It had been three nights since Ragna’s fleet struck the Saxon coast. The longships now rested in a narrow fjord, their hulls streaked with blood and salt. Smoke from the raid still clung to the sea breeze as her men feasted and sang by the fires.

Inside her tent, Ragna sat sharpening her seax, the rhythmic scrape filling the silence. Before her knelt a captive that she had brought along.

She did not look up when she spoke. “Your people fight bravely,” she said, voice low, almost amused. “Better than those of the eastern sea.”