The first thing I know is salt.
It burns my throat. It stings the back of my nose. It fills my mouth like I tried to swallow the sea itself.
I cough—hard—and something warm and savage answers inside my ribs, the instinct to live. My hands slam against wet stone. Fingers—not mine—scrabble for purchase on a black, slick shoreline.
A wave drags at my legs again.
I kick free, roll onto my side, and retch brine onto the rocks.
Above me, voices crash together—men shouting over wind and surf, the slap of oars against hulls, the creak of timber. Smoke rides the air too, thick with tar and fish oil and hearthfire.
I blink, and the world snaps into place in ugly clarity:
Longships pulled up along a rough beach. Men in wool and leather hauling gear, laughing too loudly the way men laugh when they've survived something they shouldn't have. Beyond them, a cluster of buildings—Kattegat, tight and busy, clinging to the edge of cold water like it has no other choice.
This isn't a dream. Dreams don't smell like this.
"Ragnar!"
The name hits me like a fist.
A shadow falls over me. A broad man, wet to the waist, stands with hands on his hips as if he's deciding whether to drag me up or put me back in the water out of spite.
He's older than me—late twenties, maybe—but built like a war-horse. Blond hair plastered to his skull. A face made for brawling and breaking.
And I know him.
Not "know" like I've seen him on a screen.
Know like my body recognizes him before my mind can catch up.
"By Thor's arse," he growls, and then his hand clamps onto my shoulder. "You try to drown yourself in front of everyone? You want the whole fjord to sing about it?"
My mouth opens. Nothing sensible comes out.
My tongue wants to form words I shouldn't have. English. Modern thoughts. Car. Crash. Hospital.
Instead, what spills out is something else—rough, clipped, familiar in a way that terrifies me.
"I… slipped."
He snorts like that's the funniest lie he's ever heard.
"Slipped," he repeats, and the sound is pure contempt wrapped around something gentler. "You slipped after a victory feast and fell off the rocks like a newborn calf."
Victory.
Feast.
My eyes drag past him.
Men carry shields with fresh nicks. One has dried blood on his forearm. Another is missing a tooth and smiling like it's a trophy. The smell of sweat and iron still hangs on them.
A memory—not mine—surges up: a rainy hillside, Baltic woods, screaming men, Ragnar's axe biting through a throat. Ravens wheeling overhead.
And then something stranger—an image like a knife behind my eyes:
A lone figure on the horizon. Wide-brimmed hat. Spear in hand. One eye like a hole in the world.
I flinch.
The big man notices. His expression shifts a fraction, from mockery to concern he doesn't know how to show.
"Ragnar," he says, lower now. "What did you see?"
My throat tightens. I look at him again—at the man I know is his brother.
"Rollo," I whisper.
His eyebrows lift. "Of course I'm Rollo. Has the sea washed your wits away too?"
No. The sea didn't do it.
Something else did.
Something that left me with a scream of metal in my ears—like iron tearing—and a bright flash, and then darkness. A dying world. A modern world. My world.
Now I'm here, half-frozen on stone, and the name on everyone's tongue is Ragnar.
I push myself upright, trembling. Not from cold.
From the sight of my own hands.
They're smaller than I remember. Hard with calluses in the right places—rope, axe haft, plow handle. Knuckles scarred like they've been used as much as any blade. I drag one hand up to my jaw.
No beard.
Smoother skin.
Younger bone.
I stumble toward the water's edge, like I can argue with reality if I get close enough to a reflection.
The fjord gives it to me without mercy.
Blue eyes stare back. Sharp cheekbones. A face I've watched bleed, laugh, and break.
Ragnar Lothbrok.
My stomach drops so hard I nearly fold in half again.
Rollo's hand catches my upper arm and steadies me. "Easy," he mutters, but it's not soft. It's brotherly. The kind of grip that says I'll hold you up—then I'll call you weak for needing it.
Across the beach, a woman strides toward us with the confident gait of someone who belongs among warriors.
Braided hair. Fur at her shoulders. A knife at her belt like it's as ordinary as breath.
Her eyes cut straight through me.
"Ragnar," she says, and there's no humor in it. "What did you do now?"
My chest tightens for a different reason.
Lagertha.
Behind her, a boy hangs back—maybe twelve—trying to look older than he is. He watches me like he's watching a storm decide where to strike. A smaller girl peeks from behind Lagertha's leg, curious and cautious at once.
Bjorn. Gyda.
Family.
It lands like a weight I'm not sure I can carry.
"I fell," I manage.
Lagertha's gaze flicks over me—wet clothes, scraped hands, the way my balance is off. She's seen me hurt before. She knows what it looks like when I'm lying.
