The slaver ascended the ladder slowly, his bloodstained boots leaving streaks on the wooden rungs. Each step carried him further from the suffocating air of the hold, and with it, the limp, lifeless body of Jorund faded into memory. As he reached the deck, he paused, the night air cool against his sweat-slicked face. He pulled the hatch shut behind him with a resounding slam, the sound echoing across the stillness of the ship.
For a moment, he stood motionless, letting the salt-laden breeze wash over him. The torch he carried sputtered weakly, its light illuminating his scarred, blood-flecked hands. He snuffed it out with a sharp motion, plunging himself into darkness, save for the faint silvery glow of the moonlight.
He made his way to the bow, where the ocean stretched endlessly before him, black and restless. Leaning against the railing, he exhaled deeply, his lips curling into a twisted grin.
The memory of the club striking Jorund's face replayed in his mind, each blow as vivid as the first. The wet crunch of bone, the spray of blood, the way the man's body had convulsed beneath him—it was a masterpiece, raw and unflinching.
The slaver closed his eyes, savoring the afterglow. There was power in violence, a clarity that drowned out the chaos of his own thoughts. Down there, in the hold, he had been a god, and Jorund had been nothing more than clay beneath his hands, shaped and shattered at his whim.
His grin widened.
The sound of footsteps pulled him from his reverie. They were deliberate, heavy, the stride of someone who commanded attention without needing to demand it. The slaver's shoulders tensed, his grin faltering as the leader emerged from the shadows.
The man was tall, his frame broad and imposing, draped in a thick cloak that billowed slightly in the breeze. His beard was streaked with gray, his face weathered and scarred from countless battles. His arms, muscled and corded with veins, carried the strength of a man who had built his power with his own hands. There was a coldness in his sunken dark eyes, a sharpness that seemed to cut through the night.
This was Captain Ingvar.
The crew's whispers often spoke of Ingvar as more than a man. Some called him a storm in human form—relentless, merciless, and impossible to escape. His reputation stretched across the seas and into the villages they raided, where his name alone inspired panic.
Ingvar had earned his place at the helm of this ship not through lineage or politics but through steel and blood. He had started as a young raider, wielding nothing but a stolen blade and raw determination. Over time, he climbed the ranks, each scar a testament to the battles he had won.
The stories of his rise were whispered with reverence, especially the tale of the siege at Thorsfjall, where he had slain a rival warlord in single combat, taking a spear to the side and still standing to finish the fight. Ingvar's victories were not only his—they belonged to his men, proof that they followed a leader who was as unyielding as the tides themselves.
But for Sigvard, the sight of the captain filled him with equal parts awe and frustration.
"Sigvard," the leader said, his voice low and measured.
The slaver turned, his grin replaced by a tight, subservient smile. "Captain," he replied, dipping his head slightly.
Ingvar stopped a few paces away, his gaze sweeping over Sigvard with the precision of a man who missed nothing. His hands rested loosely on the hilt of the sword at his side—a weapon that once belonged to a man of legend, its weight a constant reminder of the day Ingvar had faced Regnar and claimed it as his own.
"You killed one of the slaves," Ingvar said, his tone devoid of emotion. It wasn't a question.
Sigvard shrugged, his bloodied hands spreading in mock helplessness. "He was stirring trouble. Someone had to put him in his place."
Ingvar's eyes narrowed, and Sigvard felt a cold knot form in his gut.
"Each one of those slaves is worth silver," Ingvar said evenly. "Every death is a loss. A loss I do not tolerate."
Sigvard opened his mouth to respond, but the captain raised a hand, silencing him.
"I don't care about your little display," Ingvar continued, stepping closer. His voice dropped lower, enough that the nearby crew turned their heads to listen. "But let this serve as a reminder to everyone aboard this ship: I am the one in charge. Not you."
The crew nearby exchanged glances, their voices dropping to murmurs as Ingvar paused.
The crew nearby exchanged uneasy glances, their voices dropping to murmurs as Ingvar paused.
"Remember the last raid?" one man whispered, his tone cautious. "The warrior on the beach?"
The other nodded, his gaze darting toward Ingvar. "Aye. The one with the sword. Never seen anything like it."
The first man leaned closer, his voice hushed. "They say he stood alone against seventy. Didn't matter how many of us charged him—he just kept coming. Every swing of his blade was precise, like he'd already seen the fight before it started. He cut through us like a storm."
