The Warrior and the Monk

Chapter One

One early morning, strangers in longships silently stepped onto the shore, their presence casting a heavy weight upon the land. Their arrival had been anticipated for days, maybe longer, and was no surprise to those who dwelled in the monastery overlooking the coast. The ships had been visible for miles as they drifted slowly, languidly, along the sea's edge, cutting through the waves like beasts with a purpose. They moved in their long, narrow vessels, which seemed both too large and too lean, with sails woven from thick cloth and dyed in bright, garish colors that stood out against the pale sea and sky. The sails themselves were like beacons, drawing attention, and signaling to all who saw them that these strangers were coming—coming like wolves in a pack, hunting, looming, watching. The monks had watched them for days, knowing the inevitable would soon arrive.

The prolonged approach had given them time—time to move past their initial panic and fall into a somber, almost lethargic resignation. Arguments had risen and fallen in the halls of the monastery as they debated what to do. Could they flee, and if so, to where? The village lay not far, but even there, no guarantee of safety awaited them. Should they take what they could? What was more important—the sacred relics and books that filled the monastery’s archives or the food and water that would sustain their bodies? Could they bear the thought of abandoning their home, the monastery that had been their shelter and sanctuary for so long? Or worse, should they stay and face whatever it was these strangers sought? What would they be willing to surrender—if surrender became their only option? Could they offer food, water, and shelter? Or would these invaders demand more—treasures, relics, their very way of life?

Yet amid the debates, Wilder, the youngest of the monks, noticed one thing. No one seemed to be offering up prayers, at least not aloud. The arguments had drowned out any thought of spiritual solace. The fear of losing their worldly goods had eclipsed their faith. Wilder, troubled by this, quietly moved toward the altar, his heart heavy with uncertainty. He knelt, bowing his head in solitude, and began to pray.

"God, see us through this day safely," Wilder whispered, feeling the stillness of the air around him, the weight of the moment pressing down on his spirit. "As these strangers cross the sands, let us meet them in peace and understanding. May these shores remain unblemished by bloodshed, may this monastery continue to be a place of quiet study and contemplation." His voice wavered, but the words were firm, filled with hope. "Amen."

But his prayer, though spoken softly, did not go unnoticed. Brother Ellion, standing nearby, heard the faint murmur and whirled around, his expression sharp. "Something to add, boy?" he asked, his voice edged with impatience.

Wilder, still kneeling, shook his head slightly. "No, Brother Ellion. I agree with the abbot," he said, his voice respectful yet steady.

At this, Brother Ellion scoffed, his frustration thinly veiled. He had been one of the most vocal in the earlier discussions, strongly advocating for the monks to gather the relics and flee while they still had time. He had argued that it was better to save the treasures of the monastery than to stay and face an uncertain fate. But the abbot had disagreed, reminding him that such an action would leave the elderly and infirm brothers behind, unable to keep pace. The abbot's decision had been final—if they fled, they would do so together, not abandoning anyone to face the strangers alone.

The abbot, standing at the head of the room, inclined his head slightly toward Wilder, a silent gesture of thanks for the young monk's quiet prayer. "This does not mean," the abbot began, addressing the room again, "that we will not prepare for the worst. We must be ready, should we need to flee. But if we do, we will go together. No one will be left behind."

A heavy silence fell over the group. The tension hung in the air, thick with unspoken fears and the weight of decisions yet to be made. Outside, the strangers' ships continued to loom on the horizon, drawing closer with every passing moment. And the monks waited, caught between faith and fear, hoping that whatever was to come, they would face it united.

In the end, it was a small party of three that ventured near the monastery, but every figure trudging through the sand was armored and armed, their very presence a reminder of power and violence. Helmets gleamed beneath the overcast sky, chainmail clinked with each step, and heavy shields rested on their backs like burdens they carried with ease. Swords hung at their waists, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. These men were tall, broad, and strong—obviously stronger than anyone who lived within the quiet walls of the monastery. Wilder watched them warily from his hiding place, crouched low in the tall grass, every muscle tensed, ready to bolt at the first hint of danger.

One of the warriors nudged his companion and muttered something in their strange tongue, gesturing toward the monastery. Wilder strained to hear, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. Their language was utterly foreign to him, rough and guttural. He listened as closely as he could, hoping against hope that one of the words might suddenly become clear, that perhaps he could understand their intentions. But for all the languages the monks had made him study in the rectory—Latin, Greek, and even a bit of Old English—this was not one he had ever encountered. It was alien to him, and frustratingly so.

