A week after the Midwinter Thing's thunderous verdict, Haven's Gael awoke beneath a sky streaked with crimson dawn. Icicles dripped from eaves of sod huts, and smoke from countless hearths curled into the crisp air. The settlement buzzed with purpose: carpenters furrowing brows over longship repairs, smiths tempering new axes in roaring forges, and shieldmaidens drilling on the frozen sands.
Einar Stormrider stood on the Northward's deck, cloak pulled tight against the sea's chill. Below him, Astrid Sigurdsdottir oversaw the loading of provisions—flasks of mead, salted fish, sacks of barley—while Sigurd Flamehair and Kari the Wanderer secured runed wards along the hull. Thirty oarsmen waited in silence, their breaths ghosting in the morning light. Behind them, longships from Hlodver's Raven's Wing and Jarl Brynjar's fleet nestled in neat ranks, ready to escort the reclaimed Stormrider clan home.
Einar's heart swelled at the sight—the white dragon's prows carved from oak, the painted shields lining each ship's side, and the banners aloft: twin wolves for Stormrider, the raven's wing, and Brynjar's silver wolf. Soon, Skeldfjord will know the roar of our return.
Astrid joined him on the prow, amber braid drifting like a banner. "Are you ready?" she asked, voice soft as the sea-spray.
He turned, seeing the fierce hope in her eyes. "For vengeance—and for home." His gaze drifted to Kari, who dipped his staff in saltwater, drawing a circle of iron filings on the deck. The bits glowed faintly blue.
"Runes of safe passage," Kari explained, voice low. "Yet I sense something more… a stirring in the deep."
Einar frowned. "You mean the seiðkona's magic?"
Kari nodded. "She weaves illusions beneath the waves. We must keep watch."
Astrid pressed a gauntleted hand to her throat. "I will post lookouts at each mast."
"Good," Einar said. "And Sigurd's men will stand ready to repel boarders." He closed his eyes, tasting the brine and steel in the air. "Let the tide carry us—and the gods defend our souls."
The fleet slipped from harbor under oar and sail, a hundred polished blades glinting like sunlit frost. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries swallowed by the sea-horn's blast—a deep call that summoned crew and kin alike.
(Sea-horn: a great conch or iron-horn used as a signal across ships.)
The Northward led the vanguard, its dragon-head prow carved in snarling relief. Kari moved among the rowers, whispering ancient runes to calm tempests. Sigurd stood at the stern, silent as a statue, eyes scanning the horizon.
Einar took Astrid's hand, leaning close over the rail. "It has been too long," he murmured. "Too long since Skeldfjord's forests sheltered us and the hearth fires welcomed us home."
She tipped her chin upward. "We return as jarls now, with allies at our back. Your home is no longer a place of exile."
He smiled, then stiffened as the sea darkened beneath gathering clouds. A low rumble rolled across the waves. Kari's staff rattled in his grip.
"Storm-magic," he muttered. "But not borne of wind alone."
Einar leapt to the helm. "All hands—ready drains and bilge pumps! Secure the runewards!"
Oars struck water in urgent rhythm as sailors lashed down sails. The sky opened, sheets of rain lashing the deck. Lightning forked across the clouds, followed by thunder that shook timbers. Yet beneath nature's fury, a deeper pulse thrummed—a resonance of sorcery.
From the swirling depths, shapes rose: dark tendrils of mist curling toward the Northward, each strand humming with otherworldly power. Astrid sprang to Kari's side. "Mist-wraiths again!" she shouted.
Kari raised his staff, tracing a sigil in the storm-dark air. Rune-light flared, forging a dome of shimmering runes around the ship. The mist-wraiths hissed as they struck the barrier, trailing fragments of silver vapor that sizzled and fell into the sea.
"Hold!" Einar roared. He drew Stormreaver and struck the barrier's underside. The blade's frost-runes blazed cold white, reinforcing the ward. Sparks rained like hail.
For a tense heartbeat, the wraiths recoiled. Then, as if sensing weakness, they surged, lashing against the runes in synchronized assault. One wraith breached the dome's edge, a slender finger of mist skimming the deck. Astrid intercepted it with a shield-bolt tipped in Kari's ward, and the wraith dissipated in a smoky sigh.
"Keep them back!" Einar bellowed. "And send runners to the Raven's Wing!"
Down below, Sigurd's men hammered at the railings, driving iron spikes into warped planks. Kari chanted runes of banishment, each word a hammer blow. The deck heaved beneath the storm's wrath, but the ward held.
