The sea was not silent, even at night.
It breathed.
Long, slow inhalations that rolled against the shore in whispering waves. Soft at first. Then harsher.
Then quiet again. Like the breath of some ancient creature whose sleep was never truly restful.
Vetrúlfr sat at the edge of the surf, boots half-buried in the sand, the salt spray drying on his skin.
The stars above Vinland were different from the ones over Iceland, over Miklagarðr, over the green cliffs of Ériu. But he had long since stopped expecting familiarity from the skies.
He held nothing in his hands. His sword lay nearby, partially buried in the sand. Just close enough to reach.
But he didn't touch it.
Not tonight.
Behind him, the fires of the new settlement flickered; quiet, muted. The braziers above the timber walls of the first sea-fort glowed in the distance.
Somewhere, a child cried. A forge clanged. A horse whinnied in its pen.
But he heard none of it.
