The hold was a void of damp air and shadows, pressing in on the captives like a weight they couldn't shake. Each groan of the timbers felt like the ship's dying breath, the faint scent of brine seeping through cracks to mix with the stench of sweat and despair. It was a place that swallowed hope, leaving only the weight of chains and the press of silence.
The boy sat hunched against the wall, the frigid planks pressing icily against his back. His fingers traced the rough links of the chain absently, their metallic scrape lost beneath the groaning of the ship's timbers. The cuffs had cut deep into his wrists, the salt air stinging the raw wounds, but he barely noticed. The ache had become as constant as the darkness, something that lingered in the background like the scent of rot and despair.
Across from him, the fisherman hunched against the wall. His hands trembled slightly as he clutched the remnants of a hard biscuit, the crumbs spilling across the filthy planks. His breath was uneven, his shoulders rising and falling with quiet effort.
"You're shaking," the boy said softly, his voice devoid of emotion.
The fisherman looked up, offering a weary smile. "These old bones don't hold up like they used to," he murmured, each word rasping like sandpaper against wood. He tore a small piece of the biscuit and placed it on his tongue, chewing slowly as though the act required every ounce of his strength. "But we get through it, don't we?"
The boy didn't respond. His gaze drifted past the fisherman to the shadows stretching across the hold, dark and shapeless. His thoughts floated elsewhere, slipping between the jagged remnants of his memories.
His sister's laugh—high, light, like the ringing of a bell—still echoed faintly in his mind, but it was growing quieter, more distant. The sound, once vibrant and clear, now felt hollow, like an echo in an empty chamber. He tried to hold onto her face, to picture her wide smile and the way she tugged at his sleeve when she wanted to tell him something. But the details blurred at the edges, slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers.
His hands curled into fists, the cuffs biting into his skin. His mother's steady voice, her stories of gods and warriors, the comforting scent of pine smoke and earth—all of it was fading.
A sharp noise jolted him back to the present. The heavy thud of boots descending the stairs reverberated through the hold, breaking the stillness. The air seemed to shift with each step, growing heavier. The boy stiffened, his muscles tensing.
When the guard appeared, the hold seemed to shrink. The captives shrank against the walls, their chains rattling softly as they pressed themselves into the shadows. The boy's head tilted slightly, his dark eyes narrowing beneath his hair as he studied the man.
This wasn't one of the usual overseers. Those men were cruel but detached, their actions efficient and mechanical. They treated the captives like livestock—property to be managed, not people to be broken.
But this man was different.
The air seemed to shift with his arrival, thickening with a palpable tension. His movements were deliberate, calculated, each step a proclamation of his power. He didn't simply manage the captives—he fed off their suffering. Pain wasn't just a tool to him; it was the essence of his dominance, a reminder that he was the master and they were the condemned.
Sigvard.
His name echoed in whispers among the captives whenever the man's shadow loomed, a hushed warning spoken as though uttering it too loudly might summon him. His face, twisted into a sneer, was sharp and predatory, his scars cutting harsh lines across his skin. In the dim torchlight, he seemed more monster than man, the flame's flicker giving life to the cruelty etched into his features.
The boy hadn't noticed much about him before—he hadn't noticed much of anything at all, lost as he'd been in the haze of his own grief.
Sigvard dragged a wooden bucket filled with watery gruel behind him, the rough edges scraping against the planks with a grating sound that set teeth on edge. He paused in the center of the hold, letting the silence stretch as his gaze swept over the captives. His sneer widened, his amusement as sharp as the torchlight reflecting off his bloodshot eyes.
"Miss me?" he said, his voice laced with mockery, every syllable drawn out as though savoring its taste. "I'm sure you did."
The captives shrank back against the walls, their chains rattling faintly. Some couldn't even bring themselves to look at him, their gazes fixed on the filthy floorboards. Others stared, hollow-eyed and defeated, too broken to register fear anymore.
But the boy saw him differently.
It started with the voice. That mocking lilt, the way every word seemed dipped in venom—it was familiar. He had heard it before, rising above the howling wind after the storm. The laughter of the guards had drifted down into the hold, their jeering words like blades slicing through the fragile quiet. But one voice had cut deeper, its cruelty sinking into his mind like barbs.
Sigvard.
The name solidified in his memory, his recognition growing sharper with each breath. The fragments came together like shards of broken glass, each one cutting him anew as they formed a clearer picture. This was the man who had stood above the hold, laughing about the blonde girl from the raid.
His sister.
The boy's stomach twisted, not with hunger but with the weight of the realization. His breathing slowed, his chest rising and falling in measured, deliberate motions. As his hollow gaze turned toward Sigvard, something inside him shifted.
The boy's mind raced. He pieced together the snatches of conversation he'd overheard—the taunts, the cruel descriptions, the mocking laughter. It had been Sigvard's voice, sharp and cruel, that had twisted his grief into something colder, something more dangerous.
