The salt spray of the northern sea always tasted like blood to me. For three long years, that taste had been my only constant companion. I was nothing but a ghost in rags, a nameless orphan deckhand surviving on the lowest decks of the Black Leviathan, the largest warship in the High King’s pirate fleet.
On the sea, mercy is a disease. If you are weak, you are eaten. If you are small, you are crushed. And on that scorching, breathless afternoon, we were worse than weak. We were dying of thirst.
The sun had been beating down on the wooden decks for a week without a single drop of rain. The sea around us was flat, heavy, and motionless, like a sheet of molten lead. Below deck, in the dark, sweltering crawlspaces where the cabin boys and orphan deckhands slept, the air was thick with the stench of rot and sweat. There were six of us left. Six throwaway children picked up from burnt-out coastal villages, used as cheap labor to grease the blocks, haul the heavy tar lines, and crawl into the narrow bilge pumps where grown men could not fit.
We hadn’t tasted fresh water in four days. Our tongues were swollen, dry as cured leather against the roofs of our mouths. Our lips were cracked and bleeding.
That morning, young Thorgil, a boy no older than ten who had been captured from a western raid, began to shake. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he started whispering to his dead mother. We all knew what came next. When a cabin boy became too weak to work, the crew didn’t waste rations on him. They simply tossed him over the railing to let the sharks finish the job.
I couldn’t watch him die. Not like that.
When the night watch was changing and the upper deck was quiet, I crawled on my belly through the shadows of the middle deck. My knees scraped against the rough oak planks, leaving thin trails of blood. I knew the penalty for what I was about to do. Stealing rations on a pirate vessel was not punished by a simple whipping. It was a death sentence. But the sight of Thorgil’s pale, sweat-slicked face gave me a strange, desperate courage.
I reached the water casks near the main mast. The heavy iron padlock was locked, but the wood around the bung hole was old and slightly rotted. Using a rusted iron nail I had hidden in my palm, I worked silently, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every creak of the ship’s timbers made me freeze. Every distant laugh from the captain’s quarters made my blood run cold.
Finally, the wooden plug gave way with a soft, wet pop.
I didn’t drink first. I pulled a small, cracked leather pouch from my waist and carefully filled it, watching the precious, clear liquid trickle into the leather. My own throat screamed for a single sip. Just one drop to cool the fire burning in my chest. But I forced myself to stop. I plugged the cask, hid the pouch in the bosom of my torn shirt, and turned to crawl back into the shadows.
Then, a massive, heavy boot slammed directly into my spine.
The force of the blow drove the breath from my lungs in a sharp gasp. I face-planted into the hard deck, the taste of salt and dirt filling my mouth. A hand like an iron vice reached down, grabbed the collar of my rags, and hoisted me into the air as if I weighed nothing at all.
“Look what we have here,” a deep, gravelly voice boomed through the quiet night. “A little bilge rat drinking from the master’s cup.”
It was Quartermaster Torstein.
He was a monster of a man, nearly seven feet tall, with a face scarred by black powder burns and a beard matted with dried whale grease. He was the law on the lower decks, a man who took physical pleasure in breaking the spirits of the young boys assigned to his command. In his left hand, he held a heavy, brass-tipped cane. In his right, he held me.
“Please,” I croaked, my voice sounding like broken glass. “Thorgil is dying. He just needed a drop. Just a single drop.”
Torstein grinned, revealing a row of jagged, yellowed teeth. He reached into my shirt and brutally ripped the leather pouch away, tearing the fabric of my clothes. He didn’t even look at the water. With a cruel, mocking laugh, he untied the pouch and poured the fresh, cool water onto the wooden deck, right before my eyes.
The thirsty wood sucked it up in seconds. I watched the dark wet spot disappear, feeling a piece of my soul die with it.
“Water is for men who can fight, rat,” Torstein sneered, throwing me hard against the main mast. “Not for useless meat that occupies space in the hold. If the boy dies, he dies. And as for you… you just earned yourself a trip to the pit.”
He didn’t wait for morning. Torstein blew his heavy horn, a low, groaning sound that echoed across the dark water, waking every soul on the fleet. Within minutes, the heavy footsteps of dozens of sailors rumbled across the deck. Torches were lit, casting long, dancing orange shadows against the black sails.
They dragged me toward the center of the ship, where the heavy wooden grating of the main hatch had been pulled away, revealing the ship arena—the deep, rectangular cargo hold below, surrounded by a raised wooden walkway where the men could look down and gamble on blood.
