The Fall of Wolfsbane: Ravenglass Legends, #1

By Jon Cronshaw

In a world torn by conquest and betrayal, a young warrior must navigate a dangerous path between his warrior heritage and a powerful Empire.

 

Ragnar Wolfsbane, once chieftain-in-waiting of Meerand, is taken hostage after his father's execution and his sister's abduction.

 

Thrust into palace intrigues, Ragnar must prove his worth to the Empire that destroyed his homeland while unravelling mysteries of ancient magic.

 

But vengeance has a cost, and Ragnar soon faces a choice that will shape the fate of nations.

 

An epic tale of loyalty, loss, and destiny unfolds as Ragnar struggles to reclaim his birthright and protect those he holds dear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wyvern Books, Ltd
• Release date: May 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224883660

Jon Cronshaw

Jon Cronshaw writes fantasy and speculative fiction brimming with adventure, escapism, and an exploration of life's big questions. He lives with his wife and son in Morecambe, England.

Book preview

I.

Chill wind bit into Ragnar Wolfsbane’s knuckles as he gripped his shield and spear. He planted his feet into solid earth, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the shield wall with his brother warriors.

Frost lay in the shadows, throwing blue ripples towards the patches of harsh sunlight.

Ragnar braced himself with gritted teeth as his opponents smashed into him, shields clashing with shields, spears, and swords jutting this way and that.

The berserker cries did little to mask the cold.

A spear point thrust past Ragnar’s guard, jabbing his shoulder. With a cry, he fell backwards, letting an opening develop in the wall.

A man jerked Ragnar’s shield aside, hacking and slashing his sword, felling young men like stems of summer wheat. Each strike sent a bolt of pain along Ragnar’s arms, in spite of the blunted weapons.

Within a few heartbeats, the shield wall collapsed, the young men sprawling to the ground.

Enough. Ragnar’s Uncle Olaf drew a hand down his braided beard, his lip curling as he eyed each of them in turn. Leather straps crossed his chest, while fur leggings clad his thighs. Even in the cold, he wore only a light tunic, leaving his arms bare to the shoulders. Dozens of silver kill bands jangled on his forearms, catching the light of the harsh winter sun.

All around Ragnar, fellow warriors in training slumped to the ground, panting, and cursing, and wiping sweat from their brows.

Useless. Absolutely useless. Olaf sneered at the trainees as he walked along the line, the gnarled scar down his cheek twisting with his words. You cannot even hold the wall, let alone attack from behind the shields. He stopped and glowered at one of the taller lads. Why are you so pathetic? His gaze swept along the broken line and lingered on Ragnar. You are supposed to be warriors, not peasants. He pointed to the sea. How will you protect Meerand if the Northern Reachmen return?

A warm sensation pressed against Ragnar’s mind, a tendril of something like liquid slithering into his thoughts.

Olaf’s words faded into the background, nothing more than a jumble of sounds on the wind.

Ragnar slammed up his mind’s barriers, picturing an impenetrable shield wall, and he cast his gaze to the skies for what he knew must be there.

Three years earlier, during his twelfth summer, Ragnar had felt the same sensation when a wyvern from the north had presented itself to him and his friend Kest. But as he scanned for the creature, he saw nothing but icy clouds and grey skies.

He started at his uncle looming over him. Am I boring you, boy? Olaf sneered at him. Is there something on the walls that demands your attention? Something more important than listening to me?

Yes, uncle...

Yes, sir! Olaf delivered a backhanded slap to Ragnar’s cheek, jerking his head to the side and sending him to the ground.

Yes, sir. Ragnar rubbed his chin and dipped his gaze. Sorry, sir. I just—

There is nothing more important than listening to me. Olaf took a moment to glare at all the lads before returning his attention to Ragnar. Because of your failure, you are all dead. One man cut seven of you down and broke the wall before you even had a chance to attack. Your mothers and sisters are raped. Your fathers are murdered and your lands, taken. The rest of your people are enslaved, and it’s all your fault. He jabbed a finger at Ragnar. Get up.

Ragnar got to his feet.

What do you have to say for yourself, boy?

Sir, there’s a wyvern.

