By the third day, the men stopped talking about Haraldson.
Not because they'd forgiven him.
Because the sea doesn't care who sits on a chair back home.
It only cares whether you eat, whether you drink, whether you keep moving.
Leif's lips were cracked from salt and wind. Erik's hands shook when he tried to tie a knot. Even Arne—who always pretended nothing touched him—kept glancing at the water skins like he was counting each swallow.
Rollo caught me looking and muttered, "If you start rationing like a woman with winter stores, they'll hate you."
"They'll hate me more when they're dead," I said.
Torstein didn't look up from the steering line. "Speak it plain," he said. "How long can we last?"
I did the math in my head the only way you can out here—hard and ugly.
"Two days," I said. "Three if we're lucky. Less if the wind fights us."
No one argued. No one joked. That told me everything.
Floki stood by the mast, staring west, eyes too bright. "The raven flew," he said softly. "It knew."
"Knew what?" Erik snapped. "Birds don't know gods' secrets."
Floki smiled like Erik was a child. "Birds know land," he said. "That is enough."
Rollo spat. "Then row."
Torstein called the stroke and the oars dipped again, wood biting water, men grinding forward on stubbornness and pain.
I kept my eyes where the raven had vanished.
Not because I believed in miracles.
Because tradition had always used what worked.
And ravens worked.
That afternoon, the air changed.
It wasn't dramatic. No thunder. No omen. Just a smell—faint at first, like a lie you don't want to believe.
Earth.
Wet soil and green growth carried on a thin wind.
Leif lifted his head and sniffed like a dog.
"You smell that?" he whispered.
Arne's one eye narrowed. "Don't start imagining things."
But Torstein smelled it too. His shoulders tightened like a man hearing footsteps behind him.
"Land," he said, quiet.
Floki exhaled a laugh like a prayer answered.
Rollo didn't smile. He just stared harder into the grey.
Then the sea began to show signs—small things that meant everything to men who lived on water.
A strand of kelp floated by, torn loose and fresh.
Then another.
Then a bit of driftwood—rounded and water-worn, but not old enough to have been at sea for weeks.
Erik stared at it like it was gold.
"We're close," he breathed.
I didn't let myself soften. Not yet.
"Close can still kill you," I said. "Keep rowing. And watch for surf. Reefs hide under polite water."
They hated that truth, but they listened.
Because they'd seen how fast luck turns.
By evening, the sky thinned just enough to show a pale line on the horizon.
Not cloud.
Not fog.
A darker smear, steady and unmoving.
Torstein squinted. "There."
Leif's breath hitched. "Is that—?"
"Yes," I said, and my voice sounded strange in my own ears. "That's land."
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then men started laughing—raw, cracked laughter that sounded like relief and madness mixed together.
Erik dropped his head and muttered thanks to every god he could name.
Leif slapped the gunwale with a bleeding hand and grinned through split lips.
Even Arne's mouth twitched.
Rollo just stared at the line like he wanted to fight it for existing.
Floki looked like he might cry.
"She's taken us," he whispered, stroking the mast like it had saved us by will alone. "She's taken us."
I let them have the moment—one breath, one heartbeat of victory.
Then I pointed toward the shore.
"Not done," I said. "We don't rush in like fools. We find a beach. We land clean. We don't smash the hull on hidden rock and die ten paces from grass."
The laughter faded into focus.
Torstein nodded once. "Aye."
Rollo rolled his shoulders. "Finally."
Night fell and the land grew larger.
It didn't look like the world's edge.
It looked… ordinary.
Cliffs in places, low hills in others. Dark shapes of trees. The outline of a coast that didn't care that we'd made a legend of reaching it.
And that was the most unsettling part.
The sea had felt like something sacred and hostile.
The land ahead looked like a place where people simply lived.
Which meant people could also die.
We followed the coastline at distance until we found what we needed: a long stretch of beach with shallow water and no visible reef breaks. A place where a ship could run in fast, unload men, and leave again without being trapped.
Torstein watched the waves for a long minute. "Tide's pulling out," he said.
"Good," I replied. "Less water means we see more danger. But it also means we can get stuck if we're careless."
Rollo grunted. "So we're careful."
Floki's eyes glittered. "Careful men don't make sagas."
"Dead men don't either," I said.
He looked offended again, but he shut up.
We ran the ship in.
The bow kissed sand with a soft, satisfying scrape instead of a crack. Men leapt into cold water up to their knees and hauled the hull higher, dragging it like a prize they'd stolen from the sea.
When my boots hit sand, I stood still for a moment.