Yet, despite the ominous sight of these heavily armed men, the two warriors who were talking seemed more interested in the beach than the monastery. They pointed toward the shore, where birds bobbed in the tide, and one bent down to pick up shells from the wet sand. Wilder watched in disbelief as they crouched and examined their finds, chattering to one another like children, not conquerors. At one point, they even let out amazed and disgusted cries as they held up what Wilder recognized as a mermaid’s purse, the leathery egg case of a shark or ray. Weren't these men seafarers? How could they marvel at something so common along the coast? For all the intimidation their towering frames inspired, they were scrounging through the sand like they’d never set foot on a beach before.

Wilder couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all—quietly, he thought. But the third warrior, the one who hadn’t joined in the beachcombing, heard him. His head snapped toward Wilder’s hiding spot, and his dark, piercing eyes fixed on the tall grass. The man stood apart from the other two, uninterested in the shore’s offerings. His silence had made him seem the most dangerous of the three.

Wilder cursed himself, his heart leaping into his throat. He pulled his hood lower over his face, trying to shrink into the earth, pressing his face into his arms as if that would somehow make him disappear. He held his breath, praying fervently that the warrior wouldn’t see him, and wouldn't come closer. But the sound of heavy boots crunching through the sand grew louder and nearer, and Wilder's panic swelled inside him until, without thinking, he bolted to his feet.

He froze, breath caught in his chest. The warrior was only a few paces away, closer than Wilder had realized, and he loomed over him like a shadow, towering and broad. Wilder had never seen a man so massive. Were all these strangers giants? A cold gust of wind whipped across the beach, and Wilder’s robe billowed out behind him. His hood fell away, revealing his wild, untamed curls flying in every direction.

The warrior, who had been unmoved by the wind up until now, suddenly started as though something had spooked him. His sharp intake of breath was audible even above the roar of the waves, and his eyes—dark as ink—locked onto Wilder with an intensity that made his blood run cold. The look in those eyes was not one of anger, but something else entirely, something that Wilder couldn’t quite place. But whatever it was, it terrified him. He stumbled backward, his feet slipping in the sand, and without another thought, he turned and ran.

He fled across the beach, weaving between dunes, the tall grass whipping against his legs. His breath came in short gasps, his heart pounding as though it might burst from his chest. He didn’t dare look back, certain that the warrior was right behind him. But he knew the dunes well—he had played among them as a boy, running along the beach in far happier times—and he used that knowledge now to put distance between himself and the stranger. His lighter clothing allowed him to move faster than the armored men, and for a brief moment, he dared to hope that he had escaped.

Just as he was about to leave the beach and reach the safety of the monastery’s grounds, Wilder nearly collided with Brother Ellion. The monk was on his knees, frantically digging at the sand with his hands, and for a moment, Wilder thought the older man had gone mad. But then he saw it—a glint of gold, quickly covered by sand as Brother Ellion worked to hide it.

"Brother Ellion, they’re here!" Wilder gasped, still breathless from his sprint.

Ellion whirled around, his face a mixture of fury and suspicion. "What are you doing out here?" he demanded, his voice sharp.

"What am I doing? They’re here!" Wilder repeated, trying to shake off his frustration. "Three warriors on the beach. We have to tell the abbot."

"You led them straight to us?" Brother Ellion spat, his voice rising in anger. "You little fool, you—" Whatever scolding he had prepared died in his throat. His face drained of color, and he stared past Wilder, eyes wide with fear.

Wilder turned slowly, dreading what he would see. The warrior had followed him. He was walking toward them, his steps measured and slow, his gaze fixed on the two monks. But his hands were raised, palms open in a universal gesture of peace. Wilder’s heart continued to race, even though the man didn’t seem to be reaching for his sword. Peaceful gesture or not, the sheer size and presence of the stranger made Wilder’s blood run cold.

For a long moment, none of them moved. Wilder’s heart pounded in his chest, and Brother Ellion remained frozen in place. The warrior continued to approach, his eyes never leaving theirs, until he finally came to a stop just a few feet away, his hands still raised, his expression unreadable beneath his helmet.

What did he want?

Voice shaking, Wilder offered a tentative, "H-hello."

The stranger, towering and intimidating in his armor, responded with a short wave—a gesture surprisingly awkward for a man of his size and bearing. He didn’t say a word, and Wilder thought he saw the man squeeze his hands into fists at his sides, as if wrestling with some internal debate. His silence stretched on for a few moments, but then he seemed to make a decision. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hands to his helmet and pulled it off.

Dark curls tumbled free, and a thick beard framed a strong, rugged face. His nose appeared to have been broken more than once, and his eyes were deep, dark pools—sharp but filled with a weariness that caught Wilder off guard. There was a sadness in the man’s expression, a vulnerability that Wilder had not expected to find behind the hard, armored exterior. The contrast left him speechless, unsure of how to respond.