I was thrown down the wooden ladder. I fell the last ten feet, landing hard on the rough, sand-covered floor of the hold. The sand was dark, stained with the old blood of fighting dogs, captured prisoners, and execution victims.
Above me, the crew gathered. Dozens of weathered, scarred faces looked down, their eyes reflecting the flickering fire of the torches. They were laughing, shouting insults, clinking their horn cups together. To them, this wasn’t an execution; it was entertainment. A midnight circus to break the boredom of the calm sea.
“Listen up, you scum!” Torstein’s voice echoed from the upper walkway. He stood there, leaning on the railing, looking down at me with absolute contempt. He reached down and grabbed the remaining five cabin boys, dragging them forward by their collars. They were trembling, their eyes wide with terror as they looked down at me in the pit.
“These rats think they can steal from our stores!” Torstein shouted to the cheering crew. “They think they can drink the water that our rowers earn with their sweat! I say we let the sea decide who deserves to live!”
The crew roared in approval, banging their cutlasses against the wooden railings.
Torstein looked down at us, his eyes gleaming with a sick, twisted amusement. “I am a fair man. There are six of us left in the hold, but we only have water for those who are useful. So, here is the rule: only the survivor of the monster duel gets a single drop of water! The rest can rot!”
My heart stopped. He wasn’t just punishing me. He was turning us against each other. He wanted us to butcher one another for the amusement of the crew, for a single cup of stale water.
“Bring out the hound!” Torstein barked.
A heavy wooden gate at the far end of the hold creaked open. From the darkness beneath the forecastle, a low, rumbling growl emerged. A massive, gaunt hunting dog—a beast used for tracking escaped slaves, its ears torn and its ribs showing beneath a scarred gray hide—stepped into the torchlight. Its eyes were bloodshot, and thick, white saliva dripped from its jaws. It hadn’t been fed in days. It looked at me, and its growl turned into a high-pitched, desperate snarl.
The crew went wild. Bets were shouted. Silver coins were thrown onto the wooden walkway above.
“Pick up a weapon, boy!” Torstein laughed, throwing a rusted, dull iron dagger into the sand near my feet. “Let’s see if that thieving hand knows how to bleed!”
I looked at the dagger. I looked at the massive, starving beast slowly circling me in the sand. My body was shaking, my muscles weak from dehydration, my mind clouded with fear. I was completely alone. No one in this vast, brutal empire cared if a nameless deck boy died in the dark.
But as I reached down to touch the cold iron of the knife, my hand brushed against something else—something hidden deep inside the lining of my torn rags, an old, heavy weight that had been sewn into my collar by a dying woman many years ago.
I closed my eyes, feeling the sharp teeth of the beast preparing to leap, knowing that the secret I carried was about to die with me in the blood-stained sand.
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CHAPTER 1
The salt spray of the northern sea always tasted like blood to me. For three long years, that taste had been my only constant companion. I was nothing but a ghost in rags, a nameless orphan deckhand surviving on the lowest decks of the Black Leviathan, the largest warship in the High King’s pirate fleet.
On the sea, mercy is a disease. If you are weak, you are eaten. If you are small, you are crushed. And on that scorching, breathless afternoon, we were worse than weak. We were dying of thirst.
The sun had been beating down on the wooden decks for a week without a single drop of rain. The sea around us was flat, heavy, and motionless, like a sheet of molten lead. Below deck, in the dark, sweltering crawlspaces where the cabin boys and orphan deckhands slept, the air was thick with the stench of rot and sweat. There were six of us left. Six throwaway children picked up from burnt-out coastal villages, used as cheap labor to grease the blocks, haul the heavy tar lines, and crawl into the narrow bilge pumps where grown men could not fit.
We hadn’t tasted fresh water in four days. Our tongues were swollen, dry as cured leather against the roofs of our mouths. Our lips were cracked and bleeding.
That morning, young Thorgil, a boy no older than ten who had been captured from a western raid, began to shake. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he started whispering to his dead mother. We all knew what came next. When a cabin boy became too weak to work, the crew didn’t waste rations on him. They simply tossed him over the railing to let the sharks finish the job.
I couldn’t watch him die. Not like that.
