“Well? Come at me!” a voice called out.

 

James opened his eyes and was witness to a strange scene, one unrecognizable to him. Yet there was a strange sense of familiarity to it all. It contradicted his memories and instincts, bringing nothing but confusion and fear.

 

James was faced with a behemoth of a man, one armored in black and equipped with a silver ax. This man’s grin was sinister and his eyes glinted with bloodlust. He held his arms wide, as if he was expecting an answer from James.

 

The shadows of the dying day overcast over the freezing courtyard, the streetlamps nearby illuminating the two men.

 

James wielded his sword in front of him, his gaze meeting with that of his opponent. Before the young man could answer the lingering question, the behemoth before him rushed forth at a blinding speed. He raised his weapon just as the world went black.

---

 

James gasped awake. He was covered in a thick layer of sweat, his hands moving to his chest. He slowly caught his breath, his gaze set on where he had seen the stars from last night. Instead of the beautiful night sky, he was met with the sight of ugly gray clouds. The sun’s light barely filtered through, making the morning darker than it should have been.

 

Despite getting actual rest, James felt like shit. It was as if he had been thrown through some blender filled with rocks. His body ached like crazy and his ribs radiated pain. His first thought was that the injuries of his car crash had finally come in full force, reminding the man that he was still mortal. That was quickly shot down since, upon inspection, there were no visible bruises or injuries.

 

‘Is it the way I slept?’

 

James groaned as he sat up, his back making cracking noises as he straightened it out. The floor wasn’t exactly an ideal way to sleep, but Dahlia had no spare cots. Still, James wasn’t going to blame the ground for his tired body. He instead shifted that blame onto the usual culprit for the last five weeks of his life. The nightmares.

 

Like before, James couldn’t recall a single detail from his night terror. All he knew about it was that it was enough to make him constantly wake up in the midst of the night, nearly screaming every time. Thankfully, none of it was enough to wake Dahlia. However, James was starting to feel frustrated with himself. Not only were these nightmares continuing, but they actually felt worse than before. It was almost as if they had been cranked to eleven.

 

“Maybe this world has some kind of remedy for nightmares,” James muttered as he stood up. He looked around the small hut’s interior, which looked different in the daytime. The fireplace had no flame in it, its logs reduced to white ashes. James was about to comment on this to Dahlia, but he soon found out that she was no longer in her cot.

 

Before he could take a guess, the door to the hut slammed open. A cold breeze rushed into the room, making James shiver in response. He turned to see Dahlia at the hut’s entrance, her arms carrying small branches and pieces of wood.

 

“You’re awake,” the shaman commented with a smile. She walked past the young man, her destination set on the fireplace.

 

James was about to ask her about a possible remedy for his nightmares when something shiny caught his eye. His gaze wandered to Dahlia’s side, where she kept a long ornate dagger. The dagger was beautifully crafted, with sharp silver edges and runic characters engraved into the blade. It slowly swung from side to side as she knelt, catching the morning light that made it glint now and then. Dahlia seemed to notice him looking as her voice interrupted James’ trance with the dagger.

 

“You better not try to grab it again,” Dahlia called back, directly referencing the day before. James cringed a little yesterday, back when he had assumed the shaman was some kind of stag slash humanoid creature.

 

“Don’t worry, after the headache you gave me, I’ll keep a safe distance,” James assured. He watched as she piled the firewood next to the ashen pit. “Do you need any help with anything?” he asked, trying his best to be helpful.

 

“I’m fine,” Dahlia answered simply before she rummaged through the satchel by her waist. James watched as she pulled out what looked like blue chalk, which was shaped like a jagged rock. Dahlia wiped away the runes that were near the fireplace before using the chalk-like stone to draw new ones. They almost reminded him of the ones he had seen on that slab. While similar, he quickly dismissed it. These runes didn’t match at all to the ones he saw.

 

Once Dahlia was done, she hovered her palm over the newly drawn runes. At first, it looked like it was doing nothing. That is until James took a closer look. He could see how new runes slowly started to glow a soft blue.

 

“I have to replace these runes now and then since they’re supported by weak magic,” Dahlia explained, almost as if she could hear the question pop up in James’ head. Once she was done with the runes, she tossed a decent-sized branch into the pit, along with some twigs and dry leaves. The shaman raised her hand, aiming her palm at the firewood.

