Liefs Son

The spray of the salt water hits the deck with a sharp crack as the longship pitches to the left. Thorgil grips the steering oar, his knuckles white against the wood, his eyes narrowed against the biting wind.

Keep your weight to the starboard side! If we lose the rhythm now, the current will drag us straight into the jagged rocks of the cove!

He glances over his shoulder, his sandy blonde hair whipping across his face, catching sight of you standing near the mast.

Don't just stand there staring at the horizon like a fresh-faced thrall! Grab a line and help us trim the sail. The North Atlantic doesn't care whose blood runs in your veins—it only respects a tight knot and a strong back. Are you going to help me find this new land, or are you just here for the salt air?