"Rise of the Viking King."

The wind howled through the northern woods as Dikun Silver and his companions rode onward. Skarnvik was now a fading memory, its gates sealed to their pleas. But the road ahead held no promise of peace. The Reavers had left their mark, and it was time to find it.

"Grettir wants proof," Hakon scoffed, his voice barely audible over the biting wind. "Proof that the storm is upon us. He'll have it soon enough."

Dikun's gaze remained fixed ahead. "We'll ride east. The fishing villages along the coast were the first to fall when the Reavers came. What remains will speak louder than any words."

Marcus nodded grimly. "And if the Reavers are still near?"

"Then we finish what we started."

---

The Scorched Shore

The smell of charred wood and rotting flesh struck them long before the ruins came into view. The once-thriving village of Varhold had been reduced to blackened timbers and ash. Crows circled overhead, their cries echoing through the skeletal remains of homes.

Dikun dismounted, his boots sinking into the scorched earth. The silence was deafening, save for the wind that whispered through the empty streets. Broken weapons lay scattered, and crimson stains marred the ground. No laughter, no voices. Only the remnants of violence.

"Gods," Sarich murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Marcus knelt beside the remains of a shattered cart, running his fingers over the splintered wood. "They didn't come for silver. They came to send a message."

Hakon's eyes burned with fury. "And Grettir chooses to wait."

"No more waiting," Dikun said firmly. "We take what we've seen back to Hrafnsfjord. The other clans will listen. They must."

He turned away from the ruins, but a sudden sound halted his steps. A faint rustling. The scrape of something against stone.

"Hold." Dikun's voice was low, but the others obeyed instantly. His hand found the hilt of his sword as he scanned the shadows.

From the wreckage emerged a figure. A young boy, his face streaked with soot, stumbled forward. His eyes were hollow, his small frame trembling. Behind him, a frail woman followed, clutching the child tightly.

"They survived," Sarich whispered in disbelief.

Dikun sheathed his blade and stepped forward, his voice calm. "We mean you no harm. What happened here?"

The woman's eyes flickered with both fear and recognition. "Reavers," she rasped. "They came with the dawn. Took what they wanted. Killed those who resisted. Then they burned it all."

"And the Reavers?" Marcus asked. "Where did they go?"

She shook her head. "Back to the sea. But they spoke of more. More villages to burn. More blood to spill."

Dikun's fists clenched. The proof Grettir wanted now lay in ashes, and the Reavers were far from finished.

---

The Oath Renewed

As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the warriors gathered by their campfire. The boy and his mother slept nearby, wrapped in borrowed cloaks. The flames crackled, casting wavering shadows across their faces.

"The Reavers will return soon," Hakon said darkly. "And when they do, the clans must stand ready."

Dikun nodded, his resolve unshaken. "We ride for Hrafnsfjord at first light. Grettir will see the truth with his own eyes. And if he still refuses to stand with us, we will find those who will."

Marcus grinned, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. "Then let the clans know our names. Dikun Silver and his kin do not flee from storms. We ride into them."

Sarich's voice was calm, yet resolute. "And we will make the Reavers regret ever setting foot upon these shores."

With those words, their oath was renewed. Blood and steel would see them through the trials to come.

To Be Continued...