The storm raged with a fury that dwarfed anything the boy had ever known. Waves slammed into the hull like a battering ram, each impact rattling the ship's frame and threatening to tear it apart. The air inside the hold grew thick with the scent of seawater and despair, the rising water pooling around their ankles a reminder of the inevitable.
The captives scrambled and cried out, their fear tangible as the ship pitched violently to one side. The boy stood still amidst the chaos, his eyes fixed on the faint light filtering through the slats above. His body swayed with the ship's movements, but his mind remained steady, unshaken by the storm's rage.
The boy had been waiting for this moment—not just for the storm, but for the release it would bring. His revenge would be swift and deliberate, a final act before surrendering to the tempest that called to him like an old friend.
Across the hold, the fisherman leaned against the wall, his frail body trembling from the cold. He looked at the boy with weary eyes, his chest heaving with labored breaths. "It's here, isn't it?" he rasped.
The boy nodded once, his gaze cutting back to the stairs. "It's time."
The storm screamed around them, a relentless cacophony of thunder, waves, and wind. The ship groaned and tilted as if caught in the grip of some vengeful god. Water surged through the hold, rising past the captives' knees as they stumbled and clung to whatever they could. Cries of panic and desperation filled the air, merging with the roar of the sea.
It was chaos. A suffocating, all-encompassing chaos.
When Sigvard descended, the boy felt the shift in the air before he saw him. Heavy boots struck the steps, their thudding rhythm a reminder of the man's arrogance. His shadow appeared first, long and twisted by the flickering light, followed by the man himself, his whip uncoiled and slick with seawater. He barked orders, his voice rising above the storm like a lash, but the boy didn't hear the words.
He didn't need to.
The boy's breath slowed, each one deliberate, controlled. He was no longer in the hold, no longer surrounded by the suffocating press of bodies and the stench of rot. In his mind, there was only her.
Blond hair catching the light. A laugh that rang like bells. Her hand in his, small and warm, and then torn away—forever.
No one noticed the boy. The captives were too focused on survival—clutching at beams, dragging others to their feet. Even Sigvard's attention was scattered, his gaze flicking between the frantic captives and the groaning timbers above.
The boy's bare feet made no sound as he approached. He moved straight toward the man, his small frame unassuming, his movements hidden amidst the chaos. The storm gave him cover, the din masking every step as he closed the distance.
The guard was turned, his attention fixed on a group of captives cowering in the corner. "Get up, you worthless filth!" he roared, lashing his whip against the wall. The sound cracked through the air like lightning, but the captives barely moved.
The boy was close now, close enough to see his sword sheathed at the man's hip. The hilt glinted faintly in the dim light, slick with seawater. His breath slowed, each exhale deliberate as he extended his hand.
Sigvard didn't notice. His head whipped around as another wave struck the ship, tilting it violently and sending several captives sprawling. His barked orders rang out again, but they were swallowed by the storm.
The boy's fingers tightened around the familiar, weathered leather handle.
He pulled.
The blade slid free with a soft hiss of steel against leather, the sound lost amidst the chaos. For a heartbeat, the boy froze, the blade steady in his hand as he stared at Sigvard's broad back. The man turned, sensing movement, but too late.
The boy stepped forward, his hand moving up with precision.
The blade plunged up beneath Sigvard's chin, piercing past soft flesh and through the roof of his mouth. The man's body stiffened, his eyes wide with shock as he tried to understand what had happened. Blood bubbled from his lips, mingling with the spray of seawater that clung to his face.
With his free hand, he seized the man's collar and yanked him down, forcing their faces inches apart. Their eyes met in the flickering light—one filled with terror, the other cold and unyielding.
The boy's cold blue eyes burned with murderous intent, pinning him in place with a force that felt like being crushed under a glacier. His voice was low, controlled, each word laced with venom. "Blonder than a summer dawn."
His jaw tightened, his breath steady despite the fury coiled within him. "We tossed her into the fjord when we were done. Bet the fish are feasting now."
He leaned in, his face mere inches away, his gaze unrelenting. "You shouldn't have touched my little sister," he hissed, the promise of death clear in his voice.
"And this is not your sword."
Sigvard's face contorted in confusion, his bloodshot eyes searching the boy's expression as if trying to piece together the connection. For a fleeting moment, the boy saw something flicker in the man's gaze—recognition, and then fear. The realization hit him like a physical blow, his eyes widening further as the boy's grip on the knife shifted.
His hands tightened on the hilt, driving the blade as deep as it would go, piercing through the guard's skull and erupting from the top of his head. He muttered something low under his breath—words that carried no sound but resonated in the air around him. The response was immediate. The fire answered his call with a fury, roaring to life along the blade's edge, igniting in a blaze that cast golden light into the suffocating shadows. It burned brighter than a simple flame, fierce and indomitable, like a piece of the sun had been torn free and set to his will. The darkness recoiled from its brilliance, the heat pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, as though the fire itself shared his resolve. The blade wasn't just a weapon now; it was alive, a beacon of defiance in the void.
