The cold night air nips at Oleksandr’s skin as he lies awake on the deck, watching the stars twinkle above. The ship creaks gently with the sway of the sea, the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the hull a constant, soothing sound. His companions, Ivan and Samorix, are fast asleep nearby, their bodies curled in the worn blankets that barely shield them from the biting chill.

  Across the boat, Oleksandr’s gaze drifts to Oddvarr, who is seated on the far side, his rough hands moving methodically across a worn chessboard. He plays against one of his men, the two speaking in low murmurs that Oleksandr can't quite catch, but their occasional laughter betrays some ease among the crew. As the sound of the game and the murmurs of Oddvarr’s men drift away into the background, Oleksandr’s mind wanders—his thoughts slipping away from the cold, from the looming violence that awaits them, and into something gentler. His betrothed. Savka.

  He imagines returning to her, a life beyond the bloodshed, a life where there are no more missions, no more hunts for enemies or vengeance. Maybe he’ll stop by the market on the way back, get her some fine silks for a dress she can wear on their honeymoon. He smiles softly at the thought, the image of her warm and beautiful in a gown of rich fabric from the east, dancing in the sunlight. A life of peace, tenderness, and love.

  It’s a fleeting vision—one that seems distant, unreal, like a dream just out of reach. For a moment, his rugged features soften, the lines of a hardened warrior easing into something more human. The brutality and violence of the journey ahead feel miles away, and for just an instant, he allows himself the luxury of imagining a future where he can leave it all behind. Where he can protect his princess, his love, and live with her as his bride for the rest of their days.

  Oleksandr’s gaze shifts from the stars to the horizon, where the sea and sky blur into an endless void. He wonders what she’s doing right now, Savka—what feels like the other side of the world. Is she asleep in her warm bed, her chest rising and falling softly with each breath? Is she cuddling the little kitten he gifted her, the one that would nuzzle into her arms as if sensing the love she radiates?

  He misses her. More than he ever thought possible. The ache in his chest grows stronger the more he lets the image of her fill his mind. He longs to hold her in his arms, to bury his face in her hair and breathe in the scent of her, to hear her gentle laugh that always made the weight of his world feel lighter. The memory of her touch, her soft skin brushing against his, is almost enough to bring him warmth on this icy night.

  Surely, she must be worried about him. Spending sleepless nights by the window, staring into the dark, wondering if he’s still alive, if he’s ever coming back to her. The thought pierces him like a blade. It pains him to know he can’t send her any words of assurance now. No letters, no promises. She must endure the uncertainty, as must he, and the helplessness of it all gnaws at him.

  His hand drifts to his sleeve, and he pulls it back, revealing the small braided bracelet on his wrist. The one she made for him, out of a lock of her hair. It’s fraying now from wear, but the strands are as ebony and strong as the day she tied it around his wrist. He runs his fingers over it, feeling the familiar texture, grounding himself in the reminder of her love and faith in him. He can almost smell her sweet fragrance on the braid, almost taste her soft lips against his, almost feel her gentle touch upon his skin.

  A sharp splash jolts Oleksandr from his thoughts, his head snapping to the right. One of the slave girls has tumbled overboard, her bound wrists and ankles dragging her down like an anchor. Panic flickers across her face before she disappears beneath the ink-black surface of the icy sea. Without hesitation, Oleksandr strips off his furs, his body moving on instinct. He’s halfway to the ship’s edge when a strong hand clamps down on his arm, stopping him. He turns to find Oddvarr, his expression a mix of anger and urgency.

  “No, it’s not worth it, Olek!” Oddvarr’s voice is sharp, carrying a note of command, but there’s something colder beneath it—a pragmatism Oleksandr can’t stomach. “She’s just cargo!”

  Oleksandr jerks his arm free with a force that makes Oddvarr stumble back. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, one filled with fury, the other with disbelief. Then, without a word, Oleksandr dives headfirst into the frigid sea. The water hits him like a thousand knives, the cold seizing his muscles as he plunges into the black depths. For a moment, there’s nothing but darkness, the muffled roar of the sea swallowing him whole. He forces his limbs to move, fighting the weight of the icy water and the sting in his chest as his lungs scream for air.

  His eyes search wildly, and then he sees her, a faint, pale blur sinking deeper into the abyss. He kicks harder, his powerful strokes propelling him closer. Oleksandr wraps his powerful arms around the girl, his grip firm but careful, the frigid water biting into his skin. They are cocooned in the inky blackness of the sea, the muffled roar of the longboats above barely reaching them. Yet, something feels off—she’s unusually heavy for her size, as though something is dragging her down.