 

“Ignition,” Dahlia chanted out, an ethereal ring accompanying her voice. James watched as glowing symbols materialized in front of the wood, burning red before dissipating into nothingness. As soon as the symbols dissipated, flames appeared on the wood, slowly growing bigger as Dahlia stood back up.

 

‘I guess that confirms magic in this... Makes sense, since she managed to summon me here...’

 

The idea of magic was so surreal to James that it made him wonder if he was still in his crashed car, foaming at the mouth as he dreamed this reality.

 

‘Best not to think about that grim alternative…’

 

He instead focused on the sight that was Dahlia’s fireplace. The flames from her spell rose and danced, getting to a point where James was sure it was going to set fire to the place if left unattended. He was going to ask Dahlia about this, but he soon got his answer in the form of air shimmers.

 

Upon closer examination, he could see how there was a weird shimmering surrounding the flames, the strange phenomenon shifting whenever they got too high.

 

“You’re like a child,” Dahlia commented with a chuckle. She stood up from the fireplace, straightening herself out.

 

“I mean, I’m from a different world,” James argued back as he changed his focus to her. “You can’t really make fun of me for that.”

 

“I didn’t mean to,” Dahlia answered with a smile. “I just think it’s charming, in a way.” She brushed some of her hair aside before her gaze averted to the door.

 

“What’s on the agenda for today?” James asked, mainly out of curiosity.

 

“We’re gonna go and visit the town nearby. I’m gonna trade with some of the townsfolk and get myself some supplies for the next few months,” she explained, turning and walking outside of the hut.

 

James followed behind, listening intently as he looked around the hut’s surroundings. He could see sparse bits of snow around, barely present at all. It was like winter was slowly creeping in. The thing that nagged at him was how strange everything looked.

 

At a glance, it looked normal. Like any forest a person would see back on earth. Yet there was some kind of unfamiliarity plaguing it all once one took a closer look. For example, the surrounding trees looked vaguely like some of the ones back home, but they were completely foreign in a way James couldn’t describe.

 

James stopped his surveying when he turned back to the shaman’s home. The hut was nothing like he expected. Its shape was strange, looking more like a roof built onto the ground, the walls short and wide. It was familiar, however, James realized. He remembered seeing something similar back to when he studied history.

 

‘Old Norse homes.’

 

The image was nearly identical to what he recalled from those history books. It gave him a thought. Was there a chance he was instead sent back in time to the age of Vikings?

 

‘No... Like she said before, we’re in Valenfrost. I doubt that was in the history books…’

 

Then again, there was also the chance that he was sent to an alternate timeline. With what he’d seen lately, anything was possible.

 

“Well? Are you coming or not?” Dahlia called out. James snapped out of his thought process, looking dumbly at Dahlia. He watched as the shaman grabbed a huge bag that had apparently been waiting out in the cold, its contents clinking as she handed it to him.

 

“I need someone big and strong to carry my stock and supplies,” she added, a hint of amusement in her voice as James accepted the bag. The bag was surprisingly heavy, shocking the hell out of James as he tried to find a comfortable way to carry it.

 

“What’s in here?” James asked. He tried to hold the bag over his shoulder while being as careful as he possibly could.

 

Dahlia gave him a slight smile. “Oh, you know, my usual stock. Hides… furs... potions. Maybe even a couple of heavy rocks I found while searching for firewood.” Her smile had turned into a grin as she turned and grabbed a much smaller bag, carrying it with ease.

 

James wasn’t sure if she was being serious. He debated if he should look through the bag himself. In the end he didn’t and instead decided to bite the bullet and carry the damn thing.

 

‘I really hope it isn’t a long walk…’

 

With that in mind, James and Dahlia ventured out, taking a dirt path through the woods as they headed towards Yorktown.

---

Seamus jolted awake, screaming in fear as he tried to find a weapon.

 

“Away! Away!”

 

He wildly swung his oar in front of him, defending himself from the threats that came for him. He stopped soon after, quickly realizing that his nightmare wasn’t real and that he wasn’t in any real danger.

 

Seamus blinked and rubbed his eyes as he tried to get a bearing of his surroundings.

