The sea was quiet again, but this time, it felt earned. Not the profound silence of a still ocean, but the heavy calm that settles after a storm has passed, leaving behind a profound sense of exhaustion. The deck of the ship bore the raw scars of battle: gouged wood, splintered railings, and bloodstains that refused to wash away, sinking deep into the porous grain. The air carried a thick, metallic scent of iron and spilled blood, mingled with the lingering smell of burnt rope and the copper tang of fresh blood. The Saltborn Scars had been broken, their pride shattered and cast into the sea, a lesson in humility bought with a great deal of suffering. But even with their enemies humbled, victory had its price.
Bjorn stood at the helm, a silent, imposing figure. His knuckles were white against the carved dragon head of the ship's prow, his immense body unhurt, bearing no new wounds. Yet, his stillness was a presence, heavy with a frustration that ran deeper than any physical injury. He stared at the horizon, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid. This was not the voyage he had sought. He had come to the quiet seas for a reason—for peace, for solitude, for a distance from the life he had once led. The violence of the past day had poisoned that quiet, and the very air around him felt tainted by it. He had wanted to sail on a still sea, under a tranquil sky. Instead, he had been forced to become the man he had once been. A man whose very presence drew blood and chaos.
Below him, a silent vigil was kept. Tala and Kofi sat beside the mast, their daggers laid across their knees. They didn't speak, didn't even look at each other. They simply watched the horizon, their eyes reflecting a world that was now irrevocably different. They listened to the creak of the ship's hull and the whisper of the waves, and they remembered. They remembered the sickening slice of blade on flesh, the desperate screams, the cold fear that had twisted in their gut. It was a memory that would sit with them for the rest of their lives, a brand on their souls. For the first time, they understood what it truly meant to take a life, not just to fight for survival.
Elikem stood nearby, sharpening his own blade with slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythmic hiss of steel on stone was the only sound for a long time. He glanced at the boys, a flicker of something close to pride in his eyes. He had seen their ferocity, their calculated violence. Then he looked at Bjorn, his expression shifting to a quiet understanding of the turmoil within his leader. Finally, he looked back at the sea, a silent sentinel waiting for what was to come.
"You fought like wolves," he said softly, his voice barely a whisper against the wind. "But wolves don't just fight. They remember. Every scar, every hunger, every victory—they carry it."
Tala nodded slowly, the motion feeling heavy, weighted. "We remember," he said, his voice raw.
Kofi's voice was quieter, almost swallowed by the ocean's murmur. "We carry it."
Bjorn turned, his movements sharp and impatient. His eyes, pale and sharp like ice that had seen fire, fell on the boys.
"You carry more than memory," he said, his voice low and tight with a barely contained anger. "You carry rhythm. You used it for a purpose, and it was a purpose you should have avoided."
He shifted, his gaze sweeping over the deck, taking in the bloodstains and the broken wood. He gestured for the boys to come closer, away from the prying ears of the crew. They moved without question, their silence a mirror of his own.
Bjorn's voice was low, but it cut through the air like a blade, sharp and precise.
"A warrior is not his blade," he began, his frustration now a palpable thing. "He is his rhythm. His breath. His silence. His strike. A fight is the failure of all of these, not their purpose. When you swing a blade, you are not winning. You are admitting that all other things have failed. Peace has failed. Words have failed. Reason has failed. And that is a failure you carry with you, a scar that never fades."
He looked at Tala, the younger boy. "You move fast. You are quick as the wind, as a striking viper. But speed without purpose is only a waste of energy. It is chaos, a frantic dance that leaves you spent and hollow. It is not something you should seek."
He then turned his gaze to Kofi. "You strike true. You are a steady rock, a tree that does not bend. But precision without a reason is luck. It is a moment of fortune that does not belong to you and will not be there when you truly need it. It is a hollow victory, a shadow of what true purpose should be. Your strength is not for war, but for protection."
He placed a hand on each of their shoulders, his grip firm. "You have found the rhythm. Now you must protect it. And you must never use it without the best possible reason—when all other paths are closed. A warrior's greatest victory is the one they don't have to fight. You have learned this the hard way, and it is a lesson I wish you had never needed to learn."
He reached into a pouch tied to his belt and pulled out a strip of dark, frayed cloth, marked with runes that seemed to drink the moonlight. He tied it around Tala's wrist, then Kofi's.
"These are not trophies," he said, his voice softening, the anger in his tone replaced by a deep, weary sadness. "They are reminders. Of what you were. Of what you must become. And of what you must never have to be again. They are a constant weight on your arm, a reminder that the path of the warrior is a path of scars, and that you must not collect them lightly."
That night, under a sky thick with stars, the crew gathered around the mast. A fire burned low in a metal basin, casting flickering shadows across their faces, illuminating the lines of exhaustion and respect on each Viking's face. The crew had seen their share of young fighters, but never any like these boys.
Bjorn sat at the base of the mast, his axe beside him, his breath shallow but steady. His presence was not one of a victor, but of a reluctant king. He had led a bloody battle, but he was not proud of it.
