The boy sat slumped against the damp planks of the ship's hold, his body limp but his mind taut as a bowstring. The iron shackles around his wrists chafed with each small motion, leaving his skin raw, though he hardly felt it. The air was heavy, stifling, clinging to his skin like a wet shroud. It reeked of sweat, rot, and despair—a stench so thick it seemed to seep into his lungs with every breath.
Around him, the ship creaked and groaned, the sound threading through the faint murmurs of the other captives. But the boy didn't listen. He had learned to block out the noise, to let it wash over him like the tides. Only the coldness in his chest remained—a relentless, gnawing ache that refused to fade.
It was always the same. No matter how many times he tried to push the thoughts away, they surged back, battering against him like waves against rock.
He saw his father first, always his father. A towering figure, standing tall in the face of the raiders. He could almost hear the man's deep, commanding voice, steady like the rumble of distant thunder, shouting orders to the villagers. His father had fought like a cornered bear, his swift sword strikes dominating anyone who dared approach. But even bears could only fight for so long.
The image shifted, and now it was his mother. Her fierce eyes, alight with desperation, her hands trembling as she pushed him and his sister toward the woods. "Run," she had said, her voice cracking with urgency. "Don't look back." But he had looked back. He had seen the moment they caught her, dragging her to the ground. He had heard her scream—A sound that struck him like a collapsing tree, heavy and irrevocable, leaving no chance to escape its weight.
And then his sister. Her pale, small hand clutching his as they ran, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps. He remembered the way her fingers had trembled in his grasp, the way she had cried his name when the raiders tore her from him. He could still feel the weight of her hand slipping from his, could still hear the sheer helplessness in her voice.
The boy's fingers dug into the rough wood at his sides, his breathing shallow and uneven. The memories were so vivid, so sharp, they felt more real than the dim hold around him. He could still smell the acrid smoke of the burning village, hear the clash of steel and the screams of the dying. Yet each time he reached for these moments, they began to twist and blur, shifting like shadows on restless water.
Time lost meaning. Hours bled into days, or perhaps it was the other way around. The boy couldn't tell. He didn't eat unless the man pressed food into his hands, and even then, he chewed mechanically, as though swallowing the bread were another task he endured rather than desired. He swayed with the ship's movements, but his body felt distant, a vessel as empty as the hold itself.
The other captives stirred, their gaunt faces turning upward toward the distant noises of conversation on the deck above. Someh exchanged whispers, their words tinged with bitterness and exhaustion.
The boy didn't look up. His thoughts remained tethered to the past, replaying the same scenes over and over. He tried again to summon his sister's face, But the memory dissolved like mist under the morning sun, fleeting and impossible to grasp. Her laugh—he had always loved her laugh—was gone. No matter how hard he reached for it, it had disappeared, leaving a hollow ache in its place. His father's voice, his mother's stories, his sister's smile—they were all unraveling, vanishing one by one.
Above him, the voices of the crew grew louder. Two guards leaned over the railing at the edge of the hold, their laughter cutting through the groans of the ship. At first, their words were muffled, but as they spoke, their voices grew clearer.
"Blonder than a summer dawn, she was," one of them said, his tone low and mocking. "Little thing, barely old enough to cry for her mama."
The boy's head lifted slightly, his gaze sharpening.
"Screamed like a banshee, though," the second guard added with a sneer. "Didn't know when to quit. Almost took the fun out of it."
The boy's jaw tightened, his breath catching in his throat.
"Tossed her into the fjord when we were done with her," the first guard said, his voice dripping with vulgarity. "Bet the fish are feasting on her now."
The words hit the boy like a physical blow. His chest tightened painfully, his lungs refusing to draw air. The memories vanished, swallowed whole by a searing, all-consuming thought.
His sister.
The boy's fingers flexed slowly against the planks, his muscles taut and trembling—not with fear, but with something colder. Harder. Hotter.
Rage.
It began as a flicker, glowing faintly in the darkness. But as the guards' laughter echoed down into the hold, it grew, feeding on the grief and pain that had consumed him for so long. The ember swelled into a flame, burning hotter and brighter until it threatened to consume him.
The lanterns on the ship suddenly roared to life, their once modest flames surging upward in a feral burst of light. What had been gentle, flickering glows now blazed with an intensity that seared into the night, the flames licking at the iron casings like they were trying to escape. Shadows vanished under the onslaught of illumination, leaving the ship starkly exposed, every knot in the wood and weathered face of the crew cast into sharp, unnatural clarity.
"By the gods, what is this?" someone shouted, shielding their eyes as the heat radiating from the lanterns intensified. Sweat broke out on faces, beads glinting in the light as men staggered back from the overwhelming brightness. The air grew thick and oppressive, carrying with it the acrid scent of burning oil, though the flames seemed far too large for their humble reservoirs.
The boy's gaze snapped into focus, the dull glaze replaced by a piercing intensity. The anger coursing through his veins was relentless, but he stayed still. His body remained still, every muscle coiled like a spring, waiting for the moment to strike.
He knew better than to act now. The guards were armed, unchained, and surrounded by allies. Blind rage would only get him killed. But he wasn't blind anymore.
For the first time since he had been taken, the boy felt something other than despair. It wasn't hope—not yet. It was something sharper. Something dangerous.
Purpose.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting the image of his sister's face fill his mind one last time. He wouldn't let the guards' words destroy that memory. He wouldn't let them take anything else from him.
When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't the same. The boy who had sat in the corner, lost and broken, was gone. In his place was something colder, sharper, unyielding. The weight of his grief had not lifted—it had transformed, forged into something harder, more deliberate.
Around him, the lantern flames flickered low, their light dimming as if spent from their earlier struggle. For a moment, the room seemed still, the air heavy with the echoes of what had passed. Then, one by one, the flames steadied, their flickers turning soft and steady, as though they recognized what had changed. They swayed in gentle rhythm, no longer desperate but almost serene, as if in quiet celebration of his return to the world of the living
The voices of the guards faded as they moved away, their conversations swallowed by the creak of the ship and the murmur of waves. The boy remained motionless, his breathing steady, his body calm, though his eyes now burned with a sharpened intensity.
One word lingered in the stillness, louder than the waves, louder than the memories that clawed at the edges of his mind. He had overheard it subconsciously before when the captain was admonishing the guard above.
"Sigvard."
He whispered it under his breath, testing the weight of the name, the shape of it on his tongue. The sound cut through the fog in his mind, solid and unyielding. It wasn't just a name; it was a target.
"Sigvard," he repeated, the word carrying a quiet finality, like a blade being unsheathed in the dark.
The boy's gaze, hidden beneath the curtain of his hair, was fixed now—not on the creaking planks or the suffocating shadows, but on the memory of the man who had stolen everything from him. His sister's screams echoed faintly in his ears, fueling the fire that burned low and steady inside him.
This was no blind rage. It was now focused, cold and unrelenting.
Sigvard.
The boy curled deeper into his corner, his outward form unchanged, but within him, a predator stirred.
He would survive. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. His body longed for death, his soul begged for oblivion—but he would deny them both. Not yet. Not until he had carved his vengeance into the bones of those who had taken everything from him.