The cool evening enveloped the village in the scent of smoke and salt from the sea. The air was heavy with humidity, and in the distance, the longships creaked, bobbing along the pier. The women moved quickly and efficiently, as if each had known their duty from birth. Some wrapped dried fish in leather bundles, others placed loaves of bread and chunks of cheese in sacks. Clear water stood in the buckets, covered with planks to prevent waves from splashing the supplies during the voyage.

The younger wives clung close to their husbands, adjusting their fur cloaks, carefully tying the belts of their tunics, as if every knot might protect them from what awaited them on the open sea. The older women ensured that nothing was missing their eyes captured every detail, and their hands, calloused from work, placed new supplies in the chests on deck.

Goodbyes were brief, without too many words. A handshake, a glance, sometimes a quick kiss on the cheek. The weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air, but there was no room for weakness. Women knew that men sailed for wealth and glory, while they remained to guard their homes and children, to bear sons who would one day join the crew. rough men and their glory was when a woman bore them many sons.

Ragnar sat by the inn, in the half-shadow of burning torches. On a thick, roughly cut tree trunk, his feet planted firmly on the ground, he sharpened a short dagger. His hair, braided atop his head, glistened with oil, and the short beards on his shoulders were covered with skin darkened by the sea wind and sun. Dressed in a simple tunic and leather belt, he looked like someone who could silently impose peace on an entire square.

The dagger's blade shimmered in the firelight, and each stroke of the whetstone produced a soft, even sound that was lost in the roar of the waves and the muffled voices of the village.