"Rise of the Viking King."

The sky darkened as the longship sailed across the vast sea. The spoils of the raid lay stacked along the deck — barrels of mead, salted fish, and tarnished silver. Laughter echoed from the warriors who celebrated their victory. But for Dikun Silver, the echoes of the battle still clung to his mind.

The blood on his hands had long since dried, but the memory remained. The old man's face. The fear in the boy's eyes. The clash of steel and the cries of the fallen.

This was what it meant to be a warrior.

Yet why did it feel so hollow?

---

Hakon's Boast

"Hah! Did you see the way they ran?" Hakon bellowed, his voice carrying across the deck. "Cowards, the lot of them. One swing, and they scattered like birds!"

The other warriors laughed, raising their drinking horns. The mead spilled freely, soaking into the wooden planks. Hakon's scarred face twisted with amusement, but Dikun could see the hunger that lingered behind his grin — the thirst for more blood.

"Come now, Dikun," Hakon called out, slapping his hand against the young warrior's back. "You fought well enough for a farmer's son. Don't tell me you regret it already."

Dikun clenched his jaw. "I did what I had to."

"And that's all there is to it," Hakon said with a grin. "The gods favor those who take what they desire. Strength, silver, glory — it's all there for the taking. But only for those with the spine to claim it."

The words echoed Sigvard's teachings, but Dikun found no comfort in them. He nodded stiffly, unwilling to stoke further laughter at his own expense. Hakon's grin widened, satisfied.

"Next time, you'll find the joy in it," Hakon said, raising his horn once more. "Or perhaps you'll find something else to regret."

The laughter resumed, but Dikun turned away. His thoughts were not with the silver they had taken, nor the feasts that awaited them. They lingered on the promise he had made — a promise to grow strong. Not as a butcher. But as a leader.

---

A Father's Words

That night, the stars gleamed above the endless sea. The waves rocked the longship gently, and most of the warriors had collapsed into a drunken slumber.

But Dikun stood alone at the stern, the cold wind biting against his skin. The image of the burning village burned in his mind. Even as the embers faded, the weight of it remained.

His thoughts wandered back to Halvard — his father. The man had never raised a sword in his life, yet Dikun had always seen strength in him. Strength not of muscle, but of resolve. The fields had never bowed to him, and the storms had never broken him.

"Strength must be tempered," his father had said once. "A sword without purpose is nothing more than iron."

But what was Dikun's purpose?

The sea whispered no answer. Only the promise of more battles, more blood. And in the shadows of his mind, the question remained.

---

The Arrival

The next morning, the longship reached the harbor of Jarnvik, a bustling coastal town. The towering wooden walls loomed ahead, and smoke from dozens of hearths curled into the sky. Merchant vessels swayed gently, their sails marked with the crests of distant clans.

The warriors disembarked, hauling their plunder ashore. Townspeople gathered, some with admiration, others with barely concealed fear. Stories of the raid had spread. Dikun could see it in their eyes — the awe and the dread.

"Back from the hunt, are we?" a merchant called out, grinning. "And what treasures have you brought for the market?"

"Enough to make the gods envious!" Sigvard declared, his booming voice carrying across the harbor. "Prepare your coin, for the spoils of Hrafnsfjord are yours to claim."

The crowd erupted in murmurs, but Dikun ignored the commotion. His gaze wandered beyond the walls of Jarnvik, to the vast roads that led inland. Somewhere beyond the horizon, the true battles awaited. Wars of conquest. Trials of strength.

And in time, the brothers he had left behind would grow. Marcus, bold and fearless. Sarich, quiet and sharp-witted. And Deen, still young but determined. One day, they would stand at his side. But not yet.

For now, Dikun would continue forward.

---

A Shadow of Doubt

The marketplace overflowed with traders, their stalls lined with furs, fish, and polished steel. The warriors bartered freely, exchanging their spoils for silver and drink. But Dikun walked in silence, the chatter of the town fading behind him.

Then, from the crowd, a voice called out.

"Silver."

He turned sharply, his hand instinctively drifting toward his sword. But the figure that approached was no warrior.

A hooded man, lean and wiry, with a patchwork of scars lining his face. His eyes gleamed with unsettling amusement. Dikun tensed.

"You're far from your father's field, aren't you?" the man said, his grin widening. "And yet, the blood on your hands is not so different from a butcher's."

Dikun's jaw tightened. "Who are you?"

"Only a watcher," the man replied, his voice low. "And a messenger. The road ahead will test more than your sword. Remember that, warrior."

Before Dikun could respond, the man disappeared into the crowd, his presence like a shadow in the morning light.

The words lingered. A test. A warning.

But from who? And why?

---

The Path Forward

That night, the fires of Jarnvik burned brightly. The warriors celebrated their victory, their laughter mingling with the distant crash of the waves. Yet Dikun remained apart, the hooded man's words gnawing at his thoughts.

The path of a warrior was never simple. It demanded blood. Sacrifice. Resolve. But was it the only path?

He thought again of his brothers. Marcus and Sarich would soon come of age, eager to forge their own legacies. And Deen — still a boy, but with a heart too stubborn to break. Dikun had sworn to welcome them when they were ready. But by then, what kind of man would he be?

Would they see a leader? Or a monster?

The sea called to him once more. And though the answers remained distant, one truth rang clear.

Dikun Silver would walk this path to its end. But the man he became would be his own choice.

To Be Continued...