  He tugs at her again, his arms straining against the resistance. Gritting his teeth, he kicks harder, his legs slicing through the icy water as he pulls with all his might. Then, with a sudden jolt, she breaks free from whatever was holding her, and Oleksandr feels her weight lighten in his grasp. Kicking furiously, he drives them both upward. The world seems endless and suffocating, but then they break the surface with a ragged, desperate gasp. The cold air sears his lungs as he gulps it in, holding the girl tightly against him. Her head lolls against his shoulder, her body limp, but he doesn’t falter.

  “Hold on!” He calls out, his voice hoarse as he fights the icy waves to reach the boat. The men on deck lean over, their hands outstretched, shouting to one another.

  Oleksandr pushes her toward them, his strength flagging but his resolve unyielding. Rough hands grip her arms, hauling her up onto the deck, her soaked form collapsing in a heap.

  Oleksandr’s fingers graze the side of the longboat, hope flickering in his chest as he prepares to haul himself up. But before he can find purchase, a sudden force yanks him downward. His foot is ensnared, the grip like a vice. A muffled roar of shock escapes his lips, swallowed by the icy depths as he’s dragged beneath the surface.

  The saltwater stings his eyes as he opens them, straining against the oppressive darkness. Shapes blur and twist, but then he sees it—a pale face, humanoid yet unnatural, staring up at him with empty eyes. A chill runs through him, colder than the Baltic itself. The creature’s grip tightens, pulling him deeper into the abyss.

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  Oleksandr struggles, his powerful muscles straining as he kicks against the creature’s iron grip, but it’s no use. The weight of the water presses in on him, every motion labored. His lungs burn, screaming for air, but he steels himself.

  He reaches for his sword, the hilt slippery in his grasp, and yanks it free. The blade gleams faintly in the watery dark, a lifeline in the void. With a swift motion, he slashes downward, aiming for the pale visage below. The blade bites into something solid, and a surge of bubbles erupts around him, obscuring his vision.

  The creature jerks, its grip faltering, but not enough to release him. Oleksandr twists his body, his movements fluid despite the resistance of the water, and strikes again. This time, he feels the blade cut deeper, scraping against something that sends a reverberation up his arm. A sound, low and guttural, rumbles through the depths—a noise no human throat could produce.

  The creature’s grip falters, and Oleksandr seizes the opportunity, wrenching his foot free with a powerful kick.

  His legs pump desperately as he rockets toward the surface, lungs screaming for air. The moment his head breaks free, he gulps down sweet, cold oxygen, coughing and gasping. The muffled shouts of the Vikings reach his ears, and he glances toward the boat, where an oil lamp swings precariously over the side, casting a dim halo of light across the rippling water.

  Before he can call out, something snatches him again. A vise-like grip clamps onto his ankle, and he’s yanked back under with terrifying force. The world plunges into inky darkness once more, except for the faint, wavering glow from the lamp above. The light reaches just far enough to reveal flashes of his assailant.

  Its face, a grotesque parody of humanity, sends a jolt of primal fear through him. The indentations on its head mimic human features, but the truth of its eel-like visage—slit-like eyes, translucent skin stretched tight over bone, and a mouth filled with needle-sharp teeth—emerges in terrifying clarity. Its elongated body coils around him with the power of a constricting serpent, the slimy, scaled skin cold against his.

  With a surge of determination, Oleksandr grips his sword tightly, angling the blade toward the creature's torso. Its strength is immense, and each movement feels like battling the tide itself, but Oleksandr focuses his resolve. He thrusts the sword forward, driving it into the creature’s midsection. The blade pierces through its flesh, and an inky black fluid clouds the water around them, as the creature lets out an unearthly, gurgling shriek. The water surges around him as another figure slices through the dark depths, the momentum sending a ripple through the sea. Oleksandr catches the gleam of a blade—or no, an axe—arcing through the blackness. A sickening crunch reverberates through the water as the axe bites into the creature’s head, severing it cleanly.

  The grip on Oleksandr releases instantly, the weight dragging him down suddenly gone. Before he can react, a powerful arm wraps around his torso, hauling him upward with a strength that propels them both toward the faint glow of the surface. The cold burns as they break through, gasping for air. Oleksandr feels himself being dragged toward the longboat, the distant shouts of the crew growing louder. Strong hands reach over the side, gripping his arm and pulling with urgency. He collapses onto the wooden planks, coughing up seawater, his limbs trembling from the exertion and the cold.

