The sea stretched endless and glassy, its surface gleaming beneath a sky brushed with warming winds—winds that carried whispers of a world unknown. For seven days and seven nights, Bloodcrow and Raven's Cry had sailed eastward, carving paths through waters none aboard had dared traverse before. The distant silhouettes of the Rus' longships had faded to memory, swallowed by the horizon. Yet tension clung to the air, heavy and unyielding, pressing on Captain Ingvar like the iron grip of an unseen hand.
He stood at the helm, silent but vigilant, scanning the horizon for any flicker of movement, any sign of the danger he had left behind—or the dangers that lay ahead. The breeze brushed his face, its touch softer than it had been in weeks. The icy bite was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar warmth that whispered promises of change. His cloak hung loose around his shoulders, and the salt spray no longer stung his skin. Even the crew seemed to feel it. Their movements were slower, more measured, their gazes lingering on the horizon longer than necessary, drawn eastward with a mix of hope and dread.
But Ingvar was not comforted. He gripped the rail, his knuckles white. The warmth was deceptive, a siren's song luring them further into waters he did not know. Behind him, the low hum of the crew's murmurs reached his ears. The words were too faint to hear, but the tone was enough.
They're afraid.
And why wouldn't they be? Stories of the east were fragments stitched together with hearsay, sailor's yarns, and whispers shared over too many mugs of ale. Some spoke of endless oceans, barren and unbroken, where ships drifted until their crews succumbed to thirst and madness. Others warned of jagged shores cloaked in perpetual mist, where leviathans dragged vessels into the depths. And then there were the tales of seas that simply ended, the water cascading into nothingness, dragging ships—and the souls of the reckless—with it.
"Captain."
Ingvar turned at the sound of Eirik's voice. The young man's face was drawn, his eyes shadowed with the same questions that gnawed at every sailor on the ship.
"We haven't seen a sign of them for days," Eirik said quietly. "Do you think… do you think they've given up the chase?"
Ingvar swept his gaze over the horizon. The endless expanse of water offered no answers, only the steady hum of uncertainty. Finally, he nodded, though the gesture felt hollow even to him.
"The Rus' are not fools," he said, his voice low but firm. "They know when a hunt is no longer worth the cost."
Eirik hesitated, then leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "So… what now? Where are we headed?"
That question had lingered in Ingvar's mind since the moment he turned Bloodcrow east. It clung to him, as constant and unavoidable as the salt on his skin. The truth was simple: he didn't know. But a captain's strength lay in more than his sword or skill—it lay in the strength of his conviction, whether real or feigned.
"We'll head south," he announced suddenly, his voice breaking the brittle quiet of the deck.
Eirik frowned, his hands stilling on the rope he was securing. "South, Captain? But we've been heading east for days. Won't we just lose more time?"
Ingvar met his gaze, unflinching. "South is where the warmth comes from. And warmth means land. We've seen nothing but open water to the east. We'll find somewhere to dock, repair what needs mending, and replenish our stores. Drifting aimlessly isn't an option."
Eirik hesitated again, doubt flickering in his expression. "Do you think there's land that way? Or are we just guessing?"
"We're always guessing," Ingvar replied bluntly. "But south gives us the best odds. I'm not taking this ship—or this crew—any farther into nothing."
The younger man studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Aye, Captain. I'll inform the men."
Ingvar watched him go, shouting orders to adjust the sails and reposition the oarsmen. A faint pang of unease twisted in his chest. He'd given the order with confidence, but doubt gnawed at him. He had no maps, no charts to guide him. The sea stretched out as vast and unknowable as the sky above, and each decision he made felt like gambling with their lives.
But this was what it meant to lead. The men needed direction, even if that direction was uncertain. To linger in these dead waters was to invite doubt, and doubt was the first step toward despair.
The groan of the ship's timbers changed subtly as the prow turned southward, cutting through the waves with renewed purpose. Below deck, the air was thick with salt and sweat, the oppressive heat made worse by the labor of rowing.
"What's south, anyway?" one man muttered, his voice low but audible over the creak of oarlocks. "More of this?" He gestured vaguely toward the slats in the hull.
"There's always land south," another replied, though his tone lacked conviction. "The sun comes from there, doesn't it? Warm winds, warmer seas—there'll be land."
"Aye," a third added. "Forests and rivers. Freshwater. Food."
"And beasts," someone muttered darkly. "Strange creatures with teeth bigger than your arm. My grandfather used to tell me about them."
"You're a fool if you believe that," came the reply, though there was little conviction behind the words.
Leif, seated near the stern, listened in silence. His hands gripped the oar tightly, his face impassive as the men around him argued. He didn't care what lay south. Land, beasts, nothingness—it was all the same to him. Out here, at least, the sea offered freedom. Chains didn't reach this far. But he kept his thoughts to himself, his gaze fixed on the steady pull and push of the oars.
Above deck, the crew moved with renewed energy, adjusting the sails to catch the southern winds. Though the air had grown warmer over the past days, the new course brought subtle changes. The brine of the sea was laced with something else now—something earthy and sweet, faint but distinct.
Ingvar paced the deck, his sharp gaze sweeping over his men. They moved efficiently, but he could sense the unease simmering beneath their obedience. Men exchanged glances as they worked, their hands quick but their thoughts elsewhere.
Eirik approached, his brow furrowed. "They're restless, Captain."
"I know," Ingvar replied, his voice quiet. "But they're working. Let that be enough for now."
Eirik glanced toward the horizon, where faint traces of clouds marred the otherwise pristine sky. "Do you think we'll find land?"
"We have to," Ingvar said simply.
The younger man studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Aye, Captain. I'll keep them busy."
As Eirik moved off to oversee the crew, Ingvar turned back to the sea. He let out a slow breath, his hands tightening around the rail. He understood the weight of the men's anxiety, the way it gnawed at their resolve with every passing day. The sea demanded faith, but faith was hard to muster when the horizon offered nothing but more water.
We'll find land, Ingvar thought. He had to believe it—if not for himself, then for them.