The hall is dim—thick with peat smoke and the scent of roasting meat.
Firelight flickers against carved beams and the blank, watchful faces of wooden gods.
Voices murmur low until I step inside. Then they fade, one by one, until the crackle of the hearth is the only sound.
At the far end of the long table sits Sten, the jarl's son. Broad-shouldered, fair-haired, older than me by a few years, he wears confidence like armor. Two companions flank him—men with hard eyes and hands that rest a little too easily on their blades.
Sten's mouth curves into something between amusement and disdain.
"Ragnar Lothbrok," he says. "The boy who dreams of monsters beyond the sea."
The words sting, but I keep my chin high. Ragnar's pride merges with my own stubborn reflex to stand my ground. I stop just inside the circle of firelight.
"My father says you've been telling stories," Sten continues, voice carrying through the smoky air. "Of lands where the sun sinks and treasures that would make even Jarl Haraldson a legend."
He leans forward, eyes sharp.
"Tell me—are you a fool, or a liar?"
The question hangs heavy. I can feel the hall's attention pressing on my skin.
I could laugh it off. Pretend I'm only boasting to impress. But there's curiosity behind Sten's mockery—a glint that might be opportunity.
"I believe what I've seen," I answer, steady as I can manage. "And what I've dreamed. There are lands to the west—fertile, rich, waiting for those bold enough to find them."
A hush settles. Someone snorts; another mutters. But Sten's face stays unreadable.
He rises, moving with a predator's calm until he's a breath away. Taller than I expected. The firelight catches in his hair, throwing sparks across his features.
"If you're wrong," he says quietly, "you're a fool. If you're right—you're dangerous."
He glances toward the door, then lowers his voice so only I can hear.
"My father fears change. I admire courage—or madness. Bring me proof, Ragnar Lothbrok. Something no man can deny. Do that, and perhaps you'll have your chance."
He steps back, a simple nod dismissing me.
Conversation swells again, rough laughter rising as though nothing happened, but the weight of his words stays heavy in my chest.
I leave the hall with too many eyes following me.
Outside, the air bites with cold. Kalf waits by the doorway, pale breath steaming in the dusk.
"Well?" he asks. "Did he threaten to kill you or offer you a ship?"
I manage a crooked smile. "Neither. Not yet."
We start down toward the water, boots crunching in the frost. The sea glimmers dark and restless under a bruised sky.
Something inside me shifts—an awareness that the future just changed course.
Night settles over the village, but sleep won't come. The longhouse is quiet save for Kalf's slow breathing and the whisper of embers dying in the hearth. My mind won't rest.
Images flicker behind my eyes: strange coastlines, sails cutting through fog, Sten's cold stare across the firelight. Every shadow seems to whisper the same question—Are you sure?
I slip outside.
The cold shocks me awake. Stars wheel above, indifferent and endless. I walk to the shoreline and crouch at the edge of the black water. Somewhere out there lies the proof Sten wants—something tangible enough to silence doubt.
But what?
Sand grinds under my fingers as I think. Sunstones. Primitive compasses. Fragments of knowledge from a world that doesn't exist yet. If I can show them west is real—if I can measure it—maybe they'll believe.
Footsteps crunch behind me.
"Can't sleep?" Kalf's voice is soft.
I shake my head. "I need proof. Something they can't ignore."
He sits beside me, watching the horizon. "You always find trouble, brother. But you're rarely wrong for long."
I almost laugh. The sound comes out a sigh. "If I do this—if I change things—what else changes?"
Kalf shrugs. "Maybe that's the point."
We sit together, listening to the sea breathe. I wonder what the Vikings saw when they looked at these same stars—fate, or possibility?
Dawn creeps across the horizon, pale gold spilling over the fjord. I stand, resolve settling like armor.
If proof is what Sten wants, proof he'll have.
And if the gods are watching, they can bear witness—
Ragnar Lothbrok will not drift quietly into legend.