 

“How far did I get?” Seamus wondered out loud before he stood up and stretched his cramped limbs. He could only remember how he escaped, his arms tirelessly pulling the oars as he tried to get to safety. Seamus had fallen asleep after what seemed like a couple of hours at sea, his exhausted body unable to keep rowing. It wasn’t exactly ideal, but what else could he do?

 

“Hopefully, I’m far, far away from those murdering bastards,” Seamus muttered. Upon examining his surroundings, he realized that his rowboat had beached itself onto a gravel shore overnight. It must have been high tide when it did so, since the boat was meters away from the sea. It left the young man with no way to go back to water without pushing it himself. Seamus had neither the strength nor energy to push it back, so he instead focused on the island he was on.

 

It wasn’t much to look at. There was a treeline up ahead, the woods beyond looking almost intimidating to the young man. Beyond that, he could spot a small, unimpressive mountain situated near the island’s center. Wherever he had landed, it didn’t matter to Seamus as long as he was far and safe from any danger.

 

“Maybe there’s a town nearby,” Seamus said to himself. He shivered as he looked around again. The young escapee was still in his bloodied tunic and ripped breeches from before he was taken prisoner. That was due to the laziness of his captors.

 

Seamus wished that he had had on his coat when they captured him, as the cold breeze here felt much more unforgiving than back at sea. The thought of his capture brought back some of his memories from that night, like how he had hidden away while the fighting happened, or like how he watched warrior Fendal get his throat slashed. Seamus could still recall the visceral sight of dark blood faceting from the warrior’s wound, the hot crimson speckling onto his clothes as he had watched on in horror.

 

Seamus shivered again, not from the cold, but from recollection of the carnage from that night, which had resulted in his clan’s near extinction.

 

‘There are worse things than the cold.’ Something primal inside told him. Seamus couldn’t help but agree. As the young man tried to bury his memories, something grabbed his attention, causing him to look up at the sky.

 

‘Smoke,’

 

He could see what looked to be dissipating stacks of smoke rise into the grayish clouds. It confirmed what he had hoped for.

 

“So, there is a town,” Seamus sighed in relief, a small smile appearing on his face. He silently thanked the gods, his feet moving towards the source of said smoke. “I really hope I can find something to eat.”

 

The young survivor felt as if his good fortune were growing. If the gods were so merciful, perhaps they would be enough to make sure that none of those marauder bastards reached here.

 

Hopefully.

---

Serpent’s Bane floated peacefully in the dark blue waters, its hull black as night and the figurehead depicting a beautiful mermaid. As the name of the brig suggested, there was a long, flowing red serpent painted beautifully along her black hull, the artist of which took great care in detailing and painting. When in motion, it looked almost as if the serpent itself was swimming and splashing through the black waters, led only by the mermaid at its bow.

 

‘Unfortunately... She’ll never be able to glide through those beautiful waves ever again... ’

 

Havor stared at the brig’s burnt mast, which was half gone and turned into nothing but fucking ash. All because a couple of idiots couldn’t keep guard properly.

 

Havor spat out a glob of mucus, sending it flying into the dark waters below. He turned to his fellow marauders on the deck of Frostbite, all of whom were listening to one of the guard’s retelling of the incident. That fool Wren had his eyes averted to the sky, his voice taut with tension.

 

Not too long ago, Havor’s fellow warriors had to hold him back from killing the incompetent guard. The whole incident could’ve been prevented if the old bastard was doing his actual job. The others were wise enough to hold Havor back, making sure that he didn’t tear apart the guard limb from limb. After all, they weren’t barbarians.

 

Despite the stories and rumors, the Marauders of the North weren’t complete savages. Quite the contrary, in Havor’s high opinion. The marauder had been with this band of raiders for around a half a decade now. He had heard they were different from the average pirate gangs that roamed around Valenfrost, their goals much more virtuous and less heinous.

 

Instead of targeting small merchant ships and local towns, the Marauders of the North usually opted to target the powerful and rich. They would take the spoils, keep what they needed, and distribute the rest across their settlements to the north. It was supposedly a just cause, one that sought to free Valenfrost from the greedy and the powerful.

 

Their gear also reflected this nature. Instead of wearing ragged gambesons and rusted chain mail, some of the high ranking of the marauders wore black plated armor, tempered and fitted perfectly. The more important warriors had runes engraved into the steel, the enchantments varying depending on who wore it. The armor was also marked with the person’s handprint, the red symbol placed on their chests to signify their allegiance.

