"Rise of the Viking King."

The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and damp earth as Dikun Silver and his companions rode along the winding path that led away from Skarnvik. The tense exchange with Jarl Grettir weighed heavily upon them, but Dikun's resolve remained firm. The Jarl's refusal did not mark the end—only a delay.

"Stubborn old bear," Marcus muttered, tightening his grip on the reins. "He'll wait until the Reavers are at his gate before he sees reason."

"And by then, it will be too late," Hakon growled, his brow furrowed. "But the Jarl made one thing clear. Proof. He won't move without it."

Dikun's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead. "Then we give him what he wants."

Sarich, ever observant, spoke calmly. "We could return to Hrafnsfjord. Gather news of any Reaver sightings. Or… we seek them out ourselves."

The words hung in the air. The thought of facing the Reavers directly was fraught with danger, but Dikun knew the risk was necessary. A display of their strength—and the Reavers' threat—was the only way to unite the clans.

"We sail north," Dikun decided. "The Reavers won't stay idle for long. We'll find them before they find us."

The others nodded. There was no turning back now.

---

The Call of the Sea

By dawn, the warriors returned to the harbor of a small coastal village. The salt-bitten docks creaked beneath their boots, and the fishermen cast wary glances their way. Word of their purpose had spread. Fear lingered in the eyes of the villagers—fear of the Reavers' return.

"Two longships," Dikun commanded. "Enough to carry us north, but swift enough to evade a larger force if needed."

Hakon nodded. "We'll need volunteers. Men who know the sea as well as the sword."

The call went out, and it wasn't long before weathered sailors and eager warriors stepped forward. Some sought vengeance for the raids upon their homes. Others saw the promise of silver and glory.

Among them stood a man of imposing stature—Eirik the Black. His dark beard was streaked with gray, and the leather of his armor bore the marks of countless battles.

"I know the northern waters well," Eirik growled. "And I've seen the Reavers' ships. If you mean to face them, you'll need a guide."

Dikun met his gaze and saw the unspoken challenge. But there was no hesitation.

"Then stand with us, Eirik. And we will face them together."

---

The Voyage North

The longships cut through the waves like blades, their sails taut against the northern wind. The rhythmic creak of the oars and the crash of the sea against the hull filled the air. The warriors stood ready, their weapons polished and their spirits sharpened by the thought of battle.

Eirik stood at the prow, his weathered hands gripping the carved serpent's head. "The Reavers follow the currents, striking where the defenses are weakest. If they sail true to their pattern, we'll find signs of them soon."

Dikun scanned the horizon. The gray sky loomed overhead, and the distant cries of gulls echoed above the waves. Every shadow upon the water felt like a threat, but still, they pressed on.

"What do you intend when we find them?" Sarich asked quietly.

"We learn their strength," Dikun answered. "We take their measure. And if we see the chance… we strike."

---

The Smoke on the Horizon

Days passed, the cold biting at their skin, until at last the warning cry came from the lookout.

"Smoke! On the horizon!"

Dikun's heart pounded as he followed the direction of the call. A black pillar of smoke twisted into the sky, carried by the wind. It rose from the coastline, where the remains of a village smoldered in ruin.

The Reavers had been there.

"Prepare to land!" Dikun ordered.

The oars struck the water with renewed force, driving the longships toward the shore. The charred scent of burnt wood and death thickened as they approached. The village's huts were reduced to skeletal frames, and bodies lay scattered, their blood staining the earth.

But no Reavers remained.

Hakon spat into the dirt, his fists clenched. "Too late."

Dikun's gaze hardened. "Not too late to send a message."

He knelt beside a broken shield, its edge blackened by fire. With deliberate care, he carved a symbol into the scorched wood—a silver serpent, coiled and fierce.

"They will know we follow," Dikun said. "And they will know fear."

The storm had begun. And this time, Dikun Silver would not stand in its shadow.

To Be Continued...