The storm raged on, relentless and unmerciful, its fury a tempest given form. Wind lashed against the vessel like a living whip, snapping ropes taut and tearing at the cloaks of men who clung to life with bloodied hands. The deck of the flagship was a battlefield of water and wood, every crashing wave a blow from an unseen enemy, every groan of the ship's timbers a cry of defiance.
Captain Ingvar moved like a wolf among his pack, sharp and purposeful, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Keep those lines taut!" he roared, grabbing one of the younger sailors by the collar and shoving him toward the rigging. "If the sail goes, we're dead before we know it!"
The deck pitched violently beneath his feet, slick with saltwater and rain, and for a moment, Ingvar had to steady himself against the mast. His boots scraped for purchase on the sodden planks, but he did not falter. Around him, the groaning timbers of the vessel spoke of strain, of the sea's determination to splinter her and drag the pieces into its icy depths.
"Captain!" a voice cried from the tiller. It was Torsten, his face pale, his hands iron grips on the tiller as it bucked like a wild beast. "The vessel to port! She's taking on water!"
Ingvar's head snapped toward the ship in question—Ægir's Wrath. Through the haze of the storm, she was barely more than a shadow. Lantern light glimmered weakly against her hull, revealing the chaos aboard. Men scrambled across her deck like ants, their small figures dwarfed by the waves that surged around them. Her mast swayed violently, and her bow dipped perilously low into the frothing sea.
"She's sinking…" Torsten's voice was grim, almost resigned.
Ingvar ignored him, his focus narrowing on the vessel. He could see her crew now, illuminated in the flashes of lightning. They moved with frantic energy, hurling buckets of seawater overboard, their efforts feeble against the torrents spilling in faster than they could throw it out.
Torsten gritted his teeth, the salt stinging his lips as he fought the tiller. His arms burned with the strain, the muscles trembling from the sheer force of holding the ship steady against the storm's wrath. He could barely see through the sheets of rain, but he didn't need clarity to feel the weight of their predicament. It pressed on him like the waves pressing against the hull.
In fleeting moments, his gaze flicked to the vessel beside them. The lanterns aboard her seemed dimmer now, their glow swallowed by the black maw of the storm. Torsten's heart sank as he saw the men scrambling across her deck, their movements frantic and disorganized.
"They won't make it," he whispered to himself, though the words were lost to the wind. He looked to Captain Ingvar, whose silhouette loomed against the lightning's glow. There was no hesitation in the captain's movements, no faltering in his commands. It gave Torsten something to cling to—a reminder that, for now, they still had a chance.
Ingvar's sharp eyes tracked the vessel's movements, every tilt and dip of her hull spelling out her impending doom. And then he saw it. A wave began to rise behind her, impossibly tall and cruelly black, its crest rimmed with white foam. It reared up like a vengeful giant, blocking out what little light the storm had allowed. Ingvar's breath caught as he watched its inexorable climb, water spilling from its sides as if the sea itself had grown arms and claws to claim the ship.
"Turn her!" he bellowed, his voice raw with urgency. "Turn her into the wave! You've got to meet it head-on, or it'll take you whole!"
But his words were swallowed by the gale, carried away before they could reach the stricken vessel. Onboard the ship, the men continued their desperate work, unaware of the monster bearing down on them.
"Move, damn you!" Ingvar's fist slammed against the railing, the impact reverberating through his bones. "Turn her, or she's finished!"
The vessel began to shift, her prow angling slightly toward the wave. For a brief moment, hope flickered in Ingvar's chest—but it was too slow, too little, too late.
The wave struck Ægir's Wrath with a force that defied reason. Ingvar's shout was drowned by the crash of water against wood. The vessel disappeared beneath the surge, swallowed whole by the wave's fury. Her mast snapped like a twig, the splinters hurled skyward before vanishing into the churning depths. For a moment, all that remained was the boiling sea, foaming and thrashing as if savoring its victory.
When the water receded, there was no sign of the ship. She was gone. The sea held only fragments of wood—splintered planks, broken barrels—floating like the bones of a once-mighty beast.