The other man grimaced, shaking his head. "It wasn't just his strength. It was his mind. Cold. Calculating. He didn't waste a single step, didn't flinch no matter how many of us surrounded him. They said he even started taking our weapons, using them against us."
The first man's voice dropped even further. "Even the captain almost didn't take him. Heard it was a close thing."
"Aye," the second man replied, casting a wary glance toward Ingvar's broad back. "It was close. Too close. Took everything the captain had—his blade, his shield, and half the crew—to bring that one down. That sword almost caught him, too. Came within a hair of taking his head. Ingvar's the best we've got, but even he admitted it—'That one was worth killing.'"
Both men fell silent, their eyes lingering on Ingvar. There was no mockery in their whispers, no trace of disdain. Only respect. Respect for a leader who had proven himself time and again, and grudging acknowledgment for the warrior whose death had secured their victory.
Sigvard, standing nearby, heard every word. He clenched his jaw, his bloodied fingers tightening against the railing. It wasn't the story that bothered him—It was the tone. That quiet reverence for Ingvar, the awe that his mere presence inspired. It rankled him, gnawed at the edges of his pride.
One day, Sigvard thought, his lips twitching into a bitter sneer. One day, his grip will falter. And when it does, I'll be ready.
As the murmurs faded, Ingvar turned back to Sigvard, his expression unreadable. The moonlight caught the edges of his weathered features, highlighting the deep grooves etched into his skin. His presence was magnetic, drawing the attention of every man on the deck.
"You think killing one slave proves your strength?" Ingvar asked, his voice calm but edged with steel. He didn't wait for a reply. "Strength isn't about spilling blood for sport, Sigvard. It's about control. Discipline. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and I won't have you weakening mine."
Sigvard swallowed hard, nodding quickly, but Ingvar wasn't finished. He stepped closer, his sharp obsidian eyes locking onto Sigvard's with the cold intensity of a predator sizing up prey.
Then, in a motion as deliberate as it was menacing, Ingvar leaned down, his face mere inches from Sigvard's. The slaver could feel the captain's breath, cool and measured, brushing against his ear.
"If you waste my silver again," Ingvar said, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper, "I'll use that club of yours and teach you what it feels like to be broken."
There was something in his tone, a low, almost imperceptible growl beneath the words, like the rumble of a predator about to strike. It wasn't a threat—it was a promise, laced with an undercurrent of savage delight.
Sigvard's breath hitched as an icy shiver crawled up his spine. The hair on his arms rose instinctively, his body reacting to the raw, tangible menace radiating from the captain. For a brief moment, he felt as though he were back in the hold himself, shackled and helpless under the gaze of a man who saw violence not as a necessity, but as an art.
The words hung in the air like the lingering hum of a blade drawn from its sheath. Sigvard's bravado evaporated, replaced by a cold knot of fear in his gut.
"Yes, Captain," Sigvard managed, his voice barely audible. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers flexing as if seeking something to anchor him, but there was nothing.
Ingvar turned to leave but paused mid-step, his eyes narrowing as something caught his attention. His gaze lingered on Sigvard's belt, where a short sword hung in a simple leather sheath. The handle gleamed faintly in the light, its craftsmanship unmistakable. Ingvar's jaw tightened, and he moved forward, his boots thudding heavily against the deck.
"Sigvard," he said, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the murmurs around him. "That sword. Where did you get it?"
Sigvard blinked, startled by the sudden question. He glanced down at the weapon on his belt, his hand instinctively brushing over the hilt. "This?" he asked, confused. "Got it during the raid. From some boy. Thought it was a decent prize."
Ingvar's eyes darkened as he stepped closer, his towering presence casting a shadow over Sigvard. "A boy?" he repeated, his tone cold. His fingers curled around the hilt of the sword at his own side—its counterpart. The two blades were unmistakably linked, their craftsmanship too fine, too deliberate to be coincidence.
Sigvard hesitated, his unease growing under Ingvar's piercing gaze. He shifted his weight, forcing a shrug. "Aye," he admitted. "The little whelp had some spirit, swung it like he meant it. Took down Harald with it, if you can believe that." He spat over the railing, a flicker of irritation in his voice. "But in the end, he was just a kid."
Ingvar didn't respond. His gaze drifted toward the horizon, his thoughts turning inward. The boy's sword was more than a mere trinket—it was a reflection of its maker.