Elikem stepped forward, a small, ceremonial knife in hand. He knelt before the mast, his own scar-worn hands steady. The blade was old and sharp. He began to carve two names into the wood beside Bjorn's—deep, deliberate strokes that echoed in the silence. The wood groaned softly under the pressure. The names he carved were not their own, but new names, names earned in blood and fury.
The names were Tala the Quickfang. And Kofi the Ghoststep.
The boys looked at the names, at the dark wood, and at the man who had carved them. It was a finality, a sign that the boys they once were had been buried, and two new warriors had risen in their place.
Bjorn raised his hand, and the boys knelt before him, their hearts pounding in their chests.
"Swear it," he said, his voice a low rumble.
Tala spoke first, his voice firm and clear. "I swear to carry your rhythm, to move with purpose and not with rage."
Kofi followed, his voice strong and resolute. "I swear to fight with silence and strike with purpose, and to find the path of peace before the path of war."
Bjorn nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. "Then rise. You are no longer boys. You are oath-bound."
The crew murmured approval, a low, respectful sound that rippled through the gathered men. Elikem placed a hand on each of their shoulders, his grip firm.
"You're part of the mast now," he said, his voice quiet with respect. "Part of the ship. Part of the story. You are one of us now." The boys felt the weight of those words, the responsibility and the honor. They had been alone in the world for so long, and now, for the first time, they had found a place. They had found a home.
Bjorn didn't sleep that night. He sat with his back to the mast, watching the stars wheel across the sky. The fight hadn't touched his skin, but it had left a deep, spiritual scar on his soul. The Saltborn captain's laughter, the desperation in his men's eyes, the brutal, finality of his axe's swing—all of it felt like a sickness that had seeped into his bones. He had sought peace, and instead, he had found a bloody, painful reminder of the life he had left behind.
Tala approached quietly, his footsteps silent on the deck. He sat beside Bjorn, looking at the same stars. "Are you okay?" he asked, the simple question a testament to the new closeness between them.
Bjorn smiled faintly, a tired twist of his lips. "The pain is a good thing," he said. "It reminds you you're alive. But a different kind of pain—the pain of a life not lived—that's a much deeper scar. The pain of every quiet moment you've lost to the ghosts of battles already fought."
He looked at the boy, his eyes distant, as if seeing a lifetime of violence in Tala's young face. He had been a hero to his people, a champion, but he had lost himself in the titles and the fighting. He had come to these seas to find a way to live with the ghosts he carried. The Saltborn attack was a stark reminder that even in his quiet exile, the world would still try to force his hand.
"There will come a time when you must choose," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Between the blade and the breath. Between the strike and the silence. When that time comes, remember this: the sea does not roar. It pulls. It takes what it wants, and sometimes, you must let it have its way."
Tala nodded. He didn't pretend to fully understand, but the weight of the words was a palpable thing. "I'll remember."
Bjorn closed his eyes, a flicker of peace finally crossing his face. "Good. Then I've done my part."
The next morning, the ship sailed on. The wind was gentle. The sea was calm. But something had shifted. The air felt thick, heavy with something unseen, a stillness that was not peaceful but expectant.
Birds no longer circled overhead. The usual sea life—the dolphins, the great sea turtles—had vanished, as if warned away by some unseen signal. The surface of the water was now a dark, unbroken mirror. The ocean no longer whispered. It held its breath.
Kofi stood at the bow, the box clutched in his hands. It pulsed faintly, a heartbeat beneath the dark wood, a warmth that seemed to grow with every passing moment. He could feel it humming, a low vibration that ran up his arms and into his chest. It felt both powerful and frightening.
Tala joined him, his own hand resting on the box. He could feel the pulse, the strange, silent call. "It's starting," he said, his voice low with a mix of fear and strange excitement.
Kofi nodded, his eyes fixed on the inky water. "The sea is watching. I can feel it."
Bjorn approached, his steps measured and slow. He moved with a quiet grace that had returned now that the fight was over. He looked at the boys, at the box, and then at the dark water. He seemed to understand what was happening, what had been set in motion.
"You'll leave us soon," he said. "The island is near. It is where you must go, and where we must part."
Elikem joined them, his face a mix of concern and reverence. "We'll drop you close. The rest is yours. The sea has chosen its path for you, and we will not stand in the way of it."
Bjorn reached into his belt and pulled out two daggers—old, worn, but sharp as ever. The blades were dark and polished with years of use, their hilts carved with the image of a wolf.
"They were mine," he said. "The daggers I carried on my first voyage. They're yours now. They have seen both peace and war, and they will remind you that you must choose your own path."
He handed one to Tala, the other to Kofi, who took them with reverence, the familiar weight a comfort in their hands.
"It's not the blade," Bjorn said, a final lesson passing between them. "It's the rhythm. And how you choose to use it."
The ship sailed toward the horizon, where the sea grew darker and the sky more still. The boys stood at the bow, oath-bound and scarred, carrying a new rhythm in their breath and a heavy legacy in their blades. They had fought their first battle, and in doing so, they had found themselves.
And beneath the waves, something stirred.
Not the Saltborn.
Something older.
Something hungry.