The sea was calm that morning—almost unnaturally so. It stretched to the horizon like a sheet of hammered steel, reflecting the low-hanging sun without a single ripple. The air, typically alive with the crisp scent of salt and spray, was heavy and still. It was the kind of silence that precedes a great storm or a great violence, a breathless moment where the world holds its breath.
On the deck of Bjorn's ship, the Vikings moved with a quiet, practiced rhythm. They were not machines, but they were not restless either. Nets were hauled, their lines singing a familiar tune. Blades were sharpened with a steady hiss against whetstones. Wood was scrubbed clean, and ropes were coiled and hung with the discipline of a crew that lived and died by their order. The low murmur of their voices, the scent of fish, and the faint, sweet smell of pine mingled in the air.
Near the mast, Tala and Kofi sat cross-legged, daggers in hand, their bodies a study in stillness. They practiced the silent drills Bjorn had taught them, their movements so fluid and small that from a distance, it seemed as if their hands were simply floating. Elikem leaned against the railing, his arms folded over his chest, a quiet smirk on his face. He no longer saw them as two boys who had simply survived. He saw them as something more.
At the helm, Bjorn stood with his hands on the carved dragon head, his gaze sweeping the horizon. His eyes, blue as a winter sky, saw past the stillness of the water. He felt it in the subtle shift of the wind, the almost imperceptible tension in the waves. He had learned long ago to trust these feelings, to trust the sea's quiet warnings.
Then the shout came. It was a guttural cry from the crow's nest that tore through the pre-dawn stillness like a stone through glass.
"Ship on the horizon!" cried the scout. "Coming fast! And it's not friendly!"
All eyes turned.
The vessel tore across the water like a wounded beast—its sails were shredded, its hull was scorched black, and its crew was a frantic, wild-eyed mob. It moved with a desperate, frantic speed, not the graceful cut of a longship. It was a scavenger ship, a vessel that had survived a great battle or clawed its way out of a catastrophic storm. The wind howled through its torn sails, and the ship groaned under the strain.
Bjorn narrowed his eyes. "Let it pass," he said, his voice a low rumble.
But fate had other plans.
The scavenger ship veered toward them, closing the distance with reckless speed. Its crew—wild-eyed, bloodied, and desperate—shouted across the waves, their voices raw with hunger.
"Drop your supplies! Surrender your valuables! Or we'll take them! And we will show you no mercy!"
Bjorn stepped forward, his body calm as stone. "There's no need for blood," he said, his voice carrying across the water. "We can end this peacefully."
The enemy captain laughed, a jagged-toothed man with a scorched helm and a voice like rusted iron. He pointed a gnarled finger at Bjorn's ship. "Peace? You're floating on driftwood. We'll crush you in one sweep. You are nothing but a meal to us!"
They were known as the Saltborn Scars, a scavenger crew forged in a thousand shipwrecks and endless betrayals. Survivors who had turned into predators. Their ship was larger, yes—but bloated and battered, a testament to their reckless, scavenging lives. Their pride was louder than their strength, a bluff they'd used a hundred times.
Bjorn saw through the bluff. He raised his axe, a massive weapon of polished steel and dark wood. He didn't shout. He didn't roar. He simply spoke two words.
"Try."
A flurry of hooks flew through the air, their iron claws tearing at the Viking ship's railing. Ropes snapped taut as the Saltborn Scars boarded with a wild, hungry fury. Twenty, thirty, maybe more of them swarmed the deck, their blades gleaming with rust and blood. Their eyes burned with hunger and a desperate, animal need.
But numbers meant nothing to Bjorn's crew. They moved like a tide, a disciplined, brutal, and unshaken wall of steel and muscle. They formed a shield wall, a living fortress that the Saltborn Scars could not break.
Bjorn stood at the center, his axe in hand, a silent, implacable god of war. With each swing, a man fell. His strikes were not wild—they were deliberate, final, a series of swift and elegant verdicts. One blow shattered a ribcage. Another cleaved through shield and bone.
He was not just a warrior. He was Bjorn the Godsplitter. The name was not a boast but a fact, a story whispered across coasts, etched into the bones of those who had seen him fight. And now, the Saltborn Scars understood. They couldn't land a single hit. Every wild swing was parried. Every lunge was met with steel. Bjorn's crew fought like wolves—silent, coordinated, and merciless.
Elikem entered the frenzy like a storm given flesh. He moved low, fast, and precise, a blur of motion. His movements were not the clumsy, chaotic strikes of the Saltborn, but a deadly, fluid dance. He sliced through the chaos with a blade that sang, a sharp, deadly melody of steel on flesh.
He was a hound off the leash.