"A son, perhaps," Ingvar murmured under his breath, though Sigvard caught the words and frowned in confusion. The pieces clicked together in Ingvar's mind.
Ingvar's gaze returned to Sigvard, his face hardening. "The boy," he said, his voice sharper now, cutting through the growing tension. "Is he one of the slaves?"
Sigvard blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. He shuffled his feet uneasily. "Aye," he said cautiously. "He's down below. But… he's not much to look at, Captain. Barely speaks. Like his soul's already gone."
Ingvar's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he processed the words. "Lost?" he echoed, his voice quieter but no less intense.
Sigvard nodded again, glancing toward the hold. "Aye. He doesn't fight, doesn't cry, doesn't even look up most of the time. Just sits there, staring at nothing. Like there's nothing left inside him."
Ingvar's stare was unrelenting, his hand now resting firmly on his own sword's hilt. "Nothing happens to the boy," he said finally, his voice calm, measured, but carrying an iron authority that made Sigvard flinch. "Do you understand me, Sigvard? Nothing."
Sigvard's throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously. "Of course, Captain," he stammered. "Nothing'll happen to him. You have my word."
Ingvar stepped closer, his presence suffocating. "See that it doesn't," he said quietly, the words as much a threat as a command. His eyes locked on Sigvard's, ensuring there was no room for doubt. The silence stretched taut between them, until Sigvard nodded again, his face pale.
Satisfied, Ingvar stepped back, the flicker of violence in his eyes vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. His expression returned to its usual stony calm, but the weight of his words lingered. Without another glance at Sigvard, he turned and strode away, his voice rising as he barked orders to the crew near the mast. The men snapped to attention, their movements quick and disciplined, a testament to the iron grip he held over them.
As Ingvar disappeared into the shadows, another raider approached Sigvard. The man was wiry and sharp-featured, his teeth yellowed from years of chewing barkroot. He leaned casually against the railing, his eyes flicking toward the blood on Sigvard's hands.
"The merchant?" the wiry man asked, his voice low.
Sigvard smirked, his confidence returning now that Ingvar was gone. "He thought he could talk back to me." He spat over the side of the ship. "Not so high and mighty now, is he?"
The wiry man chuckled, shaking his head. "Never did know his place."
Sigvard puffed out his chest slightly, basking in the other man's approval. "I broke him in front of the lot of them. Let them know exactly who's in charge down there."
The wiry man nodded, his gaze shifting to the horizon. "Speaking of defiance… you remember that blonde from the last raid?"
Sigvard's grin returned, wider and more wicked. "Blonder than a summer dawn," he said, his tone dripping with vulgarity. "Little thing, barely old enough to cry for her mama."
The wiry man chuckled darkly. "Screamed like a banshee, though. Didn't know when to quit."
Sigvard shook his head, the memory igniting a spark of savage satisfaction. "Almost took the fun out of it."
The wiry man leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "What'd you do with her?"
"Tossed her into the fjord when we were done," Sigvard replied, his voice casual, almost bored. "Bet the fish are feasting on her now."
The wiry man laughed, the sound harsh and cutting. "Good riddance."
Sigvard's grin remained fixed, but his eyes were distant, his thoughts lingering on the girl's screams.
Sigvard's grin remained fixed, but his eyes were distant, his thoughts lingering on the girl's screams.
The conversation trailed off, and the wiry man pushed off the railing, his hands shoved into his belt. "Better not let the captain catch wind of that," he said, nodding toward where Ingvar had vanished.
Sigvard's grin didn't falter. "The captain can mind his business. I'll mind mine."
The wiry man shrugged and walked away, his footsteps fading into the night.
Sigvard turned back to the railing, the ocean stretching endlessly before him. The breeze cooled the blood on his hands, but his thoughts were anything but calm.
He glanced back toward the hatch leading to the hold, his grin curling into something darker. The memory of Jorund's defiant eyes surfaced, vivid and electric, sending a thrill through him. He could still feel the iron club in his hands, the sickening thuds reverberating up his arms as it connected with flesh and bone. The way Jorund's face crumbled, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but a pulped ruin, had been more than satisfying—it had been exhilarating. That moment of dominance, of obliterating defiance, burned bright in his mind, intoxicating and unshakable.
With a sharp exhale, he turned away, his gaze fixed on the horizon.