A wyvern? Olaf shielded his eyes and glanced up at the sky. Can anyone else see a wyvern? I don’t see one.

There is a wyvern. I swear it in the eyes of Creation.

Olaf squared up to Ragnar. Are you calling me a liar, boy?

No, sir. I can feel it inside my thoughts. He looked for support from the others, but a few of the trainees snickered. Can’t you feel that?

Your thoughts are addled, boy.

Though Ragnar was the son of Meerand’s Chieftain, Olaf gave him no special treatment. Ragnar bunked with the other lads and took his beatings in the same way. Indeed, some days it seemed Olaf had special torments in mind for him alone.

Ragnar raised his chin and gripped the chalice he wore around his neck—a constant reminder of Creation’s abundance, and a gift from his late mother. I told you what I felt, sir. My word is stone.

Olaf spat on the ground. Your word is nothing, boy. He glanced up at the sky again. Where is it? Show me. Show the others. He leaned back and cupped his hands. Oh, wyvern! Oh, wyvern! Come out and reveal yourself. Ragnar knows you are hiding.

A few of the trainees laughed. Others whispered to one another.

The laughter stopped when a dark shadow crossed over the training ground.

Olaf looked up, paling at the sight of the dark-winged creature above them. The wyvern circled the castle twice before heading back out over the Braun Sea.

Olaf grunted but did not meet Ragnar’s gaze. Pair up. Spar. He spun on his heels and marched towards the castle.

Ragnar gravitated towards Kest Jorensohn, who grabbed a blunt mace and shield.

Ragnar took up his favourite shortsword and dagger, holding the dagger in his right hand, sword in his left.

Kest gestured to the blades. You’re not still piddling around with those?

Ragnar shrugged. Not afraid, are you?

Me? Never. Kest grinned and slipped into a ready stance. But if your father catches you, you’ll be in crap again.

I don’t care what he says. Ragnar began to circle his friend. When I’m a master, he’ll eat his words.

We’ll see about that.

Ragnar shifted forward and struck past Kest’s guard. You know this is the superior technique.

Kest gave a quick nod and held up his shield. If it’s so bloody great, why are you in the shield wall with the rest of us?

Just to make you all feel better. Ragnar gave a half-smile. I was gracing you with my impressive presence.

You’re about as impressive as narwhal crap.

Ragnar laughed and ducked Kest’s mace.

Almost got you, there. Kest pushed Ragnar back with his shield and swung again. You know it’s true, don’t you?

What?

That if someone put you next to a steaming pile of narwhal crap, everyone would point at the turd and go, ‘Ooh, look at that.’ They wouldn’t even notice you.

Ragnar grinned. Just shut up and fight. He danced backwards, spun, and pressed his blunted dagger against Kest’s throat. That’s two.

This is supposed to be training, Rag. You nearly took my bloody head off with that.

Nearly. Ragnar stuck his tongue out and slipped back into stance.

Kest roared and charged forward, swinging the mace down in a vertical arc.

Ragnar sidestepped, tripped Kest, sending him to the dirt, and stood over him with his sword point pressed against his friend’s chest.

He helped Kest to stand. You want to yield?

Kest shook his head and adjusted his helmet. I’ll just have to start making an effort. He circled Ragnar. Tell me, Rag. How did you know that wyvern was there?

Ragnar aimed a backhanded cut at him. It’s like that big red one a few years back.

When?

Three summers ago up on the bluffs. Back when we had that boys’ tourney.

Kest looked puzzled.

You were there.

Kest shook his head and shoved against Ragnar with his shield. He hooked a foot around Ragnar’s ankle and knocked him to the ground. Standing over him with his mace raised for the killing blow, Kest grinned. One to me.

I let you have that. Ragnar got to his feet. It’s only right that I do something to prevent your tears and misery.

Kest feigned a blow with the edge of his shield, cursing when Ragnar threw himself backwards.

The pair exchanged blows alongside the other trainees until Kest halted and stared out to sea, the sparring seemingly forgotten.

I’m not falling for your trap.

Kest shook his head, his mouth dropping open, and gestured to the Braun Sea.

Ragnar followed Kest’s gaze and gaped at the dark ships dotting the horizon—hundreds of them.

