The storm had a voice, low and cruel, whispering despair into the ears of even the stoutest men. It clawed its way into their skulls, slipping past reason and planting seeds of doubt. It spoke not with words, but with the weight of every crashing wave and the unrelenting howl of the wind, until the sea felt less like an enemy to fight and more like a god demanding worship—and sacrifice.
Wulfric stood at the center of it, the whisper's chosen prophet. He had always been a man of scars, his body a map of survival etched by blade, fire, and frost. Each mark told of endurance, battles fought and won, but even the strongest iron could fracture under relentless pressure. Tonight, the storm found his breaking point.
At first, Wulfric's hands clung to a coil of rope, his knuckles white as he fought to keep his footing on the slick planks. Rain lashed his face, stinging his skin and blurring his vision. The rope was a lifeline, its fibers rough and solid, and for a moment it tethered him to the task at hand. But the whisper came, insidious and creeping. It slithered into his ears like a serpent, coiling around his thoughts and hissing of futility.
A shadow of a memory flickered through Wulfric's mind: his father's voice, roaring over the wind as he taught him to sail. "The sea's your ally until it's not. When it turns, it's not your enemy—it's your master." The words had stuck with him, an acknowledgment of the sea's omnipotence. But now, as he stood on the deck of a ship that groaned and screamed under the storm's fury, the lesson turned to prophecy. Wulfric's grip loosened, and the rope fell to the planks with a muted thud.
He stumbled to the mast, his breaths shallow and uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp gasps. His mind raced, a cacophony of fragmented thoughts that only grew louder as the storm surged. The sea's power was absolute. It didn't matter how hard they fought, how many orders Captain Ingvar barked—they were all just specks on its surface, grains of sand waiting to be swept away.
A voice that wasn't his own escaped his lips, sharp and ragged. "They're coming for us!" Wulfric shouted, his cry piercing the chaos. "The gods! The gods have turned their backs! Don't you see it? We're cursed! Doomed!"
Captain Ingvar turned at the sound of Wulfric's voice. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, scanned the deck and found the sailor near the mast. The man was trembling, his broad shoulders heaving with each breath, his eyes darting wildly as if he could see something no one else could. Rain streamed down his face, and his lips moved as though he was arguing with a ghost. It wasn't the first time Ingvar had seen fear take root in a man, but it was rare to see it bloom so violently.
The captain's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white against the leather-wrapped pommel. He could feel the storm testing the edges of his command, tugging at the frayed ends of their morale. If Wulfric's panic spread, it could unravel the crew entirely.
"Shut your mouth, Wulfric!" another sailor shouted, his voice quaking but firm. "We've no time for your madness!"
For a moment, Ingvar allowed the exchange to play out, watching carefully. The crew needed to see themselves rise against fear, to push back against the storm and the poison of despair. But when Wulfric's hand darted to his belt, drawing a small hand axe, Ingvar moved.
Wulfric's movements were quick and erratic, his heavy boots splashing through pools of rainwater as he paced like a caged animal. The axe in his hand caught the faint light of the lanterns, its dull blade gleaming with a threat that cut deeper than its edge. His voice rose to a near-shriek. "The sea doesn't care about your orders! It wants blood! And if we don't give it, it'll take us all!"
The words hit the crew like waves, each one striking with greater force than the last. Men froze, their hands slipping from ropes and railings. Their gazes darted between Wulfric and the captain, looking for guidance, for salvation. But Wulfric saw only the terror in their eyes, and it emboldened him.
He turned toward the nearest man, a younger sailor with wide, frightened eyes. "Do you see it?" Wulfric demanded, taking a step closer. "Do you feel it? The gods are calling—"
"Enough!" the younger man interrupted, his voice cracking with a mix of fear and defiance. "You're wrong, Wulfric! The sea's just a storm, and storms pass—"
Wulfric lunged.
The axe came down in a brutal arc, burying itself in the man's shoulder with a wet, sickening thud. The sailor's scream was swallowed by the storm as he collapsed to the deck, blood spilling across the planks and mingling with the rainwater. The metallic tang of it filled the air, sharp and nauseating.
The crew recoiled, their shock rooting them in place. Wulfric stood over the fallen sailor, his chest heaving, his expression a twisted mask of righteousness and despair. He wrenched the axe free, the sound of tearing flesh audible even over the storm. "Do you see what the gods demand?" he shouted, his voice frenzied. "Blood! Blood for the sea!"
Ingvar stepped forward, his boots thudding against the planks as he closed the distance between himself and Wulfric. The captain's expression was cold, his jaw set in a line of unyielding resolve. He had seen men like Wulfric before, warriors who broke under the weight of their own fears. But fear wasn't an excuse—it was a weakness that threatened the whole.
"Drop the axe," Ingvar said, his voice low and steady. It wasn't a plea, nor was it a command. It was a promise.
Wulfric turned, the axe still dripping in his hand. His breaths came in harsh gasps, his eyes narrowing as he took a step toward the captain. "You don't understand, Captain," he hissed. "They're speaking to me. The gods—they're demanding a sacrifice. If we don't—"
"They're not speaking to you," Ingvar interrupted, his tone icy. "And if they are, you'd best hope they're listening when I send you to meet them."
Time hung suspended, the storm itself seeming to pause as the two men stared each other down. The crew held their breath, their gazes flicking between their captain and the sailor who had become a storm of his own.
Then Wulfric moved.
The axe rose, but Ingvar was faster. In one fluid motion, his sword was drawn, its steel gleaming like the edge of lightning. The blade cut through the air and found its mark, slicing across Wulfric's chest in a clean, decisive stroke.
Wulfric stumbled, the axe falling from his grasp to clatter against the deck. Blood spilled from the wound, vivid and shocking against the pale wash of rainwater. His hands clutched at his chest, his fingers slick with his own life's essence, as though he could hold himself together by sheer will.
He fell to his knees, his lips moving silently, his eyes searching for something—redemption, forgiveness, an answer. But the storm offered none. With a final, shuddering breath, Wulfric collapsed, his body crumpling against the blood-soaked planks.
Ingvar stood over him, his sword still drawn, the blade steady despite the rocking of the ship. His expression was unreadable, his gaze as cold and unforgiving as the sea itself. "The gods don't want your blood," he said, his voice low. "But I won't let your madness take this crew."
He turned sharply, his boots thudding against the deck as he faced his men. Some were frozen, others trembling, their faces pale as they looked from Wulfric's lifeless form to their captain.
"Get back to work!" Ingvar barked, his voice cutting through the storm like a whip. "If any of you think to follow his lead, you'll find my blade waiting for you. Do your duty, or join the sea!"
The men stirred, their hands moving with renewed urgency. Ingvar watched them for a moment before sheathing his sword and turning back to the helm. The storm still raged, but in that moment, it felt quieter—as if it, too, had paused to acknowledge the captain's unyielding will.
Wulfric's blood swirled with the rainwater, pooling near the gunwale before being washed away by the next wave. Ingvar spared him no further glance. The dead could not be saved. The living, however—they were still his to command.
And he would see them through this storm, or die trying.