The harbor of Ullrsfjǫrðr bristled with masts, the morning mist curling about the prows like the fingers of Rán herself.

Men moved in silence, stowing casks, tightening ropes, checking rivets along the dragonheads.

The sea was calm, but every soul felt the weight of where the fleet would go: east, to Jomsborg, into Wendish lands.

Vetrúlfr stood at the quay in his mail and wolfskin cloak, Gramr sheathed at his side.

Behind him the high keep loomed, its beacon-fire guttering in the dawn wind.

He did not turn until he felt the tug at his hand.

Branúlfr, his eldest, looked up with eyes hard beyond his years. "Father," he asked, "why must you always leave?"

Vetrúlfr knelt, resting his palm on the boy's shoulder.

"Because the wolf hunts, son. And what I do now, I do so that you will not need to hunt as I do. When you are grown, you will inherit a land strong enough to withstand all the world's spite."

Eirik clung to his cloak, too young for words, his face buried in the fur.

Vetrúlfr kissed the boy's hair, breathing in the scent of home one last time.

Róisín came then, her braid dark against her mantle. She carried herself with the calm of one who had ruled in his absence before, but her eyes shone like the sea at night.

"Go, then," she said softly. "Bind your oaths, play your games. But remember: it is not only warriors who make a kingdom. When you return, it will still be bread and fire that keep our people alive."

He smiled faintly, brushing a finger against her cheek. "And it is you who keeps the fire burning. I would not leave if I did not trust you more than I trust myself."

Brynhildr stood a little apart, Nokomis and Eithne flanking her.

The seidkona's voice cut across the murmur of gulls. "The sea watches you, son of Ullr. And so do I. Do not mistake cunning for fate."

Vetrúlfr inclined his head, not daring to answer her warning.

The horns blew from the ships. Warriors filed aboard, shields clattering against the gunwales.

Vetrúlfr straightened, took one last look at the family gathered on the quay, and then strode down the gangplank.

As the oars bit into the fjord and Ullrsfjǫrðr dwindled behind them, he stood tall at the prow.

The wind filled the sails, carrying him east, toward Jomsborg and the gathering of the Wends.

---

The oars struck the water in perfect rhythm, one hundred men moving as though their muscles belonged to a single body.

The storm shrieked over the sea, waves rearing high, but never once did the flagship falter. T

he prow cut the breakers clean, spray hissing off the dragonhead.

Canvas tarps stretched above the benches kept the rowers dry, and though the rain lashed all around, not a drop touched the men beneath Vetrúlfr's banner.

Some muttered it was sorcery. Others swore it was the gods. But none spoke too loudly.

At the prow, cloaked in wolfskin, Vetrúlfr sat apart from them, his hand resting on Gramr's hilt, his eyes fixed on the black horizon.

He barely felt the sway of the ship, nor the cold spray that clung to his beard.

The storm seemed to part around him, as if it bent its wrath to his will.

Yet his thoughts were not on the storm. They were on the sea.

He remembered the dream. The ship of shadow. The laughter beneath the prow.

The woman with hair like drowned kelp, her skin gleaming pale as fishbone. Come, she had beckoned. You are already mine.

And then her taunt, the one that gnawed at him still, sharper than any blade: But what of our child? Your daughter… the sea, she beckons to you.

Vetrúlfr's jaw tightened. His fingers dug into the railing. Was it a dream, or a memory?

Had she truly taken something from him, in Greenland, in Vinland, on those nights that he could not remember? Was there a daughter somewhere beneath the waves, half-born of salt and mortal blood?

The thought should have chilled him.

Instead, it set his teeth on edge, a hunger in his gut.

If it was true, if the goddess had marked him so deeply, then he was bound to her in ways he could not yet name.

The thunder cracked. Lightning forked across the sky, and for a heartbeat the sea boiled white.

Vetrúlfr thought he saw her there, just beneath the surface, her face shimmering green in the depths, watching, waiting.

He did not blink. He did not pray. He only muttered the words he had spoken in the dream, low and harsh through his teeth:

"Not today."

The ship surged forward, steady as ever, and behind him the men rowed on, their chants drowned by the roar of the storm.

---

The storm had broken by the time the fleet nosed into the southern sea.

Dawn laid a copper sheen across the waves, and from the mist ahead, the towers of Jomsborg rose.

Stone walls crowned the headland, bristling with watchfires and banners.

The black and white dragon of the Jomsvikings snapped in the wind, its coils picked out in gold thread.

Below, the harbor teemed with life, longships riding at anchor, merchant cogs nosing between piers, thralls bent beneath bales of timber and iron.

Vetrúlfr stood at the prow, silent, and marveled.

Seven years ago, Jomsborg had been a timber palisade rising over marsh and shore, a place of stern warriors but fragile walls.

Now, stone gleamed where once there had been only logs, towers rooted in the earth like the bones of giants.

He could see the touch of his own masons here, the archways, the layered battlements, the inner gates built in angles to trap and choke any who dared force their way through.

The trade between his realm and the Jomsvikings had not only brought wealth in iron and salt, but men who knew how to carve mountain into fortress.

It was no longer a timber hall waiting for flame.

It was a citadel, a brother to the strongholds of Ullrsfjǫrðr and the Faroes, a place where even the Empire's armies would bleed for every step.

The walls did not merely defend, they declared.

When Fáfnirsfangr's prow kissed the quay, horns blared and warriors pressed forward.

Mail gleamed, axes thudded on shields.

And at the front of them strode Armodr, tall as an oak, his scarred face set in its usual grim half-smile.

"Vetrúlfr!" he boomed, his voice carrying over the clamor. "You walk ashore in the hall of brothers once more."

The wolf disembarked, cloak snapping, his jarls fanning out at his back.

The crowd pressed close but parted at Armodr's gesture.

They clasped forearms, steel against steel.

"You come at a good hour," Armodr said, lowering his voice. "The chieftains of the Wends gather within the week. They smell blood on the wind, Denmark broken, Christendom distracted. They mean to talk of what place remains for them."

Vetrúlfr's gaze swept the walls, the bustle, the eyes watching him. "And you will bring me among them."

"Aye," Armodr said. "But hear me first. The Wends are not one people, but a nest of clans. Each tribe has its rites, its pride, its grudges. They bend to no single crown, only to strength and honor. If you wish to sway them, you must tread carefully."

Vetrúlfr tilted his head. "What would offend them?"

Armodr chuckled, the sound more wolf than man.

"Much, if done without thought. They do not kneel, not to king nor god. Do not demand it. They prize gift-giving, but bribes sour quickly; better to honor their warriors than flatter their elders. Speak of freedom, of defiance, they understand that tongue better than piety. And never, never mock their gods. Perun and Triglav still rule their fires, and they will not forgive scorn."

Vetrúlfr's smile thinned. "A people after my own heart."

Armodr's eyes gleamed. "So I thought when I heard your letter read. But remember: they are cautious. They have seen Christian steel burn their halls before, and they remember every betrayal. If you win them, it will not be with honeyed words. It will be with the promise that you can do what none else could… shield their blood from the cross."

The wind whipped across the quay, tugging at cloaks and banners. Vetrúlfr lifted his chin, the sea still cold on his skin.

"Then let them hear it," he said. "That the wolf does not come to hunt their flocks, but to stand with them when the shepherd's crook becomes a spear."

Armodr's grin widened, sharp as the edge of his axe.

"Good. Then let us prepare. You will sit in the hall as my brother, not as an outsider. The Wends will come, and you shall speak. And when you do…"

He leaned close, his breath like smoke. "…make them believe their fate is tied to yours. And you will win their favor."

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