Throats opened. Knees buckled. Eyes went dark. He didn't waste a single motion, didn't hesitate for a moment. He ducked beneath a spear, rolled across the deck, and came up with a slicing strike to the Achilles tendon of a surprised Saltborn warrior. The man screamed as his leg gave out, blood spraying from the artery behind his knee. Another man raised his sword, but Elikem's dagger was faster, a glint of silver that plunged into his eye, dropping him with a hollow thud.
Elikem didn't stop. He was rhythm incarnate—death in motion.
Then, from the chaos of the deck, Tala and Kofi joined the fray. They moved like shadows stitched together, a single, flowing entity of instinct and training. They ducked, they weaved, they struck in perfect rhythm. They remembered Elikem's lesson. They didn't fight with brute force. They fought with precision.
They targeted the vulnerabilities—the gaps in the armor, the soft flesh, the vital points:Neck: A clean slice ends breath and blood.Eyes: Blindness turns warriors into prey.Behind the knees: Sever the artery, collapse the stance.Ankle vein: A deep cut drains strength with every step.They were small. They were fast. They were a whisper in a storm of noise. But it wasn't easy. A Saltborn swung a heavy axe, and Tala, too slow to dodge, took the blunt edge to his side. He gasped, his ribs screaming in protest, but he stayed on his feet. He took the pain, adjusted his stance, and kept fighting. Kofi was kicked back, his head hitting the mast with a sickening thud, but he shook it off, his eyes still burning with a cold, clear focus.
They learned to read the rhythm of battle. When a warrior swung high, they went low—together. When he crouched, they leapt—together. If he was slow, they overwhelmed. If he was fast, they baited and retreated. They used each other's bodies—Tala lifting Kofi into a spin, Kofi pulling Tala out of danger. They were not just fighting. They were evolving.
One Saltborn charged them with a hammer, his eyes filled with a desperate, brutal rage. Tala ducked, and in a single fluid motion, Kofi slid between his legs and sliced the vein near the ankle. The man collapsed, screaming. Another came with twin daggers, his movements fast but predictable. Kofi feinted left, drawing the man's attention, and Tala struck right, his blade slipping into the soft flesh behind the knee.
They were small. But they were precise.
They were wolves.
Bjorn's axe was not a weapon. It was a verdict. With each swing, he laid waste. One man lost an arm. Another was thrown across the deck like driftwood. His power was overwhelming—like thunder wrapped in flesh. He didn't roar. He didn't rage. He simply moved. And the world broke around him.
A Saltborn warrior charged with a spear. Bjorn sidestepped, brought his axe down, and split the man's shoulder to hip. Another came with a shield—Bjorn shattered it with one blow, then crushed the man's ribs with the back of the axe.
The Saltborn Scars faltered. They realized too late who they were up against. Bjorn the Godsplitter. The man who had once split a warlord's helm and the sky above it.
The deck was chaos—blood, steel, screams. But the rhythm was shifting. The Saltborn Scars began to retreat, their confidence shattered. They had come for a quick victory, a simple plunder, but they had found only death. Bjorn stood tall, blood dripping from his axe, his chest barely heaving. Elikem crouched beside a pile of bodies, breathing hard, his face a mask of focus. The boys moved like ghosts, their daggers flashing.
Bjorn stepped forward, his voice calm. "You're injured," he said to the surviving Saltborn. "You still have time to turn."
But the Saltborn captain spat a glob of blood onto the deck. "We don't turn," he rasped. "We take."
Bjorn nodded once. "Then fall."
The Saltborn Scars made one last push—desperate, wild, and suicidal. They surged forward, a final, screaming wave of rage and desperation. But it was too late.
The Vikings surged forward to meet them. Elikem led the charge, his blade flashing in the dim light. The boys followed, striking vital points with surgical precision. Bjorn moved like a storm, his axe singing a song of death and fury.
One by one, the Saltborn fell. Their numbers meant nothing. Their size meant nothing. Their pride meant nothing. They were outmatched. Outclassed. Outfought.
The deck was quiet now—only the groan of wood and the hiss of blood on steel. The Saltborn Scars lay broken, their pride shattered and their lives lost to the sea.
Bjorn walked through the aftermath, searching. He found the boys seated near the mast, bruised, bloodied, and exhausted, but still holding their daggers. Tala looked up, his chest heaving. "We want our meat," he said.
Bjorn smiled, a slow, proud curve of his lips. "It shall be granted. You've earned your keep."
The boys didn't cheer. They didn't boast. They simply looked at their blades. Remembering the fight. Remembering the rhythm. And somewhere in the distance, the sea whispered.
Another storm was coming.