The ground felt wrong under me.
Too soft. Too green-smelling. Not stone and pine and salt like home.
I looked inland.
Grass. Rolling land. Trees that didn't look like our trees. A quietness that felt unnatural.
Leif whispered, "Where are the men?"
"Somewhere," Arne said, unslinging his bow. "Men are always somewhere."
Rollo pulled his axe free and tested its weight like he'd missed it.
Torstein scanned the treeline. "We don't walk in a line," he said. "Two scouts forward. Quiet."
I nodded. "Rollo, Torstein—take the front. Arne, cover. Floki, you stay close."
Floki scoffed. "You think I cannot fight?"
"I think you love your ship more than you love bleeding," I answered.
He smiled, delighted at being understood and insulted in the same breath.
We moved inland.
No shouting. No war cries. No hero noise.
Just boots in grass, the soft clink of weapons, men breathing like wolves trying not to be heard.
The farther we walked, the stranger it felt—because there was no sign of fear.
No watch fires. No sentries. No guards on ridges.
Just sheep grazing in the distance like the world had never invented raiders.
Leif's voice came out thin. "It's like they don't expect enemies."
"They don't," I said. "Not from the sea."
Rollo glanced back at me. "Then let's teach them."
That was Rollo: simple, brutal. He didn't worship mystery. He worshiped winning.
We crested a low rise and saw it.
Stone walls.
A cluster of buildings, neat and quiet.
And at the center, a larger stone structure with a high roof and a cross rising from it like a spear meant for the sky.
Floki's face twisted with disgust.
"Christians," he whispered, as if the word itself was rot.
Torstein studied the place. "No palisade."
"No armed men," Arne added. "Or they're hiding."
Rollo licked his teeth. "Gold, then."
My stomach tightened—not with greed, but with the weight of what this meant.
This wasn't some faceless shore.
This was a target.
This was the moment that would become a story.
And I could already hear Haraldson's future sneer: You sailed west to kill farmers and priests.
Maybe he'd be right.
But I didn't come here for slaughter.
I came here because Kattegat needed more than scraps. Because Haraldson's leash needed cutting. Because if we didn't become bigger than our fjord, we'd be eaten by the men who already were.
I looked at the monastery again.
Quiet. Unarmed. Rich.
And I said the truth out loud.
"We take what we came for," I told them. "Fast. Clean. No wasting time. No chasing sheep for sport."
Rollo's eyes narrowed. "And the men?"
"If they fight, they die," I said. "If they don't—don't waste strength killing what isn't a threat."
Floki's lip curled. "Mercy?"
"Practical," I answered. "Bodies take time. Panic spreads. We want gold, not a war that calls every sword in this land down on us tomorrow."
Torstein nodded, approving.
Rollo didn't. But he didn't argue—yet.
I lifted a hand and the men spread out, slipping down the slope toward the stone buildings like shadows with axes.
We reached the outer wall.
A wooden gate sat half-open like they didn't even believe in locks.
Leif whispered, awed, "They're asleep."
"Or praying," Floki spat.
Rollo pushed the gate wider.
No alarm.
No horn.
Just the soft squeal of wood.
Inside, the courtyard was clean. There were barrels, baskets, cloth bundles—supplies and offerings. Signs of wealth without the smell of warriors.
A man in a simple robe stepped out of a doorway holding a bowl.
He looked up.
Saw us.
And froze like his mind couldn't accept what his eyes were telling it.
He opened his mouth.
No sound came out at first.
Then he screamed.
Everything after that happened fast.
Rollo hit him first—hard, brutal, efficient—dropping him into the dirt.
Another robed man stumbled from a doorway clutching a wooden cross like it was a weapon.
Arne put an arrow into his chest and he fell, eyes wide, staring at the sky like he expected it to answer.
Leif rushed a third, cutting him down with a short axe swing that looked practiced and sickeningly casual.
Floki laughed once—high and sharp—and kicked open a door.
"Where is your god now?" he hissed into the darkness.
I moved through the courtyard like a man trying to control a flood.
"Torstein—watch the gates. Rollo—take two men and find their treasure. Arne—eyes up, rooftops, windows. Leif—stop swinging at air and use your head."
Leif flinched like I'd slapped him, then nodded and forced himself to breathe.
Rollo kicked in a door and the sound inside changed—less screaming, more frantic praying.
Then the smell hit me.
Incense.
Wax.
Old stone.
We entered the main building.
It wasn't like our halls. No smoke-black beams. No open hearth. The air was cool and still, heavy with a strange sweetness.
Candles burned in rows.