When the night watch was changing and the upper deck was quiet, I crawled on my belly through the shadows of the middle deck. My knees scraped against the rough oak planks, leaving thin trails of blood. I knew the penalty for what I was about to do. Stealing rations on a pirate vessel was not punished by a simple whipping. It was a death sentence. But the sight of Thorgil’s pale, sweat-slicked face gave me a strange, desperate courage.
I reached the water casks near the main mast. The heavy iron padlock was locked, but the wood around the bung hole was old and slightly rotted. Using a rusted iron nail I had hidden in my palm, I worked silently, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every creak of the ship’s timbers made me freeze. Every distant laugh from the captain’s quarters made my blood run cold.
Finally, the wooden plug gave way with a soft, wet pop.
I didn’t drink first. I pulled a small, cracked leather pouch from my waist and carefully filled it, watching the precious, clear liquid trickle into the leather. My own throat screamed for a single sip. Just one drop to cool the fire burning in my chest. But I forced myself to stop. I plugged the cask, hid the pouch in the bosom of my torn shirt, and turned to crawl back into the shadows.
Then, a massive, heavy boot slammed directly into my spine.
The force of the blow drove the breath from my lungs in a sharp gasp. I face-planted into the hard deck, the taste of salt and dirt filling my mouth. A hand like an iron vice reached down, grabbed the collar of my rags, and hoisted me into the air as if I weighed nothing at all.
“Look what we have here,” a deep, gravelly voice boomed through the quiet night. “A little bilge rat drinking from the master’s cup.”
It was Quartermaster Torstein.
He was a monster of a man, nearly seven feet tall, with a face scarred by black powder burns and a beard matted with dried whale grease. He was the law on the lower decks, a man who took physical pleasure in breaking the spirits of the young boys assigned to his command. In his left hand, he held a heavy, brass-tipped cane. In his right, he held me.
“Please,” I croaked, my voice sounding like broken glass. “Thorgil is dying. He just needed a drop. Just a single drop.”
Torstein grinned, revealing a row of jagged, yellowed teeth. He reached into my shirt and brutally ripped the leather pouch away, tearing the fabric of my clothes. He didn’t even look at the water. With a cruel, mocking laugh, he untied the pouch and poured the fresh, cool water onto the wooden deck, right before my eyes.
The thirsty wood sucked it up in seconds. I watched the dark wet spot disappear, feeling a piece of my soul die with it.
“Water is for men who can fight, rat,” Torstein sneered, throwing me hard against the main mast. “Not for useless meat that occupies space in the hold. If the boy dies, he dies. And as for you… you just earned yourself a trip to the pit.”
He didn’t wait for morning. Torstein blew his heavy horn, a low, groaning sound that echoed across the dark water, waking every soul on the fleet. Within minutes, the heavy footsteps of dozens of sailors rumbled across the deck. Torches were lit, casting long, dancing orange shadows against the black sails.
They dragged me toward the center of the ship, where the heavy wooden grating of the main hatch had been pulled away, revealing the ship arena—the deep, rectangular cargo hold below, surrounded by a raised wooden walkway where the men could look down and gamble on blood.
I was thrown down the wooden ladder. I fell the last ten feet, landing hard on the rough, sand-covered floor of the hold. The sand was dark, stained with the old blood of fighting dogs, captured prisoners, and execution victims.
Above me, the crew gathered. Dozens of weathered, scarred faces looked down, their eyes reflecting the flickering fire of the torches. They were laughing, shouting insults, clinking their horn cups together. To them, this wasn’t an execution; it was entertainment. A midnight circus to break the boredom of the calm sea.
“Listen up, you scum!” Torstein’s voice echoed from the upper walkway. He stood there, leaning on the railing, looking down at me with absolute contempt. He reached down and grabbed the remaining five cabin boys, dragging them forward by their collars. They were trembling, their eyes wide with terror as they looked down at me in the pit.
“These rats think they can steal from our stores!” Torstein shouted to the cheering crew. “They think they can drink the water that our rowers earn with their sweat! I say we let the sea decide who deserves to live!”
The crew roared in approval, banging their cutlasses against the wooden railings.
Torstein looked down at us, his eyes gleaming with a sick, twisted amusement. “I am a fair man. There are six of us left in the hold, but we only have water for those who are useful. So, here is the rule: only the survivor of the monster duel gets a single drop of water! The rest can rot!”
My heart stopped. He wasn’t just punishing me. He was turning us against each other. He wanted us to butcher one another for the amusement of the crew, for a single cup of stale water.
