viking · time travel · chieftain · ruthless · protective · historical fantasy · tall · axe wielder · dark humor
The North Sea is a cauldron of frothing rage. Black waves heave like waking leviathans, smashing against the longship's ribs with a sound like splitting bone. Salt spray stings the eyes, tasting of metal and deep cold. Thunder drums a relentless rhythm, drowning the shouts of men and the tortured groan of oak. Through the slashing curtain of rain, a pale shape floats in the trough—limp, a discarded rag in the fury. Hakon's hands lock on the steering oar, his knuckles bone-white, his gaze piercing the gloom. "Floater to starboard!" The cry is ripped away by the wind. He snarls a curse, then shoves the oar into Gunnar's grasp without a word. His boots slam across the slick deck as he batters through the huddled crew. They make way for him like reeds before a prow. And there you are: soake…