 

Havor, unfortunately, didn’t have the honor of wearing that armor, his rank being right below theirs. His rank only wore black gambeson and mail, rarely ever enchanted, and never engraved with runes. Regardless, Havor wore his armor with pride, unlike his fellow partner, Helen Dunn, who also wore the outfit.

 

Helen was currently on the Serpent’s Bane, checking to see what goods and cargo survived during the fire. In reality, Havor knew she was tasked with the job for being the black sheep of the group, as she never took pride in her rank, nor did she seem really thrilled when it came to raids.

 

For example, she had taken in prisoners during the raid on the Halvorson Clan, which she wasn’t supposed to fucking do.

 

‘Now one of those ‘innocent’ prisoners crippled one of our own ships…’

 

Havor was amazed that Helen wasn’t even dead yet, as she had cost them gods know how many supplies and resources. Then again, Deimos probably had something in mind for her, as he always had before. Havor knew the chieftain of the marauders was as wise as he was dangerous, his plans always being carefully thought out and precise.

 

A good example of this was when Deimos had taken down one of the most dangerous clans in Valenfrost, driving the infamous Halvorson Clan to extinction with only a handful of ships.

 

Havor looked over at the group of marauders again, watching as Deimos turned to meet the man’s gaze. The leader of the marauders beckoned Havor over to Frostbite’s quarter-deck. The bald man quickly obliged and walked over to the group circle. Helen was just arriving as well, probably already done with taking inventory. She didn’t look too happy, her blue eyes looking down at the ground as the bald marauder arrived at the group. Havor ignored her and instead placed his focus on Deimos, who waved a gloved hand at the old guard.

 

“You can go now, Wren. Take Junn with you and finish taking inventory of the cargo,” Deimos ordered. He had a gentle, calm voice, which didn’t match his appearance. The chieftain of the marauders was a giant of a man, standing well over two meters. He had a black braided beard that flowed to his chest, where his large red handprint was painted on. Deimos’ shoulder-length hair was tied up behind his head, leaving his sea-green eyes much more visible as they set onto the rest of the Marauders. Havor had to admit, the chieftain was attractive in a strange, dangerous way.

 

Deimos sighed tiredly and rubbed at his tired eyes. His clear exhaustion was a result of having been up all night dealing with the fire and making sure it didn’t spread to the other ships.

 

“All right, there are two main things we know,” he started before looking at Serpent’s Bane, its crew headed down below decks to prepare for moving.

 

“One. The fire was caused by an escaped prisoner, who somehow managed to escape his chains and sneak past the guards.” Deimos held up two gloved fingers. “Two. Said escaped prisoner has taken one of the rowboats and rowed his way to safety.”

 

Everyone nodded at the recap, despite already knowing these basic facts. Havor was beginning to wonder if the chieftain got enough rest.

 

Deimos put down his hand, his eyes looking over at Havor. The marauder nearly flinched, his chest tightening with fear. He was almost certain that the intimidating man had read his thoughts then and there.

 

“Havor, can you remind the group why we’re in this part of Valenfrost?” Deimos suddenly asked. Relief flooded Havor’s veins, his breath nearly coming out as a sigh. This sense of comfort didn’t last long, as he was soon the focus of Deimos’ green gaze, which pierced through Havor like a needle.

 

Havor searched his brain, trying to recall the question asked.

 

“Because… we found a map after the raid?” He said slowly and carefully, hoping Deimos wasn’t about to smack him like the last time he had forgotten something important.

 

The chieftain smiled, his hands moving under his armor. He soon produced a crinkled-up map, which looked shoddily put together.

 

“Exactly. The map had led us here, where we found this.” Deimos pulled out what looked like another map, except this time it was a detailed sketch of Valenfrost. It was inscribed with words that looked like nonsense. “It was found in a chest that we had fished out from the bottom of the sea. The chest had nothing else except for a waterproof enchantment spell that was used to keep the parchment dry,”

 

Deimos’ words came out with a hint of venom and clear bitterness. He was pissed off, even if he didn’t physically show it. Deimos looked to the man on his right, who wore silver embedded robes over his plate armor, as well as a red blindfold over his eyes.

