"They came not as saviors, nor as monsters. Just men with axes and eyes that had seen too much."
The sea had gone quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that brings peace. No, this was the silence of something watching. Something waiting. The kind of hush that makes even the wind hold its breath.
Tala lay curled beneath a torn sail, clutching the wooden box like it held the last piece of his soul. Inside, the chick stirred—small, fragile, but still alive. It chirped once, soft-soft, like it too feared waking the sea.
Kofi sat at the edge of the raft, legs dangling, eyes sharp like a hawk's. His lips were dry, cracked like riverbeds in drought. His skin, once glowing like roasted bronze, had dulled under the sun's cruel eye.
They hadn't spoken in hours. Not because they had nothing to say. But because words cost energy, and energy was a currency they could no longer afford.
Salt clung to their skin. Hunger gnawed at their bellies like rats in the dark. But they didn't cry. Crying was for children. And children didn't survive the sea.
Tala shifted, pulling the box closer. The earrings inside caught a sliver of light—two tiny suns in a world of gray. He touched them, not for comfort, but for memory. His mother's voice came to him like wind through baobab leaves: "When the world forgets you, remember who you are."
Kofi turned his head, slow-slow. "There's something out there."
Tala sat up, squinting. A shadow moved on the horizon—long, dark, slicing through the mist like a blade.
"A whale?" Tala asked.
Kofi shook his head. "Too fast. Too straight."
They watched. Silent. The shape grew larger. Wood. Sails. A prow carved like a dragon's head.
A ship.
Kofi stood, wobbling like a newborn calf. "We should paddle away."
"With what?" Tala pointed at the broken oar lying beside them. "We're barely floating."
"We can try."
"And go where? That thing's faster than us."
Kofi clenched his fists. "We can't just sit here."
Tala looked at him—really looked. His brother's eyes were wild, desperate. Not afraid of the ship, but of being helpless.
"We wait," Tala said, voice low. "We hide."
Kofi's jaw tightened. "You always want to hide."
"And you always want to fight."
Silence fell again. Heavy like wet cloth.
The chick pecked at Tala's palm. He winced, a tiny bead of blood rising.
He stared at it. "Even the weak bite when they must."
Kofi didn't answer. He turned back toward the ship, which now loomed like a mountain of wood and iron.
They scrambled.
Tala wrapped the box in cloth, tucked it beneath the sail. Kofi grabbed the broken oar, crouched near the edge like a lion ready to pounce.
The ship was close now—massive, ancient, its sails stitched with symbols that whispered of old wars and forgotten gods. The dragon prow snarled at the sea, its eyes carved from black stone.
Shouts rang out. Foreign words. Boots thudded against wood.
"They've seen us," Kofi whispered.
Tala nodded. "Don't let them take the box."
Kofi glanced at him. "Don't let them take you."
The ship slowed, drawing alongside their raft. Ropes dropped. Shadows moved above.
Then—impact. A thud as boots landed on the raft. Three men. Tall. Broad. Bearded. Axes at their sides.
The boys didn't wait.
Kofi lunged first, swinging the oar at the nearest man's legs. Tala moved with him, ducking low and driving his shoulder into the second Viking's gut. The two boys moved like dancers—one striking high, the other low, their rhythm born from jungle instincts and survival.
The first Viking stumbled, caught off guard. The second grunted as Tala's shoulder hit him, but grabbed the boy's arm. Tala twisted, bit down hard on the man's wrist. The Viking roared, more in shock than pain.
Kofi spun, using the broken oar like a staff, and cracked it against the third man's knee. The Viking dropped to one leg, cursing in his tongue.
"They've got fire," one of them muttered.
The second Viking raised his hand to strike, but a voice cut through the chaos.
"Enough."
The boys froze.
A man stepped forward—taller than the rest, with braided hair and a scar running from brow to cheek. His eyes were pale blue, like storm clouds before the rain.
He didn't draw his weapon.
Instead, he knelt.
Picked up the chick.
Held it gentle, like it was made of dreams.
Then handed it back to Tala.
"Even the weak bite," he said.
Tala stared at him, stunned.
The man stood. "Bring them aboard."
The boys didn't resist. They were too tired. Too confused.
They were lifted onto the ship, laid gently on fur-lined benches. Water was offered. Bread. They ate in silence, eyes darting between the men.
The leader sat nearby, watching them.
Kofi leaned toward Tala. "We fought."
Tala nodded. "We lived."
The ship sailed on, cutting through the mist.
And somewhere beneath the waves, something stirred.
Something old.
Something hungry.