The sea was black that morning.
Not dark blue.
Not gray.
Black.
It moved like something breathing.
Slow.
Heavy.
Alive.
The longship cut through it like a knife through wet skin. The oars rose and fell together. Wood creaked. Iron rings rattled. The sail snapped once in the wind and then settled like a tired lung.
No one spoke.
They had been rowing since before dawn.
Ahead of them, hidden behind low mist, was the coast of England.
A monastery.
Stone walls.
No soldiers.
No warriors.
Only men who prayed.
Ragnvald Thorgeirsson sat near the prow.
He was not the largest man on the ship. Not the oldest. Not the captain.
But when men looked toward the front, their eyes always found him.
His hands rested on the rim of his shield.
The wood was scarred and split from old blows. The iron boss at its center was dented. Dry brown blood stained the edge where it had once crushed someone's mouth.
He liked the feeling of it under his palm.
Solid.
Certain.
He did not like uncertainty.
He did not like quiet.
The quiet before battle made his stomach tight.
But it also made his blood warm.
Behind him, someone began to laugh.
Low at first.
Then louder.
Sigurd Blackwind.
Tall. Thin. Wearing a dark cloak even on the sea.
"You smell that?" Sigurd asked, grinning.
A younger man sniffed the air. "Salt."
Sigurd shook his head. "No. Fear. Even from here."
Some of the crew chuckled.
Ragnvald did not laugh.
He kept staring forward.
Mist rolled across the water like torn cloth. The coastline slowly appeared, low cliffs, grass bending in the wind, and farther inland, the roof of a stone building.
A bell rang.
Faint.
Distant.
The monastery was waking up.
Ragnvald felt his heart beat harder.
He stood.
The movement alone made three younger warriors straighten their backs.
He did not shout.
He did not need to.
The captain, Hakon the Golden Hound, stepped beside him. Hakon's hair was tied back neatly. His armor was polished. He always looked clean, even at sea.
"Remember," Hakon said calmly, "we take gold, silver, and able bodies. Burn the rest. No wandering off."
He looked at Ragnvald.
"You break the gate."
Ragnvald nodded once.
That was enough.
The oars pulled harder.
The longship slid through shallow water. The bottom scraped sand. Men jumped over the sides into the freezing surf. Boots splashed. Shields were lifted. Axes were drawn.
The cold hit Ragnvald's legs like knives.
He welcomed it.
It made everything sharp.
They dragged the ship higher onto the shore. More longships appeared from the mist, like wolves stepping out of fog.
Dozens of men.
Leather. Iron. Beards braided tight.
The bell in the monastery rang faster now.
Panic.
Ragnvald began walking.
Not running.
Walking.
Each step slow. Heavy. Controlled.
The grass was wet with morning dew. It soaked into his boots.
He could hear shouting inside the walls.
A wooden gate barred the entrance.
Too thin.
Too weak.
Two monks appeared at the top of the wall. One held a cross. The other looked very young.
"Go back!" the older monk shouted in broken Norse. "In God's name!"
Sigurd laughed loudly behind Ragnvald.
"In whose name?" Sigurd called back.
An arrow flew from somewhere on the wall.
It struck the ground near Ragnvald's foot.
He didn't flinch.
He reached back and took his axe from his belt.
The handle was worn smooth from years of use.
He approached the gate.
He could hear crying now.
Inside.
Not soldiers.
Not warriors.
Just people.
He swung.
The axe struck wood with a deep, cracking sound.
Again.
Again.
Each blow sent splinters flying.
The crew began chanting behind him.
Low at first.
Then louder.
"Wolf. Wolf. Wolf."
The gate began to split.
An arrow struck Ragnvald's shoulder.
It did not go deep. The angle was poor.
He pulled it out without expression and dropped it.
He swung again.
The wood shattered.
The gate burst inward.
And the chanting stopped.
Silence for half a breath.
Then screaming.
The crew flooded inside.
Chaos erupted.
Ragnvald stepped over broken wood and entered the courtyard.
A monk ran past him.
Barefoot.
Terrified.
Ragnvald grabbed him by the robe and threw him to the ground.
The monk covered his head.
"Please..."
The axe came down.
Once.
It was quick.
Efficient.
No shouting.
No rage.
Just action.
Ragnvald moved deeper into the monastery.
Doors were kicked in.
Treasure chests dragged out.
Women pulled by the arms.
A young boy tried to run past him.
Ragnvald caught him easily.
The boy struggled, screaming in a language Ragnvald barely understood.
For a moment , just a moment , Ragnvald hesitated.
The boy's hands were small.
Thin.
He looked at Ragnvald not with hatred.
But confusion.
As if asking why.
Sigurd stepped up beside him.
"Take him," Sigurd said casually. "Strong shoulders. He'll row well."
Ragnvald handed the boy over.
The hesitation disappeared.
He told himself it had never existed.
Smoke began to rise.
Someone had lit the chapel.
Flames climbed the wooden beams inside.
The large cross above the altar caught fire slowly.
It did not collapse immediately.
It burned from the edges inward.
Ragnvald stood in the doorway watching it.
The fire reflected in his eyes.
Sigurd approached again, wiping blood from his knife.
"Beautiful," Sigurd said, looking at the burning cross. "Their god cannot even protect his own house."
Ragnvald said nothing.
The cross cracked in the heat.
It fell forward into the flames.
Outside, the crew cheered.
Gold had been found.
Silver cups.
Books with decorated covers.
Livestock tied and dragged.
The raid was successful.
Clean.
Efficient.
Hakon raised his sword high.
"Back to the ships!"
The Vikings began retreating with their spoils.
The monastery burned fully now.
Thick black smoke rose into the sky.
The bell tower collapsed last.
It made a deep, hollow sound when it fell.
Like something ending.
Ragnvald walked back toward the shore.
The captured villagers were lined up.
Rope around their wrists.
Some crying.
Some silent.
The boy he had caught earlier met his eyes again.
This time there was no confusion.
Only fear.
Ragnvald looked away first.
The sea was still black.
The longships were ready.
They pushed off again, leaving behind fire and ruin.
As the coast grew smaller, one of the younger warriors began to sing.
A rough song about glory.
About gold.
About the North Sea belonging to wolves.
Others joined in.
Laughter followed.
Ragnvald sat down again near the prow.
His shield resting against his knee.
His axe across his lap.
The wind hit his face.
Salt in his mouth.
Behind them, England burned quietly.
Ahead of them, more coastlines waited.
Sigurd leaned close.
"You were slow at the gate," he said lightly.
Ragnvald stared forward.
"The arrow distracted me."
Sigurd smiled faintly.
"Do not let doubt distract you next time."
Ragnvald did not answer.
The chanting started again.
"Wolf. Wolf. Wolf."
He closed his eyes.
And for the briefest second ,
He heard something else.
A memory.
A field.
A lamb bleating in tall grass.
Then the sound was gone.
The sea swallowed it.
Ragnvald opened his eyes.
The longship cut forward through the black water.
And the tide did not forgive.