The boy sat in the corner of the hold, his body folded into itself. Knees drawn to his chest, arms locked tightly around them, he looked like a shadow carved from the wood of the ship itself. His head rested on his forearms, his black hair hanging loose and stringy, hiding his hollow, vacant stare.
The hold groaned as the ship rolled over the waves, the sound threading through the air like a slow, ragged sigh. The faint light of a swaying lantern illuminated the space in uneven flashes, casting jagged shadows against the damp planks.
Above deck, the storm had passed. The crashing waves and howling winds had been replaced by the boisterous voices of the crew. Their shouts and rough laughter spilled into the hold, cutting through the oppressive silence. Someone was singing, their voice loud and off-key, joined by the raucous jeers of their companions.
Below deck, the stench was oppressive: sweat and filth mingled with the metallic tang of rusted iron and the sour dampness of seawater. It clung to the skin and filled the lungs, a constant, inescapable reminder of where they were.
But the boy noticed none of it.
His thoughts drifted to another time, a world of fragmented images and sounds. The echo of his father's voice, strong and steady, reverberated in his mind like distant thunder. The sharp, desperate cries of his sister rang out like a half-remembered dream. Flashes of firelight and shadows, indistinct faces blurred by chaos, haunted the edges of his vision.
The boy sat unmoving, trapped in the haze of his memories, oblivious to the soft murmurs that had begun to stir around him.
The other captives were scattered across the hold, their bodies slumped against the walls or sprawled on the floor. They were gaunt and pale, their skin stretched thin over bones, their faces hollowed by hunger and despair. Most were silent, their eyes dull and empty, fixed on nothing.
A few spoke in whispers, their words brittle and weak, drifting through the stagnant air. They spoke of food, of escape, of home—fragments of hope so faint they dissolved almost as soon as they were spoken.
But then, a voice rose above the murmurs—low and firm, its tone sharp enough to cut through the oppressive quiet.
"Enough."
The word echoed through the hold, commanding attention without need for volume. It wasn't loud, but it carried weight, the kind of weight that made people pause and listen.
The boy stirred faintly, his head lifting slightly as his gaze turned toward the source of the voice.
The man who spoke stood tall in the dim light, his presence filling the cramped space of the hold like a sudden gust of wind. His shoulders were broad, his posture straight and unbowed despite the iron chains around his wrists and ankles.
His name was Jorund.
He wasn't a large man, not in the way of warriors with their bulging muscles and hulking frames, but there was strength in him nonetheless—a quiet, steady strength that refused to break.
Jorund's face was weathered, lined by years of sun and wind, his skin darkened by the elements. His dark eyes burned with an intensity that seemed almost unnatural in this place. Though his clothes were torn and filthy, they hinted at a life that had once been more than this. His tunic, though frayed, was well-made, its stitching fine and precise. His boots were scuffed and worn but sturdy, built for long journeys.
Even battered and bruised, he carried himself with a sense of purpose that made him stand out among the broken figures in the hold. His movements were deliberate, each step measured, the faint clink of his chains echoing through the silence.
Jorund had been a trader, a man who thrived in the unpredictable spaces between villages and towns. His world was the open road and the rocky coastlines, where the scent of salt and the sound of crashing waves were constant companions.
He spent his days haggling for bolts of fine cloth, barrels of smoked fish, and jars of rare spices. But his greatest currency wasn't the goods he carried—it was his words. Jorund had a gift for negotiation, a sharp wit and easy charm that could disarm the most suspicious of strangers.
He wasn't just a merchant; he was a storyteller. Everywhere he went, he collected tales—of sea monsters spotted off the fjords, of great battles fought in the distant past, of gods who walked among men in the days of old. He carried those stories with him, weaving them into his own and sharing them with those he met on his travels.
But stories hadn't saved him when the raiders came.
It was a small fishing village nestled in a rocky cove, where the air always smelled of woodsmoke and salt. Jorund had spent the evening trading with the villagers, sitting by their fire and listening to their tales of storms and fish that grew larger with each retelling.