Gold gleamed on walls and tables—cups, plates, ornaments, a cross plated with metal that caught the candlelight like fire trapped in shape.
For a heartbeat, even my men hesitated.
Not out of respect.
Out of disbelief.
"Wealth," Erik whispered, voice shaking.
Rollo stepped forward and grinned like a starving man seeing a feast.
"I told you," he murmured.
Floki's eyes were wild now. "Take it," he breathed. "Take it all."
Torstein's discipline held. "Bags," he ordered, sharp. "Fill them. Fast."
Men moved. Greedy hands, shaking hands, stuffing cloth with cups and plates and ornaments they didn't understand.
A monk crawled across the floor, bleeding, reaching for the cross like it could save him.
Rollo raised his axe.
I grabbed his wrist.
He turned on me, furious. "What?"
"Not worth the time," I said. "He's dying anyway."
Rollo stared at me like I'd spoken a foreign language.
Then he yanked his arm free and stalked off, jaw tight.
Floki watched us with a look that was half amusement, half suspicion—like he couldn't decide if I was clever or weak.
I didn't care what he thought.
I cared that we got out.
Then a voice rose above the chaos—clear, terrified, pleading in a language that was not ours.
A young man stepped from behind a stone pillar.
His head was shaved in a strange way. His robe was simple. His hands were raised, palms out.
He spoke again, eyes wide.
None of my men understood a word.
But I did.
Not perfectly—not like a scholar.
Like a man who had heard it in another life and had it forced into shape by the memories tangled inside my skull.
English.
My chest tightened.
Floki moved toward him like a hungry dog.
Rollo turned, eager. "Kill him," he said, as if it was the natural ending.
The monk swallowed, trembling, still talking—praying, begging, pleading—voice shaking but steady enough to keep trying.
I stepped between him and Floki.
Floki's eyes narrowed. "Why do you block me?"
"Because he's useful," I said.
Rollo scoffed. "Useful how? He's a praying sheep."
"He speaks," I said, nodding at the monk. "He can tell us where we are. What this land is. Where they keep more wealth. How many men they can gather. Where the nearest army sits."
Torstein paused, listening. That mattered to him.
Rollo didn't like it. "We can burn the place and leave."
"And come back blind next time?" I asked. "No."
Floki stepped closer, face tight with disgust. "They are not men," he hissed. "They are Christians. They spit on our gods."
"Then let them spit from inside our ship," I said, cold. "Tied up. Quiet."
Floki's smile turned sharp. "You want a pet?"
"I want an advantage," I answered.
The monk stared at me like he couldn't understand why I was speaking his tongue.
I leaned in slightly and spoke slowly.
"What is your name?"
His mouth opened, closed, then he forced it out.
"Æthelstan," he said, trembling.
The name landed like a bell in my head.
Rollo's jaw flexed. Floki's eyes flashed.
Torstein watched me with a new calculation: Ragnar didn't just raid. Ragnar brought back a tool.
I turned to the monk again.
"Æthelstan," I said, "you come with us. If you obey, you live. If you lie, you die."
His eyes filled with tears. He nodded quickly, desperate.
Floki leaned in, voice like venom.
"Our gods will not like this," he whispered.
I met his gaze.
"Then they can complain when we're rich," I said.
Tell it like it is.
Tradition keeps you alive.
Innovation makes you dangerous.
And right now, we needed to be dangerous.
Outside, someone shouted—Arne's voice—warning.
"Riders!"
Torstein snapped, "How many?"
"Don't know!" Arne barked. "But they're coming fast!"
Rollo's grin vanished. "So much for no guards."
I turned, heart hardening.
"Take what you can carry," I ordered. "Now. We leave."
Men grabbed bags, hefted bundles, slung stolen gold and silver over shoulders. One man tried to drag a heavy chest and I kicked it away.
"Leave it," I snarled. "You want to die hugging it?"
He let go.
We moved out, spilling into the courtyard like wolves forced back toward the forest—loot heavy, breath fast, eyes scanning for the first sight of armed men.
The monastery bells began to ring.
Not for prayer.
For alarm.
I shoved Æthelstan forward with the others, a rope already in Leif's hands.
We sprinted for the treeline, then down toward the beach where our ship waited like a lifeline.
Behind us, the peaceful stone buildings roared with panic.
Ahead of us, the sea waited—cold, wide, honest in its cruelty.
And in my arms, my arm ring felt heavier than gold.
Because now it wasn't just a promise to my crew.
It was proof.
We'd found the west.
And we'd just made ourselves enemies in a land that didn't know our names—yet.