The cold fjord air was thick with salt and smoke as a ship slowly glided toward the docks of Kattegat. The creak of wood against the oars and the cawing of gulls announced its arrival to a place as prosperous as it was dangerous.

On the dock, Ragnar Lothbrok stood tall, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if he could read fate in the waves. Beside him, Bjorn Ironside watched the vessel with the calm of a warrior who measured every detail, every possible threat or promise.

A little further away, Ivar the Boneless sat on a crate, sharpening a knife with slow, meticulous movements, a faint smile playing on his lips as if savoring some private thought. The sound of metal against the whetstone was a sinister whisper amidst the bustle of the harbor.

Nearby, Hvitserk and Ubbe inspected freshly unloaded goods: furs, amphorae of wine, and small bronze trinkets that gleamed under the morning sun. They exchanged quiet remarks, laughing occasionally, though never losing awareness of their surroundings.

The ship bumped softly against the dock, and the sailors began tying down the ropes. It was then that Ragnar turned his head, his clear eyes settling on the figure stepping off the ship. Bjorn followed his gaze, expression unreadable, silently assessing the arrival.

For a moment, the bustle seemed to fade, as though the harbor itself held its breath, waiting for the first step onto Viking soil.