"Rise of the Viking King."

The wind howled across the sea, carrying the salt of distant shores. Days had passed since Dikun Silver left Hrafnsfjord, the distant village no more than a fading memory. The longship, with its carved dragonhead prow, surged forward beneath the steady pull of its oars. The sea, vast and unyielding, tested them at every turn.

But it was not the waves that stirred the warriors' spirits.

It was the promise of battle.

---

The Target

"Land!"

The cry came from the bow. All eyes turned toward the horizon, where a thin strip of green emerged from the mist. It was a small coastal village — its wooden palisades weathered and humble. Smoke curled lazily from thatched rooftops, and fishing boats bobbed along the shore.

"Jarl Sigvard spoke true," Hakon growled, a wicked grin spreading across his scarred face. "No warriors, no banners. Only farmers and fishermen."

The other warriors chuckled, but Dikun remained silent. The image of the simple village stirred memories — memories of home. Hrafnsfjord had been no different. A place of peace, of toil. Not all battles were fought against shields and spears.

Still, Dikun's resolve did not waver. He had sworn his oath. And a warrior's path was paved in blood.

"We strike before they see us," Sigvard declared, his voice booming over the waves. "No mercy for those who cannot stand. Take what you can carry. The gods favor the bold!"

A roar of approval echoed through the ship. The oars struck the water harder, faster. Dikun felt the tension coil in his chest, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. The time had come.

But even as the village loomed closer, a single thought remained — would this battle make him worthy?

---

The First Clash

The longship struck the shore with a jarring thud, its hull grinding against the wet sand. Warriors leapt into the shallows, water spraying as their boots met the earth. Swords gleamed beneath the rising sun.

Dikun followed, his heart pounding. The weight of his father's blade hung at his side — not yet stained with blood.

"Go!" Sigvard roared, leading the charge. "Show them the strength of the North!"

The villagers' cries rang out in alarm. Men scrambled from their huts, their hands gripping farming tools instead of weapons. Fear twisted their faces as the raiders surged forward.

Dikun's feet pounded against the ground. Every instinct screamed for him to raise his sword, to strike. But his gaze locked onto a young villager — no older than Marcus or Sarich. The boy stood frozen, a wooden staff trembling in his grasp.

Dikun's grip faltered.

The boy's eyes burned with fear, but also something else — defiance. Dikun could see it. A refusal to yield. A spark of courage.

But before the boy could act, a blur of movement crashed into him. Hakon's axe cleaved through the air, striking the staff from the boy's hands. The weapon splintered, and the boy tumbled to the ground.

"Pathetic," Hakon spat.

Dikun's stomach twisted, but he held firm. This was not the time for doubt. He would fight. He had to.

He turned, catching sight of another villager rushing toward him — an older man, his face lined with years of hardship. The man's crude spear lunged forward, but Dikun sidestepped, the motion instinctual.

Steel flashed.

The farmer's body crumpled to the ground.

Dikun's chest heaved. The scent of blood mingled with the salt air. His hands trembled, though he tried to steady them. He had fought. He had survived.

But why did the weight of the sword feel so heavy?

---

Sigvard's Lesson

By midday, the village was little more than smoldering ruins. The warriors had claimed their spoils — barrels of mead, sacks of grain, and whatever silver the villagers had clung to. Cries of victory echoed across the shore.

But Dikun found no joy in the triumph.

He stood at the edge of the village, gazing toward the sea. The waves remained indifferent, as if the gods themselves had not deigned to witness the slaughter.

"Still troubled, boy?"

Sigvard's voice broke the silence. The Jarl's broad figure approached, his face streaked with sweat and soot. Yet there was no remorse in his eyes. Only the satisfaction of a raid well executed.

"I did as I swore," Dikun answered, though the words felt hollow. "But it did not feel like victory."

Sigvard scoffed. "You think war is meant to feel good? War is survival. War is the gods' judgment upon the weak." He gestured toward the ruined village. "They built no walls. They bore no arms. They chose to live without strength. And for that, they were judged."

Dikun said nothing.

"You will grow used to the blood," Sigvard continued. "Or it will break you. But mark my words — the sea will not wait for a warrior who hesitates."

With that, the Jarl turned away, his laughter mingling with the crashing waves.

---

The Road Ahead

That night, the longship sailed once more. The stolen goods lined the deck, and the warriors drank deeply from their plundered mead. But Dikun remained apart, his thoughts lingering on the faces of the villagers — the boy with the staff, the old man who had fallen beneath his blade.

He knew the path he had chosen would demand more. More blood. More strength. But strength without purpose was no different than the axe that cleaved without thought.

And Dikun would not become a mindless blade.

He thought of Marcus, bold and fearless. Of Sarich, sharp-witted and watchful. And of Deen, still a child, yet eager to follow in his brother's footsteps. One day, they would stand together. But Dikun vowed they would not become beasts of war.

He would find another way. A way to rise — not through slaughter alone, but through purpose.

"The gods will judge me," Dikun whispered to the dark sea. "But I will choose the man I become."

And with the stars above as his witness, the longship sailed onward.

To Be Continued...