Morning breaks crisp and clear.
I wake with determination on my tongue and the ache of purpose in my chest.
Kalf is still snoring, wrapped in his furs like a lazy wolf. I ease past him and step outside into the fog-damp quiet. The village still sleeps—only the gulls cry, and the slow rhythm of the tide answers them.
I walk to the shoreline, kneel, and drag my fingers through the cold sand. If I'm to convince Sten, I need something real—something that feels like more than talk.
A sun compass.
Crude, primitive, but possible. I can build one from driftwood, bone, and gut. I've seen the diagrams in textbooks, documentaries, half-forgotten forums.
The knowledge sits in my head like a spark begging for tinder.
I scour the beach, collecting what I need:
a flat disc of driftwood, a sliver of bone, a strip of sinew hardened with salt. My hands move almost by memory—muscle and mind working together across centuries.
By the time Kalf stumbles out into the daylight, rubbing sleep from his eyes, I'm bent over my work like a madman.
He blinks. "What in the gods' names is that?"
"Proof," I say simply. "Or the start of it."
He snorts, half amusement, half awe. "If you're right, brother, you'll be legend. If you're wrong, you'll be mad."
I glance up, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "Maybe both."
For the first time since I woke in this strange, ancient world, I feel something like control.
The hours blur. The beach becomes my workshop, the sea my clock. I carve and test, marking the sun's shadow, tracing its slow arc across the day. When the light shifts, so does my understanding.
By midday, Kalf returns from the village, grinning and carrying bread and cheese. He sits beside me as I explain what I'm building.
"It measures the sun," I tell him, pointing to the carved notch. "When the shadow falls here, that's west."
Kalf stares, brow furrowed, trying to see what I see. "And this will convince Sten?"
"It has to start somewhere."
He grins, tearing a piece of bread in half and tossing me one. "Then let's see how far 'somewhere' takes us."
The afternoon passes in a blur of effort and sunlight. By the time the sky begins to burn gold, the device works—or close enough to it. The shadow points west, steady and sure.
Kalf whoops, slapping my shoulder. "You did it!"
Maybe. Or maybe I've just built a stick that happens to agree with the sun. Either way, hope stirs in my chest.
That evening, smoke curls from every roof as the village gathers for the meal. I tuck the compass into my cloak and follow Kalf to the hall.
Sten is there, seated by the fire, surrounded by his companions again. His gaze catches mine the moment I enter.
I walk forward, heartbeat loud in my ears, and place the device on the table before him.
He eyes it with a skeptic's curiosity. "And this is?"
"A way to find west," I say. "Even when clouds hide the sun. Even when the coast is gone."
He turns it over, examining it as murmurs ripple through the hall.
"Show me," he says finally.
We step outside together into the gathering dusk. The air smells of pine smoke and salt. I set the compass on the ground and explain what I've learned—the way shadows shift, how their length and angle reveal direction.
Kalf watches from nearby, grinning like he already knows how this will end.
The others murmur among themselves, disbelief thick in their voices. But Sten is silent, thoughtful, eyes flicking from the fading sun to the steady shadow on the compass face.
At last, he hands it back to me. "If it works as you say," he says slowly, "it's worth more than silver. But words and clever hands are easy. Can you prove it on the water?"
A challenge. My pulse kicks.
"Yes," I say. "Tomorrow, at dawn."
He nods once. "Then prove it."
The hall swallows him again, leaving me under the vast twilight sky.
Kalf claps my shoulder hard enough to jolt me. "He didn't call you a fool! That's a start."
I laugh, unsteady but real. "Not yet, anyway."
We walk back toward the longhouse. The night hums with quiet talk and the whisper of the sea. Some still call me mad, but others are starting to use a different word—dreamer.
I lie awake long after the fires die, staring up at the rafters. Tomorrow, the jarl's son will see what I can do.
Tomorrow, history takes its first step off the map.