"Rise of the Viking King."

The air was thick with salt and the distant cries of gulls as Dikun Silver and his companions rode along the coastal cliffs. The sea below churned in restless anticipation, as though the very waves sensed the storm to come. The sky, streaked with crimson and gold, cast an ominous glow upon the waters.

The weight of Skarnvik's refusal still lingered in Dikun's mind. Jarl Grettir's stubbornness had been no surprise, but the knowledge that the clans would hesitate while the Reavers gathered strength gnawed at him. Proof — that was what Grettir demanded. Proof that the Reavers' threat loomed ever closer.

And proof was what Dikun would find.

"How far now?" Marcus called, his voice carried by the wind.

"Another day's ride," Sarich answered, scanning the distant shoreline. "The old fishing village should still stand. If the Reavers have passed through, we'll find signs."

Dikun said nothing, his gaze fixed upon the horizon. The village they sought was no more than a cluster of huts along the southern coast, once a refuge for weary fishermen. But even the smallest settlements were not beyond the reach of the Reavers.

---

The Silent Village

By midday, the remnants of the fishing village emerged from the mist. The air grew still, the scent of ash and brine mingling in the breeze. Broken fences lined the narrow path, their splintered edges blackened by flame.

"No banners," Hakon muttered, dismounting his horse. "Only ruin."

The village was deathly quiet. Charred beams jutted from the ground like skeletal remains, and the ground was littered with the remains of shattered clay pots and broken tools. Smoke still clung to the breeze, though the fires had long since died.

Dikun moved through the wreckage, his boots crunching against the scorched earth. The signs were clear — the Reavers had come.

"The livestock pens are empty," Sarich observed. "But no bodies."

"They took them," Dikun said grimly. "Those they didn't kill, they enslaved."

A grim silence fell over the group. The Reavers showed no mercy, only bloodlust and the promise of silver. But even in their cruelty, they left behind the truth that Dikun needed.

"Marcus, Hakon, gather what remains. Anything that speaks of their passage. Sarich, check the outskirts. If any survived, we need to know."

The warriors set to work, their movements swift and purposeful. Dikun knelt beside the scorched remains of a wooden carving — a depiction of Njord, the sea god. The soot-streaked idol lay broken, abandoned amidst the ruin. The Reavers held no reverence. Only destruction.

---

A Survivor's Tale

"Over here!" Sarich's voice rang out.

Dikun rushed to the edge of the village where Sarich stood beside a collapsed hut. Beneath the sagging beams, a figure stirred. An old man, clad in tattered furs, clutched at his side. Blood stained the earth beneath him.

"Help him," Dikun commanded, and Marcus quickly eased the man into a sitting position.

"Reavers…" the old man croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. "They came with the tide. Took the young. Burned the rest."

"Where did they go?" Dikun pressed.

The man's eyes flickered, clouded with pain. "North… to the fjords. They sail beneath the black serpent."

A chill ran through Dikun. The black serpent. The symbol of a Reaver warband feared across the northern seas.

"Rest now," Dikun said softly, signaling Marcus to tend to the man's wounds.

He rose, the weight of certainty pressing upon him. The proof they sought lay before them, scorched into the earth and carried in the trembling words of a dying man.

"We ride for Skarnvik," Dikun declared. "The Reavers will not wait. And neither shall we."

With the wind at their backs and the promise of vengeance burning in their hearts, the warriors of Hrafnsfjord turned toward the path ahead. The gathering storm awaited, and Dikun Silver would meet it with steel.

To Be Continued...