffs, where the mist was thickest—

  Something moved.

  Something watched.

  And the wind finally came, whispering words in a language that no living man should have understood.