The air in the hold had changed. The damp, stale warmth that had clung to the captives like a second skin was gone, replaced by a chill that crept into every crack and pore. The planks of the ship's hull had taken on the bite of frost, their surfaces slick with freezing condensation. A faint, brittle mist hung in the dim light, rising with each exhalation like the ghosts of their breath.
The captives huddled closer together, their chains rattling faintly as they shifted in search of warmth. Frost nipped at their fingers, turning knuckles red and swollen. Toes curled in futile attempts to ward off the creeping cold, but the damp seeped into everything. The youngest among them trembled visibly, their thin clothing offering little defense. Even the boy felt it, though he remained still against the wall, his dark eyes sharp and alert beneath the curtain of his matted hair.
A murmur began to ripple through the hold, hushed at first but growing louder with each moment. The voices of the captives were strained, brittle with exhaustion and anger. "They'll leave us to freeze," someone growled. "They don't care if we die down here." Another voice, older and more broken, replied with grim resignation, "If they let us die, they lose their profit. We're worth more alive, even like this."
But the reassurances held little sway. Desperation had sharpened into fury, and the captives were fraying at the edges. Eyes flicked to the boy, who remained unmoved, his hands resting loosely on his knees. His silence was unnerving, but it held a gravity that anchored the others, keeping their burgeoning anger from spilling over.
Then the hatch above groaned, the creak of its hinges cutting through the voices like a blade. The captives flinched as light spilled into the hold, and the sound of boots on the ladder echoed in the cramped space.
The boy's gaze flicked upward. The silhouette descending into the hold wasn't the looming figure of one of the older, crueler guards. This one was different—a younger man, with a slender build and an awkwardness to his movements that betrayed inexperience. He carried a bundle of blankets under one arm, a flickering lantern in the other, and behind him came two other crew members carrying tools and wood planks.
The captives stilled, their eyes narrowing with suspicion. The young guard stopped at the bottom of the ladder, shifting uncomfortably under their scrutiny. He cleared his throat, his voice hesitant but without malice.
"Blankets," he said, holding up the bundle. His words were clumsy, but there was an undertone of kindness in them. "To keep the cold out. And we'll…we'll fix the leaks."
He nodded to the two crew members, who immediately set to work inspecting the hull's damaged planks. Their hammers rang out in sharp, steady rhythm as they began nailing patches over the cracks where the freezing wind seeped in.
For a moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, the captives began to inch forward. The young guard set the blankets on the ground and stepped back, allowing them to approach without feeling threatened.
The boy remained where he was, watching silently as the others scrambled for the blankets. The older captives took their time, their movements slower, more deliberate, while the younger ones snatched at the warm fabric with trembling hands. The boy waited until the rush subsided, then rose smoothly and crossed the hold. He took a blanket without a word, his expression unreadable as he draped it over his shoulders and returned to his spot by the wall.
The fisherman, sitting nearby, watched him with quiet curiosity. "It doesn't make sense," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.
The boy's dark eyes flicked to him. "What doesn't?"
"The cold. The way it came on so fast, so sharp. The storm must have thrown us off course. We shouldn't be this far north, not this time of year." The fisherman's gaze shifted to the young guard, who was speaking softly to one of the crew members. "They're not talking about it," he said, his voice tinged with unease. "That boy knows something, but he's keeping it close."
The boy said nothing, but his eyes lingered on the guard, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands lingered on the lantern's handle. He was kind, yes, but there was a wariness to him, an edge that spoke of knowledge left unsaid.
The boy's fingers tightened on the edge of his blanket, the fabric rough against his calloused palms. On the outside, he remained calm, his breathing steady and measured. But inside, the storm raged on, a firestorm of fury and loss that burned hotter with each passing moment.
When the crew finished patching the hull, the young guard lingered for a moment longer, his eyes scanning the hold. He caught the boy's gaze, and for a brief moment, there was something unspoken between them—an understanding, or perhaps a warning. Then he turned and climbed the ladder, the hatch slamming shut behind him.
Above deck, the air was no less bitter, but there was a determination that had begun to take hold of the crew. Under Captain Ingvar's orders, they moved with the precision of a single organism, their tasks flowing seamlessly into one another.
Eirik emerged into the gray light, blinking against the harsh wind that swept across the deck. Men worked in tight clusters, their voices low but urgent. Some had taken axes into the nearby forest, their rhythmic chopping echoing through the stillness as they felled trees for masts and planks. Others crouched by the ship's hull, patching the worst of the damage with whatever they could salvage.
The captain stood at the helm, his broad frame silhouetted against the stark sky. He watched his men with the intensity of a predator, his eyes darting from one task to the next, missing nothing. It was as though he could see the entire crew in his mind's eye, every man a piece of the greater whole.
"Axel, how are the hull repairs coming?" Ingvar's voice rang out, cutting through the din.
"Slow but steady, Captain!" Axel replied, his hands black with pitch as he sealed a crack in the planks. "We'll need more wood if we're to keep her watertight."
"Then send another team into the forest. I want those masts standing by nightfall, or we'll be dead in the water if another storm finds us."
Eirik hesitated near the railing, watching as the captain turned to another crew member. "Lars, tell the hunting party to double their pace. If we don't have food by sundown, we're all going to start looking like supper."
Lars nodded and hurried off, disappearing into the treeline where the hunters were already at work.
Eirik shifted uncomfortably, the tension from the hold still clinging to him. He approached the captain cautiously. "The captives…they're calm for now. I—uh—patched a few leaks, gave them some blankets."
Ingvar turned, his sharp eyes pinning Eirik in place. "And Sigvard?"
Eirik shook his head. "He didn't go near them. He knows better."
The captain grunted, his expression unreadable. "Good. Keep it that way. We don't need trouble below deck when we're already drowning in it up here."
Eirik nodded and stepped back, watching as the captain moved among the crew, issuing commands with the ease of a man born to lead.
The work continued as the sun began its slow descent, the men moving with purpose despite their exhaustion. They were cold, hungry, and battered, but they were alive. And under Ingvar's unyielding gaze, they would remain so—for now.