The hold was a world of shadows, each movement and sound cloaked in an oppressive darkness that seemed to press down on the captives. The days had blurred together into a grim haze, broken only by the heavy thud of boots, the crack of the whip, or the agonizing cries of those too weak to endure. The boy sat in his corner, his knees drawn loosely to his chest, his eyes narrowed beneath the curtain of his dark hair.
Time no longer existed in the hold. Instead, the boy measured it in coughs—the fisherman's increasingly ragged attempts to clear his lungs, each one leaving him clutching his ribs. The boy had learned to ignore many things in his captivity, but not this. The old man's hands trembled constantly now, and his once steady voice had become a low rasp. Every labored breath was a reminder that time was running out.
The boy watched him now, his sharp blue eyes flicking over the old man's gaunt frame. The fisherman struggled to sit upright, his body trembling as he leaned against the damp wooden wall. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow, and his hands clutched weakly at the chains binding his wrists.
"You've been watching him," the fisherman said, his voice a strained whisper. He didn't meet the boy's gaze; instead, his eyes lingered on the young man crouched in the center of the hold, his thin frame silhouetted against the faint light filtering through the cracks in the hull.
The boy tilted his head slightly, his silence heavy and deliberate.
"Don't get caught in his fire," the fisherman continued. "It burns bright, but it'll burn out just as fast."
The boy's gaze shifted back to the young man, who was whispering urgently to another captive. The faint clinking of chains punctuated their conversation, a nervous rhythm that rippled through the hold. The boy didn't need to hear the words to understand. He had seen that fire before, the kindling of rebellion sparked by desperation.
But desperation wasn't enough.
The rebellion began before Sigvard even entered the hold. The young man had spent hours, perhaps days, nursing his anger, feeding it with every insult, every blow, every humiliation. When the heavy thud of boots echoed down the stairs, the captives stiffened, their chains rattling softly as they pressed themselves against the walls.
The boy's head tilted, his sharp eyes narrowing as he listened. Sigvard descended with deliberate slowness, each step calculated to remind them of the power he wielded. He carried his whip, the leather coiled in his hand like a serpent waiting to strike.
"Quiet today," he sneered, his gaze sweeping over the huddled captives. "Not even a whisper? What a dull lot you are."
He moved with a heavy swagger, his boots striking the planks with a rhythm that seemed to reverberate in the boy's chest. His shadow stretched across the floor as he approached the fisherman, who sat slumped against the wall, his breathing shallow and labored.
"Still breathing, are you?" the guard drawled, his tone light but laced with malice. He nudged the fisherman's shin with the toe of his boot, the motion careless, as though testing the weight of a dying animal.
The fisherman remained still, his gaunt frame sagging against the wall. His breath rasped faintly, but he didn't lift his head.
Sigvard's sneer sharpened, his patience fraying. "Look at me when I speak to you." He crouched slightly, his shadow looming over the old man. When no response came, his hand lashed out with sudden violence, grabbing the fisherman by the collar and wrenching him forward.
The fisherman let out a weak groan, his body sagging in the guard's grip. His breath rattled in his chest, every sound like the tearing of old parchment.
"Pathetic," he muttered, releasing him with a shove that sent the old man slumping back against the wall. He straightened, his lip curling in disgust. "Barely worth the effort."
Before he could turn his attention elsewhere, the young man surged forward with a cry of fury.
The rebellion was chaos from the start. The young man tackled the raider, his thin frame colliding with the larger man in a desperate attempt to bring him down. The two hit the floor with a heavy thud, Sigvard's whip flying from his hand as they struggled.
"Now!" the young man shouted, his voice strained with effort. "Help me!"
For a moment, the hold was frozen. The captives stared in stunned silence, their gaunt faces pale in the dim light. Then, slowly, a few of them moved. Chains clinked and scraped against the planks as malnourished bodies scrambled toward the struggling pair.
The boy remained motionless, his sharp gaze locked on the scene before him. He watched as three captives managed to grab hold of the Sigvard's arms, pinning them down with trembling hands. Another captive, a man barely more than skin and bone, reached for the guard's sword. The blade flashed as the man fumbled to pull it from its sheath.
The boy's eyes widened at the sight of his sword, its familiar form gleaming in another's hands. It felt wrong—unnatural—to see it wielded by anyone else. That sword was more than wood, steel and leather; it was the last piece of his father he had left. His fists clenched, the urge to act clawing at him, but he swallowed it down. These captives had no hope of victory, not against what awaited them. His time would come. His gaze lingered on the blade, and in the quiet corners of his mind, a vow formed: I will take it back. When the time is right.
Sigvard in fury, his strength overpowering the captives' weakened grips. With a sudden burst of force, he threw off one of the men holding his arm, sending him crashing into the wall. The sword remained firmly in the guard's grasp, its edge glinting ominously.
He lashed out, the sword slashing through the air. Blood splattered across the planks as one of the captives fell, clutching his side. Another man was thrown against the wall, his head striking the wood with a sickening crack.
The boy clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening as he fought to contain the storm building within him. He felt the fire in his veins, the rage that burned hotter with each passing moment. But still, he waited.
The rebellion ended as quickly as it had begun. Sigvard stood in the center of the hold, his chest heaving, the short sword slick with blood. The captives lay scattered around him, groaning in pain or lying motionless.
"You think you can take me?" He roared, his voice echoing through the hold. He picked up his whip in his free hand, the leather coiled like a viper ready to strike. "I'll show you what happens to traitors."
He lashed out indiscriminately, the whip cracking through the air and striking flesh with brutal efficiency. The captives cried out, their screams mingling with the guard's furious shouts.
The boy sat in silence, his body trembling with the effort to contain the storm raging within him. He watched as Sigvard reasserted his dominance, his every movement calculated to instill fear. But beneath the fury, the boy saw something else—a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the guard's façade.
Sigvard's jaw clenched as he surveyed the captives, his hands twitching at his sides. The urge to lash out burned within him, his muscles coiled and ready to strike. He wanted to kill them all—every last one of these pathetic, trembling wretches who dared to defy him, even in silence. The memory of Jorund's defiant eyes still gnawed at him, a reminder of the momentary powerlessness he had felt. But then Ingvar's words echoed in his mind, cold and sharp: "Waste my silver again, and I'll teach you what it feels like to be broken."
A shiver ran down his spine, and his fingers flexed against the handle of the whip. He could still feel the captain's breath, still see the bloodlust in those pale eyes, and he knew that defiance—his own or anyone else's—wouldn't go unanswered. No, he couldn't kill another one, not now, not with the captain watching every move. His anger simmered, barely contained, as he forced himself to take a steadying breath. The fear of what Ingvar might do to him was stronger than the rage clawing at his insides. For now, he would hold back.
The fisherman coughed weakly, drawing the boy's attention. He sat slumped against the wall, his breathing shallow and uneven.
"It was foolish," the fisherman muttered, his voice barely audible. "But they were brave."
The boy didn't respond. His gaze shifted back to the shadows, his mind already turning over the details of what he had seen. The rebellion had failed, just as he had known it would. But it had revealed something important. The guard, for all his strength and cruelty, wasn't invincible. He saw hesitation, and he could use that.