Maja stood motionless before the Hammer of Wolfsbane, its deep black surface absorbing the meadhall’s dim light. The artefact’s shifting form filled her vision as the weight of its power pressed against her.

She reached out tentatively, her fingers hovering just inches from the ravenglass. She sensed the hammer was no mere object but a connection to another mind, another place beyond her own, something distant, something ancient, something...other. It was as if the relic were alive, and she could sense a consciousness stirring within.

As she stared, Maja sensed the faint whisper of a consciousness that was not her own. She cleared her thoughts and stilled her breaths, allowing herself to form a connection with the object.

But whenever she felt the hints of connection, it was as if she caught her reflection in water, the solid image turning to ripples.

Creation had gifted her the ability to sense the threads that bound all living things, but this connection ran deeper, eluding her understanding.

Warning bells echoed through Meerand, shaking the ground beneath Maja’s feet. How long had they tolled?

She spun around, her heart racing as she caught sight of her father, Ragnar the Elder, storming into the meadhall. His eyes locked onto hers, and a pang of guilt struck her chest.

What are you doing in here?

Maja stumbled back, searching for an excuse. Nothing.

You know not to touch this.

I didn’t touch it. She met her father’s gaze and sensed his fear and anger. She pushed out a wave of love and reassurance, which softened his expression.

He reached out to ruffle her hair. Come, Maja. He took the hammer down from the wall and gestured to the door. The Empire is here.

II.

Warning bells rang across Meerand Castle as Ragnar made his way up to the top of the keep to join his father and uncle on the battlements.

Sweat from his palms slickened his bow, and he wondered how he could nock an arrow with trembling fingers.

Ragnar tried his best to hide his fear from his father, and gazed across the bay at the black-hulled ships of the Ostreich Empire.

His father looked through a long-sight glass, which he then passed to Olaf, the younger man lifting it to his own eye.

Out of Ragnar’s earshot, they exchanged heated words, whispering harshly to each other as his father’s bodyguard, Brandt, looked on.

What are they saying? Ragnar asked.

Brandt gave a helpless shrug. He held a shimmering greatsword, its pommel a carved wolf baring its fangs.

Olaf strode off, leaving the three of them alone.

Screams rose from the town below as the next wave of invaders made land.

Townsfolk streamed towards the castle, fleeing their homes and businesses.

Ragnar the Elder rubbed his brow and watched, his face a stoic mask behind his beard.

Kest and some of the other lads arrived, each with their own bow and quiver, ready to mount a defence.

If they get me, make sure I’ve got a weapon in my hand, Kest said, sidling up to Ragnar.

Creation would never believe you’re a true warrior.

Kest rolled his eyes. Swear it, Rag. Please.

Ragnar had never heard such a serious tone from his friend. I will. He gripped Kest’s shoulder. But it won’t come to that. We’re warriors, proud and true, and we’ll defend our home and send these arseholes back to Ostreich. Ragnar turned to meet his father’s gaze.

We cannot win, son. Ragnar the Elder shook his head. There are too many of them.

But, Father—

It’s done, Ragnar. His father squeezed the bridge of his nose and took in a long breath. Olaf is sending a bird as we speak.

Ragnar frowned. A bird? What kind of bird?

To offer our surrender.

Surrender? Ragnar’s eyes bulged. No. We can’t just give in.

Look down there, son. He pointed to the harbour. Count the ships. There are nearly two hundred of them, each carrying at least fifty men, armed and ready to fight.

But you always said—

Ragnar the Elder waved a silencing hand. We have a force of sixty warriors and half that number of young ones in training. He held his eyes closed for a long moment. They will slaughter everyone if we don’t give them what they want.

The Ostreich soldiers stood poised and armoured in long, straight rows, each man wielding a spear and shield, their faces obscured by steel helmets.

Anger rose in Ragnar’s chest—anger at the invaders, anger at his father’s cowardice, and anger at his own fear.

A horn blared, and the soldiers turned as one. They marched towards the castle.

III.

Ostreich invaders reached the castle as the last hints of sunlight crested the western sky.

The gates stood open as Meerand’s residents added weapons to a pile in the bailey—swords, maces, hammers, and shields, creating a mound at least twenty paces across.

