The longships came at dawn.
No banners flew. No horns sounded. Only the sound of thick lacquered hulls scraping against the shale banks, and the deep, slow beat of a single war drum; measured, like a heartbeat.
Nokomis stood on the ridge above the inlet, flanked by three of her archers and a Norse shield-bearer at her side.
She said nothing at first.
She didn't need to.
The prow of the leading ship bore a shape she was all too familiar with.
It was the gilded Draconic figure of Fafnir, its maw opened wide, and in its gullet lay a fearsome weapon capable of spewing forth Surtr's flames.
And beneath that head, tall and terrible, stood the man she had once followed across the sea.
Vetrúlfr.
His signature hooded hide of an arctic wolf crowned an iron ocular helm beneath its terror.
His cloak was not regal, but ragged with sea spray and soot. His boots still wet from the ocean crossing.