The raiders came before dawn, their longship gliding silently into the cove. They fell on the village like wolves, their torches turning the night into chaos. Jorund had tried to fight, grabbing a stave from his cart and standing with the fishermen. But he was no warrior, and the first blow to his shoulder had sent him crumpling to the ground.
When he woke, the village was gone, reduced to ash and smoldering ruins. The raiders had taken what they wanted—supplies, captives, and anything of value—and left the rest to rot.
Jorund was bound and thrown onto their longship, his wrists rubbed raw by the coarse ropes. As the ship sailed away, he had looked back at the shore, where the rising sun painted the smoke in shades of red and gold.
Now, standing in the filthy hold of the slave ship, Jorund refused to let himself break. His thoughts were not on his own suffering but on his family. He could see them now—his wife, her strong hands calloused from years of weaving; his eldest son, tall and broad like his father; his youngest, always laughing, always full of questions.
They were waiting for him. He was sure of it.
"They think they've broken us," Jorund began, his voice cutting through the silence. "They think we're nothing—cattle to be sold, animals to be slaughtered. But they're wrong."
He moved among the captives, his chains rattling softly with each step.
"You're not animals," he said. "You're men. You've endured everything they've thrown at you, and you're still here. That means something. That means you're stronger than they'll ever be."
One of the captives muttered bitterly, "And what do we do? Fight with our bare hands? Die faster?"
Jorund crouched beside him, his gaze level. "Maybe. But what's the alternative? Sit here in chains? Watch them tear us apart piece by piece?"
He straightened, his voice rising. "I have something to fight for. My wife, my boys—they're waiting for me. Every day, they stand on the shore, watching the horizon. And I will return to them."
From his corner, the boy listened, his face hidden behind the veil of his hair. Jorund's voice reached him, low and resonant, cutting through the fog in his mind.
He imagined the family Jorund described: children standing by the sea, their faces turned to the horizon, their small hands shading their eyes against the glare of the sun. A woman behind them, her hands clasped tightly, her eyes bright with hope.
For a moment, the boy saw himself and his sister, small and wide-eyed, sitting on the rocky shore of their own village. He remembered the taste of the salty air and the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs. They had waited together, their hands clutched tightly as they stared at the horizon, searching for the faint silhouette of their father's longship returning from distant shores.
His sister had always asked the same question. "When will he come home?"
And the boy had always answered, with the certainty only a child could have, "Soon."
But the memory twisted and warped, unraveling like smoke in his mind. His sister's hand slipped from his grasp, her bright, laughing eyes dimming into something hollow and far away. The horizon they had once watched so eagerly became a smear of gray, empty and endless.
There was no one waiting for him. His father, his mother, his sister—they were all gone, taken by fire and blood.
The boy's shoulders sagged, his body seeming to fold inward as if he could disappear into the shadows. Jorund's words stirred something deep within him, but it wasn't hope. It was a weight, cold and unyielding, pressing against his chest like the slow, inevitable crush of the sea.
The hatch above slammed open, and a flood of cold air swept into the hold. The murmurs that had begun to stir among the captives were silenced in an instant.
The heavy thud of boots echoed as the slaver descended the ladder, his torch casting jagged shadows against the walls. The light seemed to make the darkness in the corners even deeper, the shadows pressing close around the boy where he sat.
The slaver's broad frame filled the space as he stepped off the ladder, the flickering flame illuminating his pockmarked face and cruel, twisted sneer.
"What's all this noise?" he growled, his voice low and sharp, like the rasp of steel against stone. His eyes swept the room, narrowing as they landed on Jorund, who stood tall and unflinching.
"So," the slaver said, his sneer widening into a grin. "You're the one causing all the trouble. The hero."
The captives shrank back into the shadows, their chains clinking faintly as they tried to make themselves small. Jorund didn't move, his shoulders squared, his dark eyes meeting the slaver's without flinching.
The boy didn't look up. The slaver's voice, the torchlight, the tension in the air—it was distant, muffled, as though it belonged to someone else's nightmare. He remained still, lost in the cold, empty space of his thoughts, even as the slaver's boots drew closer. If he had been paying attention, he might have noticed the glint of steel at the slaver's hip—the sword his father had made for him, now hanging mockingly from another man's belt.