The night stretches endless—filled with dreams that aren't dreams at all.
A flash of headlights. The crash of metal.
Then waves. Faces. Voices from two centuries that don't belong together.
I jolt awake before dawn, heart hammering, the smell of smoke and salt in my lungs.
No time to think. Today decides everything.
Kalf stirs as I rise, his voice muffled in the dark. "You're really doing this," he mutters, half in disbelief.
I tighten my cloak. "I don't have a choice."
Outside, the world is still and silver, washed in the first light of morning. The dew clings to the grass, the fjord calm as glass. The air tastes like possibility—and risk.
Down by the shore, a small fishing boat waits.
I run a hand over the wood, cold and rough under my fingers. The sun compass hangs from my belt, crude but steady, its purpose clear.
Soon, Kalf joins me, yawning but grinning. "You're about to change everything, brother."
"Or nothing," I say, but my voice doesn't sound convinced.
Footsteps crunch across the frost.
Sten appears, flanked by two armed companions. His expression is unreadable in the pale light, his breath misting in the cold air.
"Show us," he says.
We push the boat into the shallows, icy water soaking through my boots. My pulse thunders as I climb aboard. Kalf takes the oars, his grin fading into focus. Sten and one of his men follow.
The sea closes around us—cold, endless, alive.
We row until the shore fades into mist, the village nothing but a shadow on the horizon. The air smells of salt and smoke and fear.
I set the compass on the deck, centering it carefully. The sun is rising now, golden light spilling over the water.
I steady my breathing. "Watch."
The shadow falls across the markings I carved the night before—rough notches cut with a borrowed knife. I explain as it moves, how the line shifts through the morning, how its path never lies.
Sten listens, silent, his companions whispering among themselves. I talk about direction, about finding west when the world gives you no signposts. My words sound strange in this ancient tongue, but they come easily—half memory, half faith.
We test the compass again. And again.
Each time, the shadow points the same way—toward the horizon that hides the lands I know are there.
England.
Lindisfarne.
History waiting to happen.
Finally, Sten speaks. His tone is softer now, not mocking—curious.
"You might truly have something here, Ragnar Lothbrok."
Relief hits me so hard I almost laugh.
We turn the boat back toward shore, the wind rising at our backs. Sten's men pull the vessel up onto the beach, water cascading from its hull.
Sten faces me, studying me with that sharp, appraising gaze. "Tomorrow, you'll show my father. If he believes, perhaps you'll have your ship."
His words land like a challenge and a promise in one.
Then he turns and walks away, his companions following.
Kalf lets out a breath that's half a laugh. "Well, he didn't threaten to kill you. That's progress."
I manage a grin, though my heart is still racing. "Let's not celebrate yet."
We stand there a long time, watching the fjord shimmer under the rising sun. The gulls cry overhead, and the waves whisper secrets I'm only beginning to understand.
That night, the longhouse hums with rumors. Some call me reckless. Others say I've angered the gods. But a few—just a few—are starting to call me something new.
Dreamer. Navigator. Maybe even leader.
I lie awake long after the fires fade, staring at the ceiling beams blackened by years of smoke. Tomorrow, I'll stand before a jarl. Tomorrow, I'll gamble everything.
If history is written by the brave, then let it begin here.
At dawn.
At the edge of the known world.