Finally, the mist-wraiths retreated, curling back into the dark sea. The storm broke in a final crack of thunder, and sunlight glittered upon drenched shields. Sailors cheered, pumping fists and slapping backs.
Einar wiped saltwater from his brow. "Let that be their last trick," he growled.
Kari dipped his staff again. "The runes warn that the seiðkona grows desperate. We must hasten."
Three days later, the fleet rounded Skeldfjord's mouth. Jagged cliffs rose on either side, their faces streaked with lichen and ice. Below, waves crashed against the rocks in foaming protest. Einar's heart thundered: familiar peaks, the narrow river mouth, and the twisted remnants of docks long-rotted by neglect.
Astrid guided the Northward into the fjord's narrow curve, her voice steady. "Keep your oars light—watch the shallows."
They slipped past wrecked longships half-submerged, hulls broken like spilled beehives. Half-hidden coves harbored enemy pickets—Hakon's scouts in leather garb, bows raised—but Sigurd's warhorn thundered and the Raven's Wing answered with black banners unfurled. The scouts fled, leaving only cries that echoed across the silent hills.
Einar disembarked at the ruined quay, Stormreaver in hand. Snow-crusted driftwood littered the stones. Behind him, Astrid, Kari, Sigurd, and Thora formed a guarded circle as the settlement rose around them—turf-roofed grufur, half-buried in snow, hearth smoke curling skyward, and new timber frames waiting for walls.
The people of Skeldfjord emerged from hideaways: farmers blinking in pale light, shieldmaidens gripping axes with trembling hands, children clutching fur muffs. They stared at Einar as if he were a phantom of legend. Mothers drew babes close; old men rested hands on carved canes, voices choked with disbelief.
Einar raised a hand. "Children of Skeldfjord," he called, voice carrying over the fjord's hush. "Your homes are ours to rebuild. Your fires ours to rekindle. Stand and see the fury of the storm rider's return!"
Murmurs swelled, building into cheers that rolled like tidal thunder. People pressed forward, reaching for blades gifted by the smiths, offering embraces, tears freezing in the air. Astrid wept beside him, warmth in her arms.
That night, under a sky torn by northern lights, the reclaiming feast began. Long tables groaned under salted salmon, spiced root vegetables, and steaming bowls of barley stew. Mead flowed in horns carved with Stormrider's crest. Bards strummed lyres, singing of Einar's exile and return. Torchlight danced across turned faces—hope reborn.
Einar sat at the head table with Jarl Brynjar and Hlodver. Astrid at his side, her braid glinting in green and purple. Kari leaned forward, lips moving in quiet chant as he traced runes on the table's edge—wards of protection for the vulnerable.
Between courses, Einar rose to speak. He recounted the journey: the alliance forged, the duel's thunder, the storms of magic, and the wraiths of mist. Each tale drew gasps and applause. At last he raised his horn.
"To Skeldfjord!" he cried. "May its fields grow green and its halls ring with laughter. To its people, who refused to bow to darkness. And to the old gods, who guide our blades and our hearts!"
Horns blared. Firelight flickered in shining eyes. Children darted between tables, collecting scraps, laughter ringing like chimes.
Yet amid the revelry, Kari's gaze drifted to the distant hills. Astrid followed his stare. Beyond the village, half-hidden in drifted snow, lay the ruins of the Rune Hall—a stone circle atop a low ridge, its standing stones carved with ancient marks.
(Rune Hall: a sacred site where ancestors carved runes to commune with gods and bind magic.)
Einar noticed their silence. "What is it?" he asked.
Kari rose, voice hushed. "The Rune Hall's gates are open—no sacrilege, for the stones show no ward. But the runes themselves are changing… as if beckoning."
A hush fell over the nearest revelers. Einar laid a steadying hand on Kari's shoulder. "Then at dawn, we go there. For if Skeldfjord's magic stirs, we must master it—or it masters us."
Astrid placed her hand over his. "Together."
They exchanged a solemn look, one that spoke of hidden dangers and deeper mysteries. Behind them, laughter rose anew, yet for Einar Stormrider, the feast's emberlight was tempered by the frost of what lay ahead: a secret buried beneath stone and blood, waiting to be unearthed.
And so, under auroral veils, the Stormrider clan reclaimed its hearth—and prepared to unlock the long-forgotten magic of their ancestors.