“Bring out the hound!” Torstein barked.
A heavy wooden gate at the far end of the hold creaked open. From the darkness beneath the forecastle, a low, rumbling growl emerged. A massive, gaunt hunting dog—a beast used for tracking escaped slaves, its ears torn and its ribs showing beneath a scarred gray hide—stepped into the torchlight. Its eyes were bloodshot, and thick, white saliva dripped from its jaws. It hadn’t been fed in days. It looked at me, and its growl turned into a high-pitched, desperate snarl.
The crew went wild. Bets were shouted. Silver coins were thrown onto the wooden walkway above.
“Pick up a weapon, boy!” Torstein laughed, throwing a rusted, dull iron dagger into the sand near my feet. “Let’s see if that thieving hand knows how to bleed!”
I looked at the dagger. I looked at the massive, starving beast slowly circling me in the sand. My body was shaking, my muscles weak from dehydration, my mind clouded with fear. I was completely alone. No one in this vast, brutal empire cared if a nameless deck boy died in the dark.
But as I reached down to touch the cold iron of the knife, my hand brushed against something else—something hidden deep inside the lining of my torn rags, an old, heavy weight that had been sewn into my collar by a dying woman many years ago.
I closed my eyes, feeling the sharp teeth of the beast preparing to leap, knowing that the secret I carried was about to die with me in the blood-stained sand.
The dog lunged.
It was a blur of gray fur and yellow teeth. I scrambled backward in the sand, my hands tearing as I threw myself to the side. The beast’s jaws snapped shut inches from my face, the stench of its foul breath filling my nostrils. The crowd above erupted into wild cheers, leaning over the wooden railings, spilling their cheap ale onto my back.
“Move, boy! Get up and fight!” Torstein roared from his high perch, his face twisted in a mask of sadistic joy. “Let the hound taste you!”
I rolled over, my fingers desperately sweeping through the coarse sand until they wrapped around the cold, rusted hilt of the dull dagger. My breath came in ragged, burning gasps. My vision was blurring from the heat and the lack of water, but a strange, ancient survival instinct took over. I couldn’t die here. Not in the filth. Not for their amusement.
The hound turned, its heavy paws digging into the sand, preparing for another strike. It lowered its head, its muscles tensing beneath its scarred hide. I held the knife out with a trembling hand, my body pressed against the thick oak hull of the ship. There was nowhere left to run.
Suddenly, a loud, heavy thud echoed from the upper deck.
The shouting of the crew instantly began to die down, moving backward like a receding tide. The heavy iron boots of the sailors shifted, creating a path. A cold stillness settled over the cargo hold, broken only by the low, heavy breathing of the starving hound.
Through the gap in the crowd, a tall, imposing figure stepped forward to the edge of the walkway.
It was the Pirate King, Captain Asmund.
He was a legend of the northern seas, a man whose name was whispered with terror in every coastal village from the frozen fjords to the southern trade routes. He wore a long, heavy coat made of dark seal fur, despite the stifling heat, and his face looked as if it had been carved out of granite. His eyes were a piercing, icy blue, and a long, silver scar ran from his temple down to his jawline, a reminder of the many battles he had fought to claim the sea throne.
He didn’t speak immediately. He stood at the railing, looking down into the pit with an expression of deep, cold boredom. In his right hand, he held a heavy, ornate silver cup filled with dark wine.
“What is this noise, Torstein?” Asmund asked, his voice low but carrying a terrifying weight that vibrated through the timber of the ship. “The fleet is becalmed, the men are restless, and you are wasting energy on a bilge rat?”
Torstein’s arrogant smile instantly vanished, replaced by a tense, eager-to-please grin. He bowed his large head slightly, lowering his brass-tipped cane.
“A thousands pardons, my King,” Torstein said, his voice dropping an octave. “The little thief was caught stealing from the water casks. He was taking our precious rations for the useless, dying stock in the hold. I am simply enforcing the law of the sea. An execution to remind the rats of their place.”
Asmund looked down at me. His icy eyes scanned my broken body, my torn rags, and the dull knife in my hand. There was no pity in his gaze. To him, I was less than nothing. A piece of dust on the deck of his empire.
“A thief,” Asmund murmured, taking a slow sip from his cup. “The law of the sea is absolute. If he stole, he dies. Let the beast finish it so we can return to the silence.”
