Mist curled over the fjord, its pale tendrils softening the sharp edges of the morning light. The boy sat cross-legged on a flat stone, the hilt of his sword resting lightly in his lap. The salty tang of the sea mingled with the damp earth beneath him, grounding him as he stared at the horizon. The air felt still, too still, broken only by the occasional splash of water as his sister played in the shallows. Her golden hair caught the light as she bent to inspect a smooth stone or a piece of driftwood. It was a quiet morning, the kind that made the boy's heart feel full.
It was also the last morning of its kind.
The boy exhaled slowly, watching the mist twist and curl as if alive. His thoughts drifted to the lessons his father had given him. He gripped the sword, raising it in a deliberate arc before letting it rest again. Each day, he practiced, imagining himself in his father's place, wielding it with the strength and confidence of a warrior.
Nearby, his sister's laughter broke the stillness, a sound so light and carefree that it made him smile. She danced along the edge of the water, lifting her skirts to keep them dry.
"Look, I found a shell!" she called, holding up a small, pearly object.
The boy smiled faintly. "That's not a shell, it's a rock," he said, teasing her.
She stuck out her tongue and bent down to search again, her golden hair glinting in the sunlight.
Then he heard it.
A faint, rhythmic splash, like oars slicing through water. The sound was steady, deliberate, and entirely out of place. The boy froze, his hand tightening around the hilt of his wooden sword. He turned his gaze toward the horizon, squinting against the mist.
"What's wrong?" his sister asked, noticing the change in his demeanor.
He didn't answer immediately, his pulse quickening as he scanned the water. At first, there was nothing but the silver sheen of the fjord stretching endlessly toward the sky. Then, shapes began to emerge—sharp, angular silhouettes cutting through the mist like the fins of predatory fish.
The boy's breath hitched. Longships.
Carved beasts jutted from their prows—dragons and wolves, their snarling faces frozen in eternal rage. The mists seemed to shudder around them, drawn back by their approach. These were not fishing boats or merchant vessels. They were warships, built for blood and plunder.
"Sister!" he shouted, his voice sharper than he intended. "Come back!"
She turned, startled by the panic in his tone. Her eyes followed his pointing finger toward the horizon, and her face went pale. Without a word, she splashed toward him, clutching her skirts as she ran up the shore.
"What is it?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
"I don't know," he said, though his stomach churned with unease. "We need to tell Father."
They ran as fast as their legs would carry them, the rocky shore giving way to soft, damp earth as they neared the village. The boy's mind raced, his thoughts a storm of half-formed fears. He tried to convince himself it was nothing—fishermen from a neighboring fjord, perhaps—but the carved prows told a different story.
The village was just beginning to wake when they arrived. A few women carried pails of water from the well, their quiet conversations weaving through the soft sounds of morning. Children chased each other between the houses, their laughter at odds with the boy's rising dread.
"Father!" the boy shouted as they reached the heart of the village.
Heads turned at his cry, and his father emerged from the edge of the treeline, a bundle of firewood balanced on one shoulder. His broad shoulders were streaked with dirt from the morning's work, and his face, lined with years of hardship and vigilance, darkened immediately when he saw the look on his son's face.
"What is it?" he demanded, his voice sharp and commanding.
"Ships," the boy panted. "Big ones. They're coming."
His father's jaw tightened. Without a word, he dropped the firewood onto the ground and strode toward the shore, his strides long and purposeful. The boy and his sister followed, struggling to keep up.
When they reached the water's edge, a small crowd of men had already gathered. The boy's father joined them, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the approaching ships.
"Raiders," one of the men murmured, his voice tight with dread.
The boy's father nodded grimly. "They don't sail into a fjord unless they mean to take something." He turned to the assembled men, his voice steady and unyielding. "Arm yourselves. Axes, spears, anything you can carry. We'll hold the line here."
The boy felt a surge of pride and fear as he watched his father command the villagers. The men nodded, their faces pale but resolute, and scattered to prepare.
"Go to your mother," his father said without looking at him.
The boy hesitated. "But—"
"Now."
Reluctantly, the boy turned and ran back toward the village with his sister at his side.
Inside the longhouse, the air was thick with tension. Women gathered with their children, their faces pale and drawn. Some whispered prayers under their breath, clutching small wooden charms carved in the likeness of the gods. Others wept silently, their tears streaking their faces as they held their children close.
The boy's mother knelt beside him and his sister, her hands trembling as she smoothed his sister's hair. "Stay together," she said softly, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "No matter what happens, don't let go of each other."
The boy nodded, though a lump had formed in his throat.
Outside, the sound of oars grew louder, their rhythm relentless. The boy couldn't resist the urge to peek through a crack in the wall.
The longships were close now, their prows looming over the water like the jaws of predators. The oars slowed, slicing through the fjord with deliberate precision before coming to a halt.
For a moment, the air was still. Then, with the creak of wood and the scrape of boots against the dock, the raiders disembarked.
They moved like a tide of shadow and steel. There were more than the boy had imagined—Six dozen men, their ranks bristling with weapons. Their leather and fur armor seemed to absorb the light, making them appear as though they had risen from the depths of the sea. Their faces were hidden beneath helms adorned with snarling beasts, their breath steaming in the cold air.
The captain stepped forward, his presence towering over the rest like an unshakable tide. His sword, a weapon of storied renown, caught the morning light on its razor edge, gleaming with a cold, lethal clarity. His helm, battered from countless battles and shaped into the visage of a snarling wolf, added to his fearsome silhouette. Though the metal obscured his face, the weight of his gaze was unmistakable—sharp and commanding, cutting through the morning haze like a blade. When he spoke, his voice rolled across the air with a quiet authority, deeper than thunder and twice as unrelenting.
"This village belongs to us now," he declared. "Give us your gold, your livestock, and your strongest men, and we may spare the rest of you."