The storm had been building for hours, its fury a shadow on the horizon, dragging the sea into a restless frenzy. By the time it hit, there was no mistaking its intent. Its icy claws tearing at sails and flesh alike. Rain slashed sideways across the deck, driven by winds so fierce they carried the sting of salt deep into every wound and cut. The sea roared beneath them, its waves towering as high as mountains, crashing down with thunderous fury. The five ships of Ingvar's fleet were scattered now, the lanterns that once kept them in sight swallowed by the black maw of the tempest.
Captain Ingvar stood at the bow of his flagship, his cloak lashed to his body by the storm's ferocity, his face an unmoving mask of determination. The sea surged beneath the ship, lifting it high into the air before plunging it down into a trough so deep the horizon vanished entirely. Each impact jarred the timbers, the groans of the hull nearly lost beneath the crashing waves.
"Get those lines tight!" Ingvar roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. "If the mast goes, so do we!"
A cluster of men scrambled along the deck, clutching ropes as though their lives depended on it—and in truth, they did. Ingvar moved through them like a wolf among sheep, shoving, pulling, shouting orders that were heeded not because they were barked, but because they were born from survival. Around him, the world was fury incarnate: the sharp snap of torn sails, the hiss of water pouring over the deck, the groans of a ship that fought with every nail to stay in one piece.
At the stern, Torsten fought the tiller, his wiry frame braced against the full force of the storm. "She's trying to turn, Captain!" he shouted, his voice barely audible over the wind. "If she swings broadside—"
"She won't!" Ingvar's words came as a growl, his boots thudding across the soaked planks as he made his way to the helmsman. "Keep her steady! No matter what it takes!"
Torsten nodded grimly, his knuckles whitening as he leaned into the tiller, his entire body an anchor against the sea's merciless pull. Ingvar clapped a hand on his shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of the man's strength, before turning back to survey the ship.
The deck was chaos. Men shouted to one another over the din, their faces pale and streaked with rain. A barrel, torn loose from its lashings, rolled wildly across the planks, narrowly missing a sailor who dove out of its path. Above, the mainsail flapped like a wounded beast, the torn fabric snapping with every gust of wind. Two men clung to the rigging, trying desperately to secure it, their silhouettes stark against the flashes of lightning.
The five ships had once been proud creatures, their sails billowing like the wings of gulls against the endless blue. Now, they were scattered prey, struggling to outpace a storm that hunted them with relentless ferocity. The sea beneath them was no longer water but a living beast, its waves clawing and snapping like the jaws of a great leviathan. Each crest towered higher than the last, a wall of dark water crowned with foam as sharp and white as fangs.
Ingvar's sharp eyes scanned the horizon, searching for the rest of his fleet through the shroud of rain and mist. To port, Drakkar—"The Dragon"— was a dim shadow, her lanterns bobbing weakly like dying fireflies. The other ships were further still, their outlines barely discernible against the storm's violent canvas. They were ghosts now, their forms swallowed and spit out by the shifting veils of rain.
For a fleeting moment, Ingvar saw Raven's Cry—her mast a defiant spear piercing the heavens as she fought to crest a monstrous wave. Then she was gone again, lost behind the veil. His gut tightened with each fleeting glimpse, each brief confirmation that the fleet still existed—and the bitter reminder that it could vanish at any moment.
The ships were his blood and bone, his empire built on salt and steel, and now the storm sought to unravel them, plank by plank, soul by soul. Each of them bore scars from battles fought on restless seas—victories won against rival raiders and the endless whims of the ocean. But this storm was a different kind of enemy. It was no rival fleet, no cunning warlord. It was something older, something primal, and it had no mercy.
The rain fell like a thousand knives, slicing across exposed skin and pooling in the troughs of the deck. It blurred the air, turning the world into a smudged painting of grays and blacks. The wind howled with a voice that was not entirely human, a banshee's wail that seemed to pierce straight into the skull. It tore at the sails, making them shudder and snap like the wings of a dying bird.
Drakkar fought valiantly, her hull rising and falling with the waves like a beast locked in combat. But even from this distance, Ingvar could see her struggle. She was like a stag surrounded by wolves, her crew scrambling to keep her alive, their frantic movements lit by flashes of lightning that painted the scene in stark, brutal clarity. Men clung to ropes and railings, their silhouettes framed against the chaos, and Ingvar could almost feel their desperation in his own chest.
Another wave surged, a dark giant rolling toward the ship. It rose higher and higher, curling over itself as though ready to crush her in a single blow. Ingvar clenched his fists against the railing, his nails biting into the weathered wood. The vessel seemed so small against that immense wall of water, so fragile.
He had seen ships break before—mighty vessels torn apart like toys in the grip of a storm—but he had never grown numb to it. Each one was a wound, a piece of himself lost to the unfeeling sea.
The storm had no intention of relenting. The waves rose like the backs of great beasts, each swell a dark mountain that threatened to swallow the fleet whole. The sea's surface shimmered with an eerie light, reflecting flashes of lightning that turned the roiling water into a churning cauldron of silver and black. The sound of it was deafening—a symphony of crashing waves, creaking wood, and the relentless howl of the wind.
Ingvar felt the ship groan beneath him, its timbers straining against forces that no craftsman could have foreseen. The deck bucked and shuddered, the boards slick with rain and seawater that pooled and spilled with each violent pitch. It was like riding a wild horse, one whose strength had not yet been broken, and every man aboard felt the sting of its rebellion in their bones.
He turned his gaze back to Drakkar. Through the mist and rain, the ship was a flicker of defiance, her mast still standing, her crew still fighting. But even from this distance, he could see the toll the storm had taken. The lanterns that had once glowed brightly on her deck were dim and faltering, their light barely holding against the encroaching dark. The men aboard her moved like shadows, their figures blurred by rain and fear.
The fleet was holding, but barely. Each ship was a thread, frayed and straining under the weight of the storm, and Ingvar knew that it wouldn't take much to snap one completely. His eyes darted to Raven's Cry on the horizon. The ship rolled precariously, its figurehead dipping into a monstrous swell before reemerging like a wounded beast clawing for air. Its men worked furiously to adjust the sails, their silhouettes painted against the violent sky.
"Not today," Ingvar muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl that the storm couldn't steal. "Not today."