“With pleasure, Captain,” Torstein sneered, turning back to the pit. He whistled sharply, a piercing sound that reawakened the hound’s fury. “Kill him!”
The dog leaped again, its front paws striking my chest. The weight of the animal slammed me hard against the wooden hull, knocking the wind from my lungs. The dull dagger flew from my hand, clattering uselessly across the sand. I screamed as the beast’s jaws closed around my left shoulder, its teeth tearing through my skin, blood instantly soaking into my clothes.
I fought with everything I had left. I dug my fingers into the dog’s eyes, punching its scarred snout with my right fist. The animal growled, shaking its head to tear the flesh from my bone. In the violent struggle, the collar of my heavy, grease-stained shirt was ripped completely open from my neck down to my waist.
The dog suddenly pulled back, preparing to bite my throat.
But as my shirt fell open, a heavy piece of metal tumbled out from its hidden pocket in the lining, catching the bright, flickering orange light of a dozen torches. It bounced against my blood-covered chest and dattered onto the sand.
It was an ancient, heavy silver medallion.
On its surface, carved with exquisite detail, was the image of a roaring sea wolf wrapped around a broken crown—the forbidden crest of the lost Northern Fleet, an empire that had been completely wiped out twenty years ago in a night of fire and blood.
High above, the silence that followed was louder than any thunder.
The silver cup in Captain Asmund’s hand suddenly slipped from his fingers. It fell through the opening of the hatch, striking the sand with a heavy, hollow thud, dark red wine spilling across the sand like a pool of fresh blood.
The Pirate King’s face went completely pale, the color draining from his skin until his silver scar stood out like a white line of fire. He gripped the wooden railing so hard that his knuckles turned white, his icy blue eyes fixed entirely on the silver piece lying in the dirt.
The hound, sensing the sudden, terrifying shift in the air, stopped its attack. It crept backward, its tail tucked between its legs, its low growl turning into a soft, frightened whimper as it stared up at the deck.
The entire crew stood frozen. Nobody breathed. Nobody moved.
Torstein looked at his captain, confusion and fear flashing across his brutal face. “Captain? What is it? Do you want me to…”
“Silence,” Asmund whispered, but the word was so sharp it cut through the air like a blade. He didn’t look at Torstein. He didn’t look at the crew. His eyes were locked on me, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
“Bring him up,” the Pirate King commanded, his voice trembling with an emotion nobody on that ship had ever heard before. “Bring him to the great hall. Now.”
CHAPTER 2
The journey up from the dark cargo hold felt like a dream. Two massive guards, who had handled me like a sack of rotted grain just moments before, now lifted me with a strange, hesitant care. They didn’t drag me by my hair. They gripped my arms firmly, their eyes darting down to the torn collar of my shirt where the silver medallion now hung openly against my bloody skin.
The crew on the walkways stood like statues as I passed. The laughter was gone. The mocking jeers had vanished, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence. Men who had spent their lives murdering and plundering under the black sails looked at me with wide, terrified eyes, whispering to one another in hushed, frightened tones.
“Is that…?” one old sailor murmured, crossing his arms and stepping back into the shadows.
“It can’t be,” another whispered, his hand shaking as he held his torch. “They were all slaughtered. Every last one of them.”
Torstein walked behind us, his heavy brass-tipped cane clicking rhythmically against the deck planks. The sound was usually enough to make every cabin boy drop to his knees in fear, but now, the rhythm felt frantic, uneven. I could hear the heavy, labored breathing of the giant man. He was confused, angry, and growing increasingly desperate to regain control of his deck.
We entered the Captain’s Great Hall at the stern of the ship.
It was a massive room, built from the dark, polished wood of captured southern vessels. Heavy iron chandeliers hung from the low ceiling, their candles dripping hot wax onto a long oak table covered in sea charts, gold coins, and half-emptied flagons of strong northern mead. At the far end of the room sat a massive wooden chair, carved to look like the gaping jaws of a sea serpent—the throne of the fleet.
Captain Asmund was already there. He didn’t sit. He stood by the stern windows, looking out at the black, motionless sea. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, but I could see them twitching.
The guards shoved me forward, and my weak, trembling legs gave out. I collapsed onto the cold floor, my hands spreading flat against the polished wood. The blood from my shoulder wound was still dripping, creating a dark puddle beneath me. The hound’s teeth had gone deep, and a burning, throbbing pain radiated through my entire left side, but the raw terror in my chest numbed the physical suffering.