  Beside him, another body lands with a heavy thud. Oleksandr blinks the saltwater from his eyes, glancing over to see who had joined him. His breath catches as he recognizes the dripping figure kneeling beside him, axe still in hand. It’s Oddvarr. The Viking chieftain shakes the water from his beard, his piercing gaze locking onto Oleksandr’s.

  "What were you thinking, diving in like that?" Oddvarr growls, though there’s no mistaking the faint glint of concern in his eyes. "You’d have died down there if I hadn’t come after you.” Oleksandr stares at him, struggling to process what just happened. Oddvarr had saved him, risking his own life to dive into the freezing, perilous waters.

  For a moment, all Oleksandr can manage is a rasping, "you… didn’t have to do that."

  Oddvarr snorts, shaking his head. "No, I didn’t. But you’ve got fight in you, Olek. Would be a shame to lose that to some sea devil." His gaze shifts to the slave girl, still trembling from the ordeal, and his tone hardens as he barks, "And you! What kind of fool falls into the water like that?"

  The girl’s voice trembles as she protests, her teeth chattering. "It wasn’t me! It grabbed me—it pulled me from the boat!" Oddvarr’s eyes narrow, the scorn on his face softening into a flicker of contemplation. Before he can respond, Samorix steps in, draping a thick pelt around her thin shoulders.

  "Easy, lass," he says gently, his expression one of worry as he wraps the fur tightly around her to stave off the cold. He turns to Oleksandr, his concern shifting to his friend. "You alright there, lad?"

  "Yeah," Oleksandr grunts, trying to shake off the chill as he sits up. "Just a scratch."

  Oddvarr turns back to him, his voice edged with frustration. "Don’t throw your life into monster-infested waters for one slave," he growls. "You’ve got more sense than that, or so I thought."

  Oleksandr meets his gaze, his own eyes unwavering. "A shepherd’s duty is to protect his cattle," he replies, his tone calm but firm.

  Oddvarr stares at Oleksandr for a long moment, his sharp eyes studying him, something flickering just beneath the surface. Then, with a snort, he waves him off dismissively. "Shepherds don’t dive into the jaws of wolves to save one sheep," he mutters, turning away. His gaze snaps back to the girl, who is still huddled under Samorix’s pelt, trembling. A mocking smirk spreads across Oddvarr’s face as he addresses her. "Warm him up, girl," he says, his tone laced with derision. "Seems only fair, doesn’t it? A little gratitude for your savior." The words hang in the cold air, his implication as sharp as the salt-laden breeze.

  Oleksandr’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. The tension is palpable, but he speaks with a deliberate, cold edge. "I don’t lay with slaves," he says flatly, his tone curt and unyielding. He glances at the girl, his expression impassive, but his words are calculated to shield her. "I’ve no interest in broken cattle."

  Oddvarr raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening as he leans back, arms crossed. "A nobleman, are you now?" He taunts, his voice dripping with mockery. "Too good for the spoils of the sea?"

  Oleksandr doesn’t flinch, meeting Oddvarr’s gaze with icy composure. "I prefer my spoils earned in battle, not handed to me.”

  Oddvarr chuckles darkly, shaking his head. "Suit yourself, boy. Your loss." He waves a hand dismissively towards the rest of his crew. "Maybe one of my lads will show her what real gratitude looks like."

  Oleksandr whistles sharply, cutting through the tension. "Come, girl," he commands, his voice steady and firm. The girl freezes for a moment, her wide eyes darting between Oddvarr and Oleksandr.

  "Atta boy," Oddvarr mutters, shaking his head as he turns his attention elsewhere, settling down near the fire and leaving them alone. The girl hesitantly shuffles toward Oleksandr, her movements stiff with uncertainty. Oleksandr motions for her to sit, gesturing to the small space between himself and the side of the longboat.

  "Here," he says softly, his voice losing its earlier edge. She glances around nervously before sinking down beside him, curling into herself. He adjusts the furs over her shoulders, creating a barrier between her and the prying eyes of the crew. "Sleep," he says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I have no wants from you."

  Her eyes dart to his face, her expression a mixture of confusion and relief. "But… I… Thank you…" His gaze softens, though his voice remains steady.

  "A good shepherd… does what he must to keep the wolves at bay." The slave girl blinks at him, her expression gradually easing into something resembling trust. She nods, pulling the furs tighter around her. Slowly, she relaxes, her breathing evening out as she settles into the limited comfort of the deck.