My body felt like it was going to collapse.
I didn't understand why. The battle had been over for hours. We'd won. We had the food and silver our village needed.
But every muscle in my body ached. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. My mind kept replaying the sounds of the dying monks.
Around me, the men were celebrating. Laughing. Clapping each other on the back. Dividing up the treasure and talking about how their families would feast tonight.
They seemed fine. Happy even.
I felt like I was drowning.
"Look at all this silver!" one of the men shouted, holding up a handful of coins. "My wife won't believe it."
"Enough grain to last through spring," another added. "The children can finally eat properly."
Their joy felt distant. Like I was watching them through thick glass.
My father appeared beside me. His beard was still flecked with dried blood. His sword hung loose in his grip.
But his eyes were concerned. Focused entirely on me.
"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.
The question hit me harder than I expected. This man who'd just killed strangers to feed his family. Who was covered in blood from a brutal fight. Acting like a true father.
Worried about his son.
"I don't know," I admitted.
"Your first battle," he said. "It's always hard."
"You seem fine."
"I'm not," he said simply. "None of us are. We just hide it better."
I looked around at the celebrating men with new eyes. Maybe their laughter was too loud. Maybe their smiles were too forced.
Maybe they were all struggling too.
"Will it get easier?" I asked.
"The killing? No. The living with it? Yes."
He put a hand on my shoulder. His grip was steady. Reassuring.
"This is the world we live in," he continued. "Dog eat dog. The strong take what they need. The weak starve."
I'd heard those words before. But now I understood what they meant.
"I have to adapt," I said. More to myself than to him.
"Yes," he agreed. "Or die."
The reality of it hit me like a physical blow. This wasn't a game. This wasn't a story. This was survival in its purest form.
Either I became someone who could do what needed to be done. Or I became a victim.
There was no middle ground.
"Help me load the supplies," my father said. "Work helps."
He was right. Having something to do made the thoughts quieter.
We packed everything systematically. The silver went into leather pouches. The grain into sacks. The dried fish into wooden crates.
More treasure than our village had ever seen. Enough food to last months.
But the cost had been high.
"How many did we lose?" I asked as we worked.
"Eight men," my father replied grimly. "Including Erik."
Eight out of forty-three. Almost one in five.
And Erik had been our navigator. The only one who knew these waters well.
"How do we get home without him?" I asked.
"Carefully," my father said. "Very carefully."
The mood among the men shifted as the reality sank in. The celebration became more subdued. More worried.
Without Erik, we were just fishermen with stolen boats trying to cross dangerous waters.
But we had no choice. Staying in England meant death. The English would send soldiers eventually. Hunt us down.
Our only option was to risk the crossing.
"Load everything quickly," my father ordered. "We leave before anyone comes looking."
The men worked faster. The joy of victory was fading into the fear of survival.
I helped carry sacks of grain to the boats. Each step felt heavy. Not just from the weight of the supplies.
From the weight of what I'd become.
[New Skill: Looting lv1] [New Achievement: Survivor's Burden]
Even the system seemed to understand. This wasn't about gaining power anymore. This was about carrying the weight of necessary choices.
The boats were smaller now with all the treasure and supplies. Cramped. Dangerous for ocean crossing.
But we made it work. Had to.
Before leaving the beach, we'd done what needed to be done. Gathered the bodies of the dead monks. Built a pyre inland where the smoke wouldn't be seen from the coast. Burned everything that might identify us as Vikings.
The monastery itself we'd left standing. Ransacked but intact. Made it look like the work of English bandits. Not raiders from across the sea.
"Stay close together," my father told the other boat captains as we prepared to launch. "If anyone gets separated, head north until you see the fjords."
Simple instructions. But crossing unknown waters without a navigator was anything but simple.
As we pushed the boats into the surf, I tried not to think about what we'd left behind. The empty monastery. The ash piles where we'd burned the dead.
Evidence of what we'd become.
"Don't dwell on it," my father said quietly. He must have seen something in my face.
But I couldn't help it. The images were burned into my memory. Part of me now.
The boats cut through the gray water as we rowed away from shore. England disappeared behind us in the mist.
Ahead lay open ocean. Home. If we could find it.
The men rowed in rhythm. Strong strokes that ate up the distance. But I could see the worry in their faces.
Without Erik, we were navigating by sun and stars and hope.
"Which direction?" asked Olaf, the captain of the second boat.
My father studied the sky. The position of the sun. The color of the water.
"Northwest," he decided. "Follow the birds."
It was a fisherman's trick. Seabirds often flew toward land. But it wasn't foolproof.
Nothing about this journey was certain anymore.