And now that voice was here, no longer an echo but flesh and blood standing before him. He finally placed the face with the name.
Sigvard met the boy's gaze briefly and smirked, his sneer deepening as though he sensed the boy's fear. He kicked the bucket, sending a splash of the watery gruel onto the floor. "Who's hungry?" he said, his tone thick with amusement. "Don't all line up at once."
The boy didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His muscles coiled, and a quiet, deadly stillness settled over him.
In that moment, something changed.
Before, he had been lost in a fog, his mind trapped in endless loops of grief and helplessness. But now, the haze lifted, replaced by an icy clarity. Every word Sigvard had spoken, every sneer, every moment of cruelty burned in the boy's mind, fueling a singular, unyielding.
I will kill this man.
The boy's breath steadied, his hands resting limply in his lap. He didn't react to the jeers, didn't move as Sigvard's sneer widened. On the surface, he remained the same—quiet, empty, just another broken captive among the rest.
But deep inside, a fire ignited, burning hotter with every passing second.
Sigvard began moving through the hold, ladling small portions of gruel into the captives' hands. Some of them reached out eagerly, their movements frantic despite the chains that bound them. Others hesitated, their faces hollow with resignation, waiting for him to notice them.
When he reached the fisherman, he stopped, crouching down to meet the old man's weary gaze.
"What's this?" He said, tilting his head. "An old man wasting my food?"
The fisherman kept his head bowed, his hands outstretched. "I'm grateful for anything, sir," he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his fingers.
Sigvard snorted, a harsh sound that made the other captives flinch. "Grateful, huh?" He tipped the bucket forward, letting a small stream of gruel dribble onto the fisherman's outstretched hands. Then, with a sudden motion, he yanked the bucket back, spilling the rest onto the floor.
"There. Eat like the dog you are."
The fisherman hesitated only for a moment before lowering himself to the floor. His frail body trembled as he scooped the spilled gruel into his hands, bringing it to his mouth. Sigvard stood over him, laughing, the sound guttural and cruel.
The boy's knuckles ached from how still he kept his hands, every fiber of him trembling with the effort to contain the storm building inside. The chain between his wrists quivered, a faint rattle betraying the fury he refused to unleash.
He lingered a moment longer, savoring the humiliation he had wrought, before turning to the next captive. The boy's gaze followed him, sharp and unrelenting, committing every detail of the man to memory.
That night, the boy lay awake in the suffocating dark. The hold swayed gently with the ship, each groan of the timbers echoing the tension in his chest. The air felt thicker, the shadows heavier, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were sharp, cutting through the fog of exhaustion.
Sigvard's voice echoed in his mind, mingling with the fractured image of his sister. Blond hair like gold. Tossed her into the fjord. The words replayed endlessly, each repetition stoking the fire in his chest.
The fisherman stirred beside him, his chains clinking softly. "You're quiet tonight," he said, his voice barely audible over the creaking of the ship.
"I have nothing to say," the boy replied. His tone was flat, empty.
The fisherman sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. "You're too young to carry this weight alone."
The boy's gaze remained fixed on the faint light filtering through the cracks in the hull. "Maybe. But I'm strong enough."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The boy closed his eyes, but the darkness behind his lids offered no peace. He tried to picture his mother's face, the way she would smile at him after a long day in the fields. He searched for the softness in her eyes, the way her hair caught the light of the hearth fire.
But the image refused to come into focus. It slipped away, blurred and distorted, like mist dissipating with the wind.
His sister's laughter echoed faintly in his mind, but even that was growing distant. The sound, once so vibrant and clear, now felt hollow, as though it belonged to someone else.
In their place, a cold emptiness began to settle.
The boy opened his eyes. The faint light from the slits in the hull barely illuminated the space, but it was enough to see the fisherman's face—worn, weary, and watching him with quiet understanding. The boy sat in the frozen silence, his breath clouding the air as he watched the old man shivering in the corner, his frail frame struggling against the cold. For a moment, the boy hesitated, unsure, but then he rose, taking the lantern from where it hung. He moved closer to the old man, kneeling beside him, and closed his eyes. He reached out with his will, calling softly to the flame within the lantern. It flickered in response, hesitant at first, but then it grew, flaring brighter and larger, casting warmth into the immediate space. The icy air around them softened, and the old man, astounded, stared at the boy with wide, wary eyes.
"How… how did you do that?" he asked, his voice trembling, though whether from the cold or something else, the boy couldn't tell.
The boy opened his eyes, the glow of the flame reflected within them. "It doesn't matter," he murmured, his tone flat. "This is about all I can do."
For a long moment, the old man simply looked at him, his expression a mixture of fear and wonder. Then his face softened, his lips trembling into a faint smile. "You've done more than enough, lad," he said, his voice thick with gratitude. "More than anyone else could've done."
"Don't let them take what's left of you, boy," the fisherman said softly. "They'll steal your soul if you let them."
The boy didn't answer. His gaze shifted to the faint light, but his thoughts stayed rooted in the dark.