Silence gripped Ragnar as he stared at the soldiers, his fists clenching and unclenching involuntarily.

Torches guttered on the walls as his father’s men stood without weapons or armour, their bodies stripped down to their smallclothes, the men forced to kneel on the ground.

To his right, his father and uncle stood with Brandt, their backs stiff, their jaws tense.

To his left, Ragnar’s sister, Maja, looked on. At thirteen summers, she bore the same features as his late mother—icy blue eyes, light blonde hair, and high cheek bones.

Ragnar held Maja’s hand as trumpeters created a path from the gate to the weapons mound and blasted out a fanfare.

Banner and torch bearers led the procession, introducing a man in brightly polished armour, with a golden crown around his helm.

Sitting astride a pure white destrier, the man surveyed the castle and its residents as a black wyvern passed overhead and landed on the weapons pile.

Two younger men followed the rider, both on foot, both wearing emerald doublets over cream silk shirts, their chests bearing the white wyvern crest of the Ostreich Empire.

The wyvern spread its wings, and the trumpeters ceased. All hail Prince Gregor, Heir to the Ostreich throne, and Crowned Prince of the Isle of Wiete. The wyvern spoke in a singsong voice, its black scales shimmering green.

The prince dismounted his horse and handed the reins to a young man who appeared at his side. Gregor reached up and carefully removed his helm. A mop of bright copper hair stood out against his light skin, while his eyes seemed to take in everything at once.

Ragnar’s father turned to Brandt and spoke in little more than a whisper. No matter what occurs, make sure Maja and Ragnar are safe.

Brandt gave a slight nod, his eyes never leaving Prince Gregor.

With a deep breath, Ragnar’s father raised his chin and gripped his ravenglass war hammer with both hands, resting its handle against his shoulder. The hammer, Ragnar knew, had been in the Wolfsbane family since the time of the clan wars. All in Meerand recognised it as a symbol of power and leadership.

Ragnar the Elder paused before the pile of weapons and held his eyes shut before hurling the hammer onto the pile.

A wave of nausea welled in Ragnar’s stomach at his father’s submission, his father’s craven cowardice.

Since he could remember, his father raised him as a warrior, proud and true, to fight and to protect Meerand and its surrounds at all costs, to defend his home and his people with the ferocity of a thousand storms.

How many times had his father lectured him on what it meant to be a warrior? How many beatings and humiliations had he endured because his father saw him as less than a man? Had his father preached a lie?

By adding the Wolfsbane hammer to the pile of surrendered weapons, Ragnar’s father had given up on his family, on his home, and on his son’s birthright.

Stick close to me, Ragnar, Brandt said in a low voice.

Ragnar the Elder turned to Prince Gregor. Your Imperial Highness, do you accept the terms of our surrender?

The wyvern hopped down from the weapons and stopped a few paces in front of Ragnar’s father. Prince Gregor is pleased you have the wisdom to accede to his demands. He requests that you point out your children and heirs.

That is my son, Ragnar the Younger. Ragnar the Elder gestured to his children. And my daughter, Maja.

And will you bend your knee to the Empire? Gregor asked.

Without hesitation, Ragnar the Elder dropped to one knee and bowed his head—like a chided servant.

Ragnar squeezed Maja’s hand. It was all he could do not to spit at his father’s cowering.

The stench of burning tar filled the air as two men wheeled a great pot through the gate and came to a halt near the wall.

Prince Gregor spread his arms wide and swept his gaze across the lines of men and women. Friends. By offering his supplication to the Ostreich Empire, Ragnar Wolfsbane, Chieftain of Meerand, has guaranteed your lives. Rejoice in our mercy.

Mercy? Ragnar stepped forward as Brandt tried to hold him back with a forearm. You stand unmolested inside my father’s walls, so it is we who grant you mercy.

Prince Gregor turned to Ragnar and tilted his head with a small smile. Who do you think you are?

My name is Ragnar Wolfsbane, son of Ragnar Wolfsbane. I will be the next Chieftain of Meerand, sworn protector of its surrounds and shores.

Look at your castle, your shoreline. Gregor held Ragnar’s gaze. How can you protect them? What can your sixty men do, weaponless, and on their knees? He gestured towards Ragnar’s father.

