The storm was unlike anything the sea had unleashed before. The winds screamed, a feral howl that drowned out the crash of waves and the groan of the ship's tortured timbers. Rain lashed down in sheets so dense they turned the night into an endless curtain of chaos, the sky and sea merging into a single, howling abyss. The ship was a speck in the storm's fury, tossed like driftwood as waves rose higher than mountains, their black peaks crowned with white foam.
Ingvar stood at the helm, his body braced against the gale. The wind tore at his cloak, snapping it like a banner of defiance. His voice was hoarse from barking orders that no one could hear. His crew—his men—scrambled in terror, their faces pale and drenched, their shouts swallowed by the storm's roar.
"Secure the rigging!" Ingvar bellowed, his voice ripped away by the wind as soon as it left his throat. "Hold the oars! Brace—"
Another wave slammed into the side of the ship, the force of it like a blow from a god's fist. Men screamed as they were flung from the deck, their bodies hurled into the darkness. Ingvar's heart twisted as he watched them vanish, their cries cut short by the relentless howl of the wind.
One of the younger crew members, his hands slick with rain and blood, lost his grip on the mast and was swept upward by the wind, his body twisting unnaturally before disappearing into the night. Ingvar tried to reach for him, but it was futile. The storm was a predator, and it was taking them one by one.
To starboard, Raven's Cry appeared in flashes of lightning, a shattered specter against the blackened sky. Its mast was a jagged stump, swaying like a broken limb, and its hull splintered under the relentless battering of waves that dwarfed it entirely. Men clung to the rigging, pale and frantic, their terror etched in every movement.
Behind them, the sea rose. A wall of water, towering and malevolent, blotted out the lightning's harsh glare as it gathered its fury. For an agonizing moment, the wave seemed to hang, poised above the broken ship like the axe of an executioner. Then it fell.
The wave struck with a deafening clap, splitting the vessel in two as if it were no more than driftwood. Shattered beams and planks erupted into the air, swallowed instantly by the churning abyss. Men were ripped from the wreckage, their screams drowned in the roar of water. The sea devoured them all, leaving nothing behind but fragments and silence.
Ingvar watched, silent and grim. It wasn't just a ship that was destroyed—it was the undeniable truth of their own fate.
Ingvar could do nothing but watch, helpless as the last of the debris disappeared beneath the waves. Its oars floated like scattered bones, the remnants of a slaughter.
"Captain!" a voice screamed, barely audible over the storm. Ingvar turned to see Eirik clinging to the railing, his eyes wide with terror. "What do we do?"
Ingvar didn't have an answer. His ship was next.
Bloodcrow shuddered violently as another wave struck, its timbers groaning in protest. Ingvar fought to keep his footing as the deck pitched beneath him. The men were panicking now, their movements frantic and without purpose. One tried to leap overboard, as if the sea could offer any escape from the storm, but another crew member pulled him back, their struggle only adding to the chaos.
"Hold your positions!" Ingvar roared, though his voice was torn away by the storm. He gritted his teeth, gripping the helm with all his strength. The ship wasn't going to hold much longer. He could feel it in the way the wood groaned beneath him, the way the wind tore at the sails until they were nothing but ragged shreds.
A sickening snap echoed through the storm—a sound that made Ingvar's blood run cold. The hull was breaking. Splinters of wood flew past him, carried by the wind like daggers. He glanced upward just in time to see a jagged bolt of lightning tear through the sky, slamming into the mast with a deafening roar. The wood splintered instantly, the force snapping it like a brittle twig and sending shards raining down around him.
Another wave crashed over the deck, dragging more men into the void. Ingvar clenched his jaw, his mind racing. There was no strategy, no maneuver to outthink a force like this.
The ship tilted sharply, its timbers screaming as if alive, and Ingvar knew the end had come. The storm had claimed its sister vessel, and now it was tearing into his. He tightened his grip on the helm, his knuckles white, refusing to let go even as the deck beneath him splintered and tilted into the abyss.
As the next wave rose, its shadow blotted out what little light the storm allowed. It was a monstrous curtain of water, its face rippling with raw, unbridled fury. The sea had come alive—a titan towering above, vast and indifferent, its edges fraying into mist that danced in the storm's howling winds. Lightning illuminated the wave in stark, fleeting bursts, each strike carving its massive form into vivid relief.
Ingvar stared at it, the massive wall of water swallowing the sky, and knew it was the end. There was no outrunning it, no outmaneuvering this godlike force. His fate was sealed, and yet, in that moment, he felt no fear.
A grim laugh bubbled from his lips, swallowed almost instantly by the roar of the storm. The sound was bitter and cold, a final defiance against a fate he could not change. He had survived countless battles—bloody clashes with axe and sword, the chaos of raiding ships, the howls of dying men. He'd cheated death more times than he could count, facing it head-on with a shield in one hand and steel in the other.
And this is how I die.
The thought didn't spark regret but a strange sense of irony. The sea, which had carried him through years of conquest, which had borne him to riches and glory, now claimed him as its own. The axe had failed to fell him, the sword could not pierce him, but here, in the maw of the storm, he had no defense. The sea was the great equalizer.
His knuckles loosened on the helm, the wood slick beneath his calloused hands. The fight was over. Resistance was meaningless. The ship's timbers screamed around him, cracking and splintering under the storm's relentless assault. Men still scrambled across the deck, clinging to ropes and railings, their screams lost to the howling winds. But Ingvar remained still, rooted in place as if he had become one with the ship itself.
The wave loomed closer, its crest curling forward, an avalanche of water poised to consume everything in its path. It wasn't just a wave—it was death incarnate, ancient and unrelenting, its form sculpted by gods who had long abandoned mankind. Ingvar watched it come, his mind strangely quiet, his heart steady. There was no point in running. The storm had won.
As the wave began its descent, something caught Ingvar's eye—a fleeting movement in the chaos, a shape amidst the rain and ruin that didn't belong. He turned his head, and they both locked eyes.