The dawn broke with a pale, silver light that spread slowly over the fjord, illuminating the village in hues of gray and gold. Smoke drifted upward from the turf-covered dwellings, weaving into the crisp morning air. The boy stood on the rocky shore, his bare feet chilled by the damp ground, staring at the endless expanse of water. The familiar rhythm of the waves lapping against the rocks was a comfort, but the horizon called to him with a quiet urgency.
Each morning since his father's departure, the boy had risen early, his wooden sword in hand. As the sun climbed above the fjord, he practiced the drills his father had shown him—sweeping strikes, precise thrusts, and the careful positioning of his feet. It had become a ritual, the steady rhythm of his movements anchoring him in his father's absence. The boy told himself it was preparation, though for what, he couldn't quite say.
Weeks had passed since his father had left for the northern waters, embarking on a long voyage to hunt seals and bring back their valuable pelts. In his absence, the boy had settled into the rhythm of village life. He helped his mother with her daily tasks, her steady hands guiding his as they mended fishing nets or gathered herbs from the garden. His sister, ever restless, flitted between them like a bird, her laughter a constant presence. But more often now, the boy slipped away from their watchful eyes, disappearing for hours at a time to follow Matteo, the enigmatic merchant who had made the village his temporary home. He shadowed the man tirelessly, eager to soak up every scrap of knowledge Matteo shared about the art of Elementum. And each night, long after the village had grown quiet, the boy practiced diligently before sleep, blindfolded and sitting cross-legged in the dim glow of an oil lamp, trying to sense the fire affinity mana through the Elementum arts.
Now, as the sun climbed higher, the fjord shimmered with a fiery glow, its surface alive with shifting hues of amber and crimson. The boy's gaze locked on the horizon, where dark shapes broke through the shimmering surface of the water, moving in steady, rhythmic unison. He squinted, his pulse quickening as he recognized the unmistakable outline of longboats.
They glided closer, their narrow hulls cutting through the water with steady purpose. Built for endurance, they bore the marks of a hard voyage—salt-streaked wood, patched sails, and decks laden with nets and barrels. Their simple, utilitarian design reflected the life of those who sailed them, shaped by the demands of the sea.
"They're back," he whispered to himself, the words carried away by the breeze.
Dropping the basket he had been carrying, the boy ran toward the village. His sister's voice called out behind him, sharp with curiosity, but he didn't stop to answer. His feet pounded against the uneven ground, carrying him past clusters of houses and startled villagers. By the time he reached the docks, a small crowd had begun to gather.
The longboats neared the shore, their crews moving with practiced efficiency to secure the ropes and guide their vessels to the dock. The men bore the weight of hard labor on their shoulders, their faces lined with exhaustion. Yet their eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of returning home.
The boy's gaze searched frantically among them until it landed on his father. The man emerged from the ship like a thundercloud, his presence commanding attention. His fur-lined cloak hung heavy with sea spray, and his boots were caked with mud. His hands were raw, the nails darkened from days of hauling nets and steering through icy waters. But his stride was steady, his expression sharp and focused.
"Father!" the boy shouted, unable to contain himself.
The man's head turned at the sound, and a rare smile broke across his face. He knelt, opening his arms as the boy barreled into him, wrapping his smaller arms around his father's solid frame. For a moment, the weariness in the man's eyes softened, replaced by something unspoken but deeply felt.
"You've grown strong," his father said, his voice low and rough. "Have you been practicing?"
The boy nodded fiercely, his hand going to the wooden sword at his hip. "Every day."
"Good." His father stood, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "A warrior must never grow idle."
The villagers crowded closer, their murmurs blending into a hum of questions and exclamations. Women sought out their husbands, children clamored for stories, and the elders eyed the returning men with quiet approval. The air buzzed with a mixture of excitement and relief, tempered by the subdued silence of the fishermen.
"Was the voyage fruitful?" one of the villagers asked, his voice hesitant.
"Aye," the boy's father replied, his tone grim but steady. "The gods were with us."
The crew began unloading their haul—bundles of seal pelts, barrels of fish, and crates filled with goods gathered from distant shores. A heavy tension lingered in the air, though no one dared to name it aloud. The boy watched as his father directed the unloading, his movements precise and unyielding. There was no laughter among the men, no celebration. The voyage had been a success, but the cost was etched into the lines on their faces.
As the day wore on, the boy stayed close to his father, shadowing his every step. He listened intently to the hushed conversations between the fishermen, piecing together fragments of their journey. There had been storms—harsh and unrelenting—and the loss of one of the smaller boats. His father's voice was steady as he recounted the details, but his eyes betrayed a deeper weight—one that the boy didn't fully understand but could feel in his bones.
That evening, the villagers gathered in the longhouse for a feast to honor the fishermen's return. The great hall was alive with the crackle of the fire and the hum of voices. Platters of roasted meat and bowls of steaming vegetables were passed around, the air thick with the smell of spiced ale and freshly baked bread. The boy sat beside his sister and mother, his eyes fixed on his father at the head of the table.
The man was quiet, his gaze distant as he picked at his food. The boy noticed the way his father's hand rested on the hilt of his knife, his fingers tracing the worn wooden grip. It was a small gesture, but one that spoke volumes.
"Tell us of the voyage!" someone called, their voice breaking through the din.
The boy's father looked up, his eyes sharp as they scanned the room. For a moment, he said nothing, the weight of his silence pressing down on the gathered crowd. Then, he spoke.
"The seas were cruel," he said, his voice steady but low. "The northern waters are no place for the faint-hearted. We faced storms that tore the sky in half and winds that howled like wolves. But we endured."
The boy leaned forward, his breath catching as his father described the journey. He spoke of the endless expanse of ice and water, of the seals hunted in the frozen bays, and of the men who worked tirelessly to fill their nets.
"But the sea always demands a price," his father continued, his tone somber. "We lost good men this time. Their strength carried us through, and we will not forget them."
A heavy silence settled over the longhouse, the weight of his words sinking in. The boy glanced at his sister, who stared at their father with wide, unblinking eyes. His mother's face was pale, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
The feast continued, but the boy's thoughts were restless. He slipped away from the longhouse and made his way to the shore, the cool night air biting at his skin. The fjord was calm, its surface reflecting the stars in perfect clarity. He sat on a flat rock, his arms wrapped around his knees, and stared out at the water.
His father's words echoed in his mind, mingling with the memories of the day. For the first time, the boy began to see the cracks in the image he had built of his father—the man who seemed invincible, unshaken by anything. He had always idolized him, imagining him as a hero out of one of his mother's stories. But tonight, the boy saw something else. His father was a fisherman, yes, but he was also a man—flawed, burdened, and haunted by the weight of his choices.
As the wind whispered through the pines, the boy made a silent promise to himself. One day, he would stand beside his father as an equal. He would take up the sword, not as a toy, but as a weapon. He would fight, not for glory, but to protect what mattered most.
For now, he was just a boy, sitting beneath the vastness of the sky, the wooden sword at his side a reminder of the path that lay ahead. But in his heart, he carried the seeds of something greater—a resolve that would shape him in ways he could not yet imagine.
The stars above him burned bright, their light a silent witness to his thoughts.