This castle is my family’s by right. He beat his chest. You have no right to be here.

This castle belongs to the Emperor by right of arms. Gregor held up his hands in a helpless gesture. There is nothing you can do.

I can fight. Ragnar glared at his father. We should all be fighting. Some of his father’s warriors refused to meet his gaze, their eyes fixed on the cobbles.

Gregor smiled and stepped towards Ragnar. I like you. You have...spirit. He clapped his hands together.

Behind Gregor, men began to move, rounding up the residents, pulling children from mothers, and dragging husbands from wives.

The soldiers arranged the residents in lines, shackling them at the ankles and binding their wrists.

By Ragnar’s estimation, there were sixty warriors, thirty tradesmen, forty women, and twenty children in the line. He took in all the faces—friends, family, and fellow warriors—his gaze landing on Kest.

No. Ragnar shot forward, his heart racing.

Brandt wrapped a thick forearm around Ragnar, lifting him from the ground. Stop. You’re going to get yourself killed.

But—

I said, stop.

Ragnar nodded and was released from his grip.

A group of soldiers closed in on Brandt. This one will make for a good mule in the mines, one of them said.

Brandt stepped away and slammed his fist into the man’s face, snapping his head back and felling him at Gregor’s feet.

My place is at Ragnar’s side, Brandt said. I swore an oath to protect—

Your oath is now void. As a citizen of the Ostreich Empire, you are expected to serve the Emperor.

Two more soldiers approached him, bearing shackles.

Brandt struck out and kicked one in the groin, leaped forward, snatching the sword from the soldier’s hand as he fell, and drove the blade into the second’s stomach, spilling the man’s guts before turning to Gregor.

The first arrow slammed into his right shoulder. The next six peppered his chest and stomach. One lodged into his thigh.

Fighting for breath and managing to remain on his feet, Brandt staggered towards Ragnar. Protect...Maja.

I swear it.

Brandt’s legs gave out and he fell to the ground.

Ragnar tore his gaze away from Brandt’s prone body. With his nostrils flaring and his hands balled into fists, he stared at Gregor.

Maja jerked his wrist, her eyes pleading with him to stay with her.

The two younger princes behind Gregor stared at Brandt, then at Ragnar. They both shared the same looks as their father—copper hair, pale skin, and bright-green eyes.

The taller eyed Ragnar with a sneer. The younger shifted his weight, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Prince Gregor spoke in his own language while soldiers pulled people from the shackled lines, seemingly at random, and marched them into the bailey to stand before Ragnar.

A hooded man approached, wielding a steel greatsword.

Four men, two women, a boy, and a girl were forced to kneel before Gregor and Ragnar.

Soldiers forced the first man to the execution block. The two children sobbed.

With one sweep, the executioner took the first man’s head. It rolled towards Ragnar, the body remaining slumped over the block, spilling blood into the night. The dead man’s torso slipped down to the cobbles.

One of the women wailed for mercy as the executioner took the second man’s head with ease.

Ragnar glared at Gregor, his outrage clashing with hatred, and swore to Creation that he would have his revenge—against Gregor, against his children, and against the Empire that sent them to invade his shores and take his home.

When the executioner had killed the last man, a pair of soldiers led the first woman to the block.

She met the executioner’s gaze with what looked like passive acceptance, her face a serene mask. She set her head down on the block and closed her eyes.

The blade slammed down into her shoulder.

The woman screamed and fell to one side.

The executioner wrenched the sword free and looked around as soldiers grabbed the woman’s arms and legs and steered her back to the block.

Ragnar reached for the chalice he wore around his neck, willing Creation to intervene.

The children cried and screamed and pulled against the men holding them back.

The headsman swung his sword down, slicing through the woman’s neck. Her body convulsed for several seconds before it finally stilled.

The second woman died mercifully quickly, the blade severing her neck on the first pass.

Enough. Ragnar shook his head at the executioner as a pair of soldiers led a boy towards the block. You proved your point. Show mercy. Take them as slaves if you must, but let them live.

No, Gregor said.