 

“Eli. Could you please hand me the prisoner logs?” He asked. The simple question was enough for Helen to shift uncomfortably, her hand brushing her wavy blonde hair aside as she looked away. Havor ignored her and instead watched as Deimos accepted the piece of parchment from Eli.

 

“Ah… here it is. Seamus Falken,” Deimos said. That earned a small, almost unnoticeable reaction from Helen. “Could it be that Seamus Falken could also be Seamus Halvorson, famed son of Yorn Halvorson?”

 

“I couldn’t have known–!” Helen’s protest was interrupted when Deimos’ gloved hand swiftly grabbed at her neck. He instantly lifted her off the ground, his other hand clenching the piece of parchment. The act had been done at such speed that Havor instinctively jumped at the sight. He watched as Deimos lifted Helen higher up, the chieftain ignoring her choked pleas and frail punches.

 

“I swear I could remember telling everyone to kill any survivors they find… Not save the survivors,” Deimos stated. Despite the tense situation, he kept his voice eerily calm.

 

“Kill, save. Kill… save… Do those two words sound the same?” Deimos asked angrily before dropping Helen to the deck. The fallen marauder gasped for air as her hands flew to her bruised neck, her breathing shallow and heavy. Havor almost felt bad for her. Almost.

 

“Luckily, you aren’t a complete fool,” Deimos muttered. “I only let the prisoners live because I had thought you had a plan for them. That perhaps you were smarter than you looked. Of course, last night only proved to me that you obviously cannot make your own choices.” Deimos sighed before he pulled out the other piece of parchment he had, the one with gibberish words. “Still, there is some good.

 

“Theoretically, Seamus Halvorson is the only person who will know what this means. If I’m right, this scribbling of gibberish will lead us to the fabled vault of his late father, Yorn.” Deimos looked at Helen, who was still on her knees, her breaths heavy as she massaged her bruised neck.

 

“We will head to the nearest island east of here. Chances are, Seamus is hiding out there with the locals. Either that or he’s hiding deep within the island. Either way, we’ll find him, even if it means torching down the settlement.” The marauders all nodded their heads, acknowledging the plan. Even Helen nodded, her eyes downcast.

 

Deimos turned to the shipmaster nearby. “Is Serpent’s Bane’s crew all on board?” He asked. The mention of the ship made Havor glance at it.

 

“Yes sir, everyone’s currently awaiting orders,” the old shipmaster replied.

 

Deimos nodded in approval, his glance turning to the crippled ship. “Lock them all under the deck. Pull the boarding bridge and ready the archers with flame arrows and fireball runes. I want that ship set to flames as soon as I give my mark, understand?”

 

The shipmaster visibly hesitated at the orders, but nodded obediently. “Yes sir,” he said before walking off to complete his orders.

 

Havor blinked, unsure of what he heard. He looked at Deimos for confirmation. The towering man noticed Havor’s confused eyes.

 

“There must be consequences for the crew’s actions,” Deimos responded in a grim tone. “These people…” The chieftain trailed off as he gestured towards the doomed ship. Havor could see how his fellow marauders guided people under the deck, some of them even forcing the crew down before they locked the hatch.

 

“These people are unfortunately incompetent. They are dangerous to us and themselves. It’s best we send them off with a warrior’s burial.” Deimos’ words carried a weight with them that was new to Havor. The stunned marauder only watched as the chieftain walked off, just as the archers on deck lit their arrows.

 

The muffled sounds of shouts and pleas from Serpent’s Bane soon reached Havor, the sound haunting the marauder.

 

“Pull!” Deimos’ voice drowned out the ones of those who were begging, the single word loud enough to deafen Havor’s ears. In response, the archers onboard did as ordered, pulling their bowstrings back as their arrow tips were set aflame. Havor could only watch as Deimos gave his mark.

 

“Loose!”

 

Flaming arrows and balls of fire struck against the black hull, setting the beautifully painted serpent aflame. The fire spread quickly from there, quickly engulfing the mermaid figurehead.

 

“Pull! Loose!” Deimos yelled again.

 

Havor was silent as he watched Serpent’s Bane crack and burn, the sound of the flames almost drowning out the screams. Almost. The brig slowly sank into the dark waters, taking its crew down with it. Only half an hour had passed until the ship finally submerged, taking its incompetent crew down to the watery depths of the black sea.