The boy reached up with his free hand, gripping the handle in a white-knuckled hold. His muscles coiled as he locked both hands around the hilt, then let his full weight drop.
The blade sliced down cleanly through the back of Sigvard's head in one savage motion, carving a deep line that split him from crown to pelvis. Blood erupted in a hot, crimson torrent, splattering across the boy's face and chest. The man's body convulsed violently, his eyes widened in shock as his body split apart, the two halves collapsing in opposite directions. Then the fire took hold. It spread hungrily from the wound, licking across his flesh with unnatural speed and consuming both pieces in a blaze of searing heat. The blood-soaked planks were now charred and smoldering beneath them. The flames crackled with a life of their own, leaving only ash and silence in their wake
The boy stood over him, the fiery steel dripping crimson onto his hands. His breath came slow and steady, his expression unreadable as he gazed down at the charred, lifeless remains before him.
For a long moment, the boy didn't move. The storm raged on, the waterf rising higher around his legs, but he felt none of it. His gaze remained fixed on what was left of the man's burnt face.
It was done.
The second guard's shout pierced the chaos, drawing the boy's attention. He turned, his blue eyes locking onto the younger man descending the stairs. Slowly, the boy rose, the fiery blade alive in his grasp, its searing light flaring brighter with each passing moment, casting wild, shifting shadows across his face. His movements were calm, unhurried, a stark contrast to the chaos around him. The guard faltered, his eyes darting to the charred corpse at the boy's feet before snapping back to the flame-wreathed blade. For a moment, his rage wavered, and fear crept across his face like a shadow.
Then the captives surged forward.
They moved as one, their desperation giving way to fury as they swarmed the second guard. The boy didn't join them. He stood back, watching as the man was dragged to the ground, his dagger torn from his grasp. The captives' blows were clumsy, their strikes uncoordinated, but their rage was unstoppable. Within moments, the second guard lay motionless, his blood joining the pool spreading across the hold.
The boy silently thanked the departing flames as he slid the sword into its sheath with deliberate care, then slung it across his back. The weight settled against him, a familiar presence, bringing a comfort he hadn't felt in a lifetime. He felt the fisherman's eyes on him and turned to see the old man watching, his lips curved into a faint smile.
"Magnificent," the fisherman rasped, his voice weak but filled with something that might have been pride.
The boy said nothing, offering only a slight nod. This was goodbye. Without a word, he turned toward the stairs, his gaze distant. The lightning called to him, its roar filling his ears as he climbed to the deck.
The deck was a battlefield, the storm's fury claiming it piece by piece. Waves towered above the ship, crashing down with relentless force. A jagged streak of brilliance tore through the sky, its blinding tendrils splitting the darkness with raw, unrestrained fury. The crackling arc burned white-hot, illuminating the storm clouds for the briefest of moments before vanishing, leaving behind the faint scent of scorched air. The boy stepped into the maelstrom, his feet steady despite the ship's wild lurching.
The storm didn't frighten him. It never had.
The wind tore at his hair, the rain pelting his skin like needles. He stood at the edge of the deck, his gaze fixed on the endless expanse of water beyond. The sea roared below him, its waves reaching up like grasping hands, ready to drag the ship into its depths.
He spread his arms slightly, feeling the pull of the wind against his body. The storm had delivered him this moment, had given him the chaos he needed to end it all. Now, it would take him, too.
The boy turned his head, his drenched hair clinging to his face, and their eyes met across the chaos. In that fleeting moment, there was a silent recognition—a shared understanding born from the storm's merciless grip. The boy's lips parted, his voice low but cutting through the roar of the wind. "You killed my father," he said, his tone devoid of anger, carrying instead the cold weight of inevitability. He nodded toward the captain's blade—his father's blade—its familiar hilt catching the flickering light, a silent accusation in his gesture. "This"—he gestured to the storm, arms spread wide—"is my wrath."
Then, with a crack so loud it seemed to tear the heavens apart, an arc of blinding brilliance cleaved the dark sky answering his call. It struck the ship with a fury beyond reckoning, its searing light engulfing everything. For a moment, the captain's vision vanished, stolen by the blinding flash. The air reeked of ozone and burning wood as the impact roared through the vessel, shaking it to its core.
The ship tilted sharply, its timbers groaning under the strain, every joint and nail protesting the storm's wrath. The boy felt the deck collapse beneath his feet, and he let it happen. He let the storm take him.
A massive wave surged from the depths, a towering monolith of water, its crest curling high and frothing with fury. It loomed above him, a collapsing mountain of ice and foam, before crashing down with unstoppable force, sweeping everything away in its merciless grip. The cold seized his chest, stealing the air from his lungs as the crushing weight of the ocean closed over him, dragging him into its depths. The world above disappeared, consumed by a crushing, all-encompassing darkness.
He sank into the depths, his body limp, his mind quiet. The rage that had carried him this far began to fade, replaced by a strange, hollow calm. The storm had taken everything from him, and now, it would take him, too.
As the darkness claimed him, he felt something he hadn't known in a long time: peace.