The boy, no older than ten summers, stared pleadingly at Ragnar. He touched his chalice again, imploring Creation to stop this slaughter. The executioner swung his blade, and Ragnar had to look away.

A rush of bile raced up Ragnar’s throat when he turned back to see the mess the executioner had made. He covered his mouth and closed his eyes, his head throbbing, his pulse racing.

A Meerand trader fainted and a woman spewed vomit across the cobbles.

The soldiers led the girl to the block.

Ragnar narrowed his eyes at Gregor. You bastard. His words went unheeded.

There was no need for any of this unpleasantness, Gregor said, turning to Ragnar. But your man defied the Empire.

Gregor turned his attention to Ragnar’s father, who still kneeled near the pile of weapons.

My lord, Ragnar the Elder said in a strained voice. Might I be allowed to die as a warrior with my weapon in hand?

Gregor made a show of thinking the request over before nodding once.

Ragnar the Elder rose to his feet when a soldier handed him the Wolfsbane hammer.

Ragnar hoped his father would swing the hammer one last time and smash Gregor’s skull.

It was not to be. His father remained still, waiting for death, twenty archers aiming at his body.

The executioner stepped up and brought the blade back behind his shoulder. He whipped it around in an arc. Ragnar watched as his father’s head was taken off in one clean cut.

Shouts and cries came from the people of Meerand.

The archers lowered their bows as Ragnar the Elder’s lifeless body fell forward onto the pile of weapons, his blood seeping between the stones.

Ragnar held his sister’s hand tight. While his mind whirred as if somehow detached from his body, soldiers gathered up the severed heads. They dipped them in the boiling tar before mounting them on pikes above the main gate.

Ragnar squeezed his eyes shut, fearing he might cry. Soldiers tore down the wolf and spear standard and, in its place, unfurled the Ostreich banner. A white wyvern on a black field caught in the wind.

The wyvern motif glowed against the torchlight as the black faded into the night.

Ragnar gripped Maja’s hand and backed towards Olaf. We must escape, uncle. We have to get away. I swore to protect Maja.

It’s pointless, Ragnar. Olaf folded his arms, his silver kill bands glinting. You and Maja will be taken as hostages.

Ragnar looked into his uncle’s eyes and saw the truth in them.

Soldiers carrying shackles approached him.

Don’t resist them, boy.

Ragnar glared at his uncle, then turned to run.

Maja pulled him back and shook her head.

I warned you. Olaf tackled Ragnar to the ground, forcing the wind from his lungs.

Ragnar lay on the cold stones, staring at the stars, his vision blurring with tears. Why, uncle?

Just stay down, boy. Olaf pushed his knee hard on Ragnar’s chest. Or you’ll face the same fate as your father.

More hands reached out to subdue him, dragging Maja from his grasp as she screamed and wailed, biting and scratching like a wildcat.

Ragnar managed one weak punch, connecting with something hard that opened his knuckles. He felt himself pinned. Cold bands of iron clamped around his wrists.

IV.

With his ankles in chains and wrists bound before him, Ragnar shuffled down towards the harbour, passing hundreds of familiar faces—the men and women he was once expected to rule.

None of them met his gaze as he shambled forward.

At the docks, soldiers ushered Maja towards a large, black-hulled trireme. She turned back to him. Ragnar!

Ragnar broke free from the soldiers and dashed towards his sister, the chains around his ankles dragging behind him. Maja!

The chain snagged and sent Ragnar smashing to the ground.

Laughter roared behind him.

Peering back over his shoulder, he glowered at the elder of the two young princes who had arrived with Gregor.

Kick that dog, the elder prince said, gesturing at Ragnar.

Three soldiers broke away from his side and set to work on him.

Ragnar curled into a tight ball, covering his head with his hand, bringing his knees up to his stomach as the boots rained down.

The prince laughed hard as the soldiers continued their assault.

Too scared to do this yourself? Ragnar spat.

The prince yawned and examined a ravenglass ring on his finger. Would not want to dirty my boots on you, savage.

Stop this! a familiar voice ordered.

The soldiers fell back.

Gregor walked between Ragnar and the soldiers and folded his arms. What is happening here, Eckhart?

This dog tried to escape. I ordered my guards to teach him a lesson.