Ingvar's fists clenched around the railing, his knuckles white against the rain-slick wood. His sharp eyes scanned the wreckage, searching for life among the flotsam. There were bodies, limp and lifeless, bobbing among the debris, their faces pale and expressionless in the cold gray light. One man raised a hand weakly, his fingers grasping at nothing before the sea claimed him.
"Damn you…" Ingvar muttered, his voice a low growl, barely audible over the storm. His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding against the bitter taste of loss. He had known this storm would take its share, but to see it—to witness men snatched away by the sea's unrelenting hunger—was a wound that would not heal.
"Captain!" Torsten called, his voice thick with anguish. "She's gone…"
"I see it," Ingvar snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut. He turned back to his crew, his expression hard as the ship lurched beneath them. "Don't look! Don't stop! If you grieve now, it'll take us too!"
The men hesitated, their gazes still locked on the debris floating in the distance. Ingvar stepped forward, his voice rising with the storm's fury. "Do you want to join them?" he shouted, pointing toward the wreckage. "Because that's what will happen if you falter! The sea doesn't wait—it doesn't forgive! Now move!"
The crew stirred, their fear giving way to grim determination. Slowly, they returned to their tasks, their hands moving with renewed urgency. Ingvar stepped back to the railing, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the vessel had been.
Below deck , the boy sat motionless against the damp planks, his dark eyes fixed on the cracks above where icy rainwater and spray seeped through, trailing down like tiny rivers. The groaning of the timbers wasn't just the ship fighting against the storm—it was the world buckling under its wrath. And somehow, he felt it was his wrath.
Every crash of a wave against the hull mirrored the pounding in his chest. Every howl of the wind carried the weight of a scream he couldn't release. The storm wasn't something happening outside—it was inside him, a reflection of the anger that churned through his veins. The more it raged, the more his mind fed it, letting his fury fuel the tempest.
The hold was a cacophony of chaos. Water pooled at their feet, sloshing with the ship's violent rocking, and the air was thick with the stench of sweat, rot, and fear. Chains rattled with every sudden lurch, the metallic clangs cutting through the groaning wood. Dim lightning flashes illuminated the space in brief, stark bursts, revealing gaunt faces twisted in terror.
The captives were clinging to what little stability they had left, some gripping the chains that bound them, others huddled together like frightened animals. The boy sat apart, his back pressed against the wall, his fingers loosely curled around the links of his chains.
His thoughts were a whirlwind, as chaotic as the storm battering the ship. He stared at the water seeping through the cracks in the hull, watching it drip down in steady, rhythmic patterns. Each drop hit the pooling water below like a heartbeat. He felt his own pulse in his ears, each thud syncing with the storm's unrelenting rhythm.
It wasn't enough to contain him. He wanted to rise, to strike out at something, anything. The storm was his anger, and he felt it feeding on him, growing stronger with every bitter memory.
The laugh of a guard after the raid.
The way his sister's hand had slipped from his.
His mother's pleading gaze, urging him to run as her cries were silenced.
The ship lurched violently, and the storm roared louder as if responding to his thoughts. A wave struck the hull with enough force to send a shudder through the entire hold, knocking several captives off balance. The girl next to him whimpered, clutching at her chains as though they might anchor her against the chaos.
Another wave struck, harder this time, and the groan of the hull turned into a sharp crack that reverberated through the hold. The captives cried out in unison, their voices rising in a chaotic chorus. The boy's gaze darted to the cracks above, where another stream of water poured through, faster now, dripping onto the filthy planks.
"Let it rage," he thought, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the shadows. "Let it tear everything apart."
The more he fed the thought, the more the storm seemed to respond. Another wave crashed against the hull, harder than the last, and a loud crack split the air. Water began to seep in faster, pooling around their feet and soaking through their ragged clothing.
Above deck, one of the younger sailors tripped on the slick planks, his bucket spilling seawater back onto the deck. He scrambled to his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The storm's whispers were in his ears now, telling him it was hopeless, that the sea would claim them all.
The sea churned on, indifferent to their defiance. The sky was a chaotic swirl of black and gray, the storm refusing to break, its wrath far from spent. Ingvar's gaze hardened as he gripped the railing, his resolve as unyielding as the storm around him.
"We're not done yet," he muttered, his words a promise to the sea as much as to himself. "Not by a damn sight."