Torstein stepped into the room, slamming his cane down. “Captain Asmund,” he boomed, trying to fill the room with his usual arrogance. “The thief is here. If I may speak, this rat has clearly stolen that silver piece from some dead nobleman’s chest during one of our raids. He’s a scavenger. A liar. Let me take him back to the rail and finish the sentence. We cannot allow a common thief to disrupt the discipline of the men.”
Asmund didn’t move. He didn’t turn around.
“Where did you get it?” the Pirate King asked. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it silenced Torstein instantly.
I struggled to lift my head. My throat felt like it was full of sand, and my vision swam with dark spots. “My… my mother,” I croaked, the words tearing at my dry throat. “She gave it to me. Before the fire.”
Asmund slowly turned around. The hard, merciless expression he usually wore was completely gone. His face looked hollow, haunted by ghosts that had been buried long ago. He walked across the room, his heavy boots making no sound against the wood. He stopped right in front of me, slowly kneeling down into the puddle of my own blood.
He reached out a large, battle-scarred hand. His fingers, which had severed a hundred throats without a second thought, were visibly shaking. He gently picked up the silver medallion hanging from my neck, holding it up to the candlelight.
He turned it over. On the back of the metal, hidden beneath twenty years of dirt and grease, were three small, deep lines carved into the silver—the personal mark of the High Admiral of the Northern Fleet.
Asmund let out a sharp, ragged breath, a sound that was dangerously close to a sob.
“Her name,” Asmund whispered, his icy eyes locking onto mine, searching my face with a desperate intensity. “What was your mother’s name, boy?”
“Valdis,” I whispered, tears finally cutting through the dirt on my face. “She told me never to show it to anyone. She said if the men with the black sails saw it, they would kill me. She said… she said the First Mate was a traitor.”
The room went dead silent.
Torstein’s face instantly changed from confusion to absolute horror. He took a step back, his heavy cane slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor. His large hands instinctively flew to the hilt of his heavy cutlass.
“Captain!” Torstein shouted, his voice cracking with panic. “The boy is spinning fairy tales! He’s a bilge rat! He’s trying to save his skin! Valdis died in the burning of the Great Fjord! We saw her body!”
Asmund slowly rose to his feet. The vulnerability that had broken through his face just a moment before vanished, replaced by an expression of such cold, absolute fury that the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He looked at Torstein, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure ice.
“She didn’t die in the fire, Torstein,” Asmund said, his voice dangerously calm. “She escaped. With the child. The child you swore to me you had personally thrown into the sea.”
“He lies!” Torstein roared, his hand gripping his sword. “I am your Quartermaster! I have served you for twenty years! Are you going to believe the word of a starving thief over mine?”
Asmund didn’t answer with words.
With a movement so fast it was almost invisible to the human eye, the Pirate King reached for the heavy silver flagon on the table and hurled it across the room. The solid metal struck Torstein squarely in the face with a sickening crunch. The giant man shrieked, his nose shattering instantly as blood sprayed across the charts. He stumbled backward, crashing into the heavy wooden doors of the hall.
“Guards!” Asmund bellowed, his voice shaking the entire ship. “Call the fleet council! Drag every captain from their ships! Light the execution torches on the main deck! Tonight, we hold a trial that has been delayed for twenty winters!”
The guards didn’t hesitate. They didn’t look at Torstein. They grabbed the bleeding, howling Quartermaster by his arms and dragged him out of the room, leaving a long trail of dark blood on the polished wood.
Asmund turned back to me. He knelt down again, but this time, he took his heavy seal-fur coat off and wrapped it gently around my shivering, blood-stained shoulders. The warmth of the fur was shocking against my cold skin.
“For twenty years, I believed I was the last,” Asmund whispered, his voice cracking as he looked at my face, recognizing the features of a family he thought had been wiped from the earth. “For twenty years, I served the men who murdered our people, waiting for a chance to tear their empire down. I thought my brother’s bloodline was dead.”
He looked at the silver medallion in my hand, then looked deep into my eyes.
“You are not a cabin boy,” Asmund said, his voice echoing with a terrifying, righteous authority. “You are the blood of the Sea Throne. And tonight, the men who put you in that dirt will learn what happens when the wolf wakes up.”
He lifted me into his arms, carrying me out toward the upper deck where the entire fleet was already gathering under the dark, silent night.