Gregor eyed the three soldiers in turn. Stand down.

The soldiers stood to attention, their eyes focused on something in the middle distance.

Gregor reached down and helped Ragnar to his feet. Are you hurt?

I’ve had worse.

Gregor brushed dust from Ragnar’s clothes. He led him away from Eckhart, heading for a ship with a painted wyvern head at its prow.

Ragnar followed Gregor along a gangplank and gazed down at the dozen or so rowing benches, recognising familiar faces from Meerand, each rower chained to an oar.

A bulky man wearing a vest and baggy hose stood over a drum.

Eckhart climbed the ramp and down past the rowers, snatching a knotted rope as he passed.

Meeting Ragnar’s gaze, he lashed one of the prisoners’ backs. The man threw his head back with the pain, his teeth gritted, but he remained silent—a true warrior in the eyes of Creation.

Ragnar shook his head and, before he was able to curse the vile prince, Gregor steered him below deck.

Maja trudged forward, her ankles weighed down by shackles. A man prodded her back with a spear butt, forcing her up the gangplank and onto the ship. Its sails were filled, and a flag showing a white wyvern on a black field fluttered in the wind. She squinted up at the banner and tried her best not to cry. Her father was dead, her brother a hostage, and now she was being taken to...Creation knew where.

As she staggered forward, the spear butt struck her back once again. She tried to reach out with her mind, hoping to sway the soldier’s emotions, but he refused to meet her gaze. She had no choice but to follow along the deck, her chains rattling with each step as she approached the looming trapdoor.

The ship’s rail was but a few steps away.

She gritted her teeth and struck out, launching herself over the bulwark.

The water hit her with an icy jolt, the Braun Sea enveloping her. She sank below the surface.

Kicking her shackled legs, she fought to stay afloat, her head bursting up through the waves as the shouts of Imperial soldiers echoed above her.

She kicked with all her might, pushing to create distance between herself and the ship.

With a growl, she pressed on and swam through the strong current towards the docks, her lungs burning with each breath.

The jetty came into view, but her chains pulled her beneath the waves.

She kicked and thrashed, fighting for breath, fighting for life.

Back above the surface, she swam towards the jetty, her muscles burning with every movement. The icy water had sapped her strength. Her chest heaved. Her eyes stung with the brine.

She reached a ladder and, with shaking hands, hooked onto it, pulling herself up rung by rung.

Reaching the top, she collapsed onto the jetty, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

She rolled onto her back with a groan and blinked up at a pair of soldiers armed with shields and spears. Her heart sank.

She stood, swaying unsteadily, and fixed the taller soldier’s gaze, desperate to soften his mind as she sent waves of warmth and kindness towards him. Please like me.

The soldier’s expression softened.

Water dripped from her sodden clothes onto the jetty, making a puddle beneath her feet. She tried to control her shivering as the smaller soldier gestured for her to follow him back to the ship.

Maja shuffled between the two soldiers, defeated and helpless.

With the taller soldier pushing her on, she passed through a trapdoor on the deck, following the smaller soldier down into a passageway dimly lit by small windows that let in faint light. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the gloom. She breathed in the air, musty with the thick smell of sweat and damp. The creaking of timbers filled her ears, and muffled footsteps pounded above.

The leading soldier stopped at a door and unlocked it, gesturing for her to enter.

She stepped inside, and the chill of the room surrounded her. A single hammock stretched between the walls, and a table stood bolted to the floor.

The soldier turned to leave.

Wait!

He looked at her with a blank expression.

Do you speak my language? Maja asked.

The soldier spoke a few syllables that she did not recognise. She turned to the taller soldier and pushed her influence against him, gesturing to her clothes. She hugged herself and made a show of shivering.

The soldiers nodded and spoke to each other in their native tongue. The taller one disappeared for several minutes before returning with a woollen blanket. He smiled and passed it to Maja.

She nodded her thanks, and the smaller soldier locked the door, leaving her alone in the darkness.

She clutched the coarse blanket tight around her shoulders as despair engulfed her, the thick silence broken only by the groan of timbers and pounding of feet overhead.

She thought of her father’s final moments as the executioner’s sword came down, her brother held hostage against her