"You fell," she repeats, flat.
Rollo chuckles. "He wanted to cool his head. The great Ragnar—too hot with victory."
Lagertha's eyes flash toward Rollo. "If you pushed him—"
"I didn't push him," Rollo snaps back, offended at the accusation. Then he adds, quieter, "He does enough stupid things on his own."
She looks back at me, and for a heartbeat the edge in her face softens—concern she hides under irritation because that's safer in front of men.
"You're needed," she says. "Bjorn is to receive his arm ring today. You promised you would stand with him."
Arm ring.
Rite of passage.
My head spins as Ragnar's memories shove against mine—images of the great hall, the Earl's seat, men watching boys become men and pretending it's only ceremony, not a warning.
I nod once. "I'll be there."
Good. Steady. Like Ragnar would.
But inside, panic hammers.
Because if this is that day—if this is that time—then the next steps are carved into the story I know:
Ragnar arguing with the Earl.
Ragnar defying him.
Floki's strange new ship.
A sail west into the unknown.
Lindisfarne.
793.
The beginning of the legend… and the beginning of a lot of blood.
A man in a dark cloak steps down from the hall-side path and onto the beach like he owns the ground beneath him. His face is narrow, his eyes sharp, and the way the other men subtly shift tells me everything.
Authority.
Threat.
He stops in front of us and doesn't bother greeting—just stares at me like I'm a tool he's deciding how to use.
"Svein," Rollo mutters under his breath, like the name tastes bad.
The man's gaze never leaves me.
"Earl Haraldson wants you in the hall," Svein says.
My mouth goes dry.
Not "later." Not "when you're fit." Not "after you've changed."
Now.
Lagertha's jaw tightens. She doesn't speak, but her posture says careful. Rollo's hand slips off my arm. He suddenly looks like he wants to start a fight and knows it would be a stupid one.
"What for?" I ask, and the words come out steadier than I feel.
Svein's mouth twitches, almost a smile. "You've been talking again."
Of course I have.
Or Ragnar has.
Same mouth. Same reputation.
Same dangerous ideas.
"About what?" I push.
Svein leans in just enough that only we hear the next words.
"About sailing west."
Cold spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with the fjord.
Lagertha's eyes flick to mine—sharp, warning. Rollo's stare hardens, resentful and wary in equal measure.
Svein straightens. "The Earl does not like being made a fool of. He does not like men who think they see further than their betters."
Betters.
Right.
This is how power talks when it's afraid.
I swallow. Ragnar's instincts rise like a shield: calm face, measured breath, the confidence of a man who believes he's right even when everyone else calls him mad.
But beneath that, my modern mind screams: Say the wrong thing and you'll get your whole family killed.
Because I remember Haraldson not as a "leader," but as a man who smiles while he orders slaughter.
I force my feet to move.
"Then I'll speak to him," I say.
Svein turns without waiting, already certain I'll follow.
As we walk up toward the great hall, Kattegat closes around us—women carrying water, children darting between legs, men repairing nets and blades. Life continuing because life always continues… right up until someone powerful decides it shouldn't.
The doors of the hall loom ahead, carved wood dark with age and smoke.
Rollo falls into step beside me, close enough to hiss without being heard.
"You'll keep your mouth shut," he says. It's half-order, half-plea.
I glance at him.
Rollo—violent, loyal, jealous, hungry. A man who loves his brother and hates being his shadow.
"I'll do what I have to," I answer.
He scoffs. "That's what you always say."
Inside the hall, firelight breathes and flickers across carved posts and hanging shields. Men turn to watch us enter. The room quiets in that way it does when someone with rank wants attention.
At the far end, on the raised seat, sits Earl Haraldson.
Broad-shouldered, heavy-jawed, eyes like stones. Beside him, Siggy rests a hand near his arm—elegant, watchful, reading the room like it's a battlefield of whispers.
Haraldson's gaze locks onto me.
And in that moment, it's like the world narrows to a knife point.
This is the man Ragnar will one day challenge.
This is the man who stands between me and everything the story says must happen.
Haraldson's voice rolls out, deep and controlled.
"Ragnar Lothbrok."
He doesn't ask how I am. He doesn't mention the water. He doesn't care if I live, only whether I'm useful—or dangerous.
"Come forward," he says. "And tell me why I hear you've been filling my people's heads with dreams."
I step into the firelight, water still dripping from my hair onto the packed earth.
My heart pounds so hard it feels like war drums.
I think of Lagertha's eyes. Bjorn waiting for his arm ring. Rollo's warning. The long dark sea to the west.
And I realize the brutal truth:
This isn't just a conversation.
This is where the legend starts—or breaks.
I lift my chin.
And I speak.