"Rise of the Viking King."

The morning sun cast a golden glow across the still waters of the fjord. Hrafnsfjord stirred awake, but the looming presence of the Reavers lingered like a shadow over the village. Smoke from the repaired chimneys curled into the air, though the scent of burned wood still clung to the breeze. For the people of Hrafnsfjord, the memory of the Reaver attack was far from forgotten.

Dikun Silver stood upon the weathered docks, the repaired longships moored beside him. The victorious clash against the Reaver raiders had bolstered the spirit of his warriors, yet the true battle still lay ahead. Proof had been gathered—the shattered remnants of Reaver vessels and the words of a trembling captive. But convincing the clans to unite would require more than just evidence. It would demand presence, resolve, and the strength of a leader who refused to yield.

Hakon approached, his heavy boots thudding against the damp planks. His axe rested at his side, its blade polished from the recent battle.

"The men are ready," Hakon said, his voice low but resolute. "We can sail within the hour."

Dikun nodded. "And the Jarl?"

"Still unconvinced," Hakon replied, a scowl tugging at his brow. "He sees the proof, but fear holds him. He will not risk the lives of his warriors without certainty."

"Then we give him certainty," Dikun said firmly. "When the clans see what we have done, they will have no choice but to listen."

---

The Departure

The longships pushed away from the harbor, their sails billowing in the morning breeze. Warriors lined the decks, their shields polished and their weapons sharpened. Marcus and Sarich stood at Dikun's side, their expressions mirroring his own unwavering determination. The serpent's banner fluttered above them—a silver emblem against a sea of azure.

The journey would be swift. Word of the Reavers' defeat had begun to spread, and Dikun intended to ensure that every clan heard it directly from him. Hakon steered one ship while Eirik the Black guided the other.

"We'll stop first at Skarnvik," Dikun declared. "Jarl Grettir will not turn us away a second time."

The warriors gave a resounding cheer, the thunder of their voices carried across the water. Dikun felt the weight of their faith settle upon his shoulders. He would not fail them.

---

The Halls of Skarnvik

By midday, the jagged cliffs of Skarnvik rose on the horizon. The sea mist clung to the wooden palisades, and the serpent-carved gate stood unmoving. The scars of the Reaver raid were still visible—a reminder of the threat that loomed.

As Dikun and his warriors approached, the gates creaked open. Jarl Grettir awaited them within the hall, his sharp gaze betraying a lingering doubt. Yet, as the silver serpent banner was presented and the shattered remains of the Reaver vessel laid bare, the murmurs of the gathered clansmen grew.

"You have brought proof," Grettir said, his voice low. "But proof alone does not win wars."

Dikun met his gaze, unwavering. "No. Strength wins wars. Unity wins wars. Stand with us, Jarl Grettir. Stand with Hrafnsfjord. Or stand alone when the Reavers return."

A tense silence fell. Then, slowly, Grettir rose to his feet.

"Skarnvik will stand," he declared. "By your side."

The hall erupted in approval, and Dikun knew the first step had been taken. But there were more clans to convince, more banners to raise. The storm was not yet over. It had only just begun.

To Be Continued...