Brother Ellion, however, saw vulnerability as an opening. He pounced, his voice sharp and accusatory, as though he were chastising a misbehaving novice. "Well? What business do you have here?" he barked, his authority bolstered by his indignation. "This is a holy place—a place of God! State your business!"

The stranger simply stared at them, his expression unchanging. It became clear that he hadn’t understood a word Brother Ellion had said. Wilder, sensing the monk’s growing frustration, muttered, "Brother, they speak a language I’ve never heard before. I don’t think he understands us."

No sooner had Wilder spoken than the man raised his arm and pointed directly at him. Wilder blinked in confusion. "Yes?" he asked, feeling the weight of the warrior’s gaze. "Is there something I can do for you?" Perhaps with enough gesturing, they could bridge the language barrier.

Brother Ellion, ever eager to assert his authority, was quick to interject. "Wilder is merely a novice," he said, dismissively, "He is not yet a full-fledged member of our order."

The warrior’s finger jabbed insistently at the air, pointing straight at Wilder’s chest. Wilder felt a surge of embarrassment. Of course—how foolish of him! The man likely wanted introductions. Smiling hesitantly, Wilder pressed his hand to his heart and said, "Wilder. My name is Wilder." He repeated the gesture for emphasis, "Wilder."

The warrior’s eyes widened at the name. He slowly lowered his arm, and Wilder noticed, with some astonishment, that it was trembling slightly. The man nodded, and for a moment, Wilder thought they were making progress. There was a glimmer of hope. But then, in one swift, fluid motion, the man unsheathed his sword.

Both Wilder and Brother Ellion froze. The blade gleamed in the cold sunlight, its surface scarred with nicks and chips from battles fought long ago. Though worn, it remained a fearsome weapon, and the mere sight of it sent a jolt of fear through Wilder’s heart. The warrior made no further movement, standing perfectly still with the sword in hand, his expression now unreadable. Wilder’s mind raced—had they insulted him? Was this a threat?

Brother Ellion seemed to have his own theory. Clearing his throat, he called out, "Wilder?" His voice wavered, but there was a strange, calculating edge to it.

At the sound of the name, the stranger nodded again. His grip on the sword tightened. Wilder could feel sweat dripping down the back of his neck, anxiety gnawing at him as he tried to understand what was happening. Whatever silent exchange was taking place between the warrior and Brother Ellion made no sense to him. Every gesture seemed like a piece of a puzzle he was not privy to.

Then, with excruciating slowness, Brother Ellion began to nod. He stepped toward Wilder, and for a brief moment, Wilder thought the older monk might have a plan. Perhaps he would whisper instructions—give him some insight into how they would deal with the situation. Maybe they would flee together when the time was right.

But instead, Brother Ellion placed a firm hand on Wilder’s back and shoved.

Wilder cried out in surprise as he stumbled forward, arms flailing as he fell to his knees at the warrior’s feet. The cold, hard sand dug into his skin, but the sharp pain was nothing compared to the terror that gripped him. The warrior loomed over him like a giant, his face obscured by the glare of the sun. Wilder squinted up at the man, his heart pounding, convinced this was the end. He could hear his own breath coming in ragged gasps, the world around him narrowing into the immediate danger before him.

Then, with decisive movement, the warrior gripped his sword with both hands—and drove it, point down, into the sand beside him. The steel sunk deep into the earth, standing upright like a monument between them.

Wilder blinked in confusion. What was happening? Was it a surrender? A truce? The warrior’s face remained impassive, giving nothing away.

Before Wilder could process it further, the man bent down, grabbed him roughly by the arm, and hauled him to his feet. Wilder stumbled, his legs weak, but the warrior held him steady, his grip surprisingly gentle. He was close enough now to see the depth of weariness in the man’s eyes—the exhaustion of someone who had seen far too much. Wilder swallowed hard, still trembling but feeling an odd sense of relief that, for now at least, the sword remained buried in the sand.

Brother Ellion, watching the entire exchange in stunned silence, seemed as perplexed as Wilder. He had not expected this outcome. Neither had Wilder, for that matter. The air between them buzzed with unspoken questions.

Then, the warrior grabbed Wilder by the arm and hauled him to his feet, his grip firm but not cruel. Wilder winced, trying to shrug him off, his mind reeling. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice trembling, betraying the fear gnawing at him. He hated how weak and small he felt in that moment, standing before this giant of a man.

The warrior grimaced in response, as if the question made no sense to him. He shot a confused glance back at Brother Ellion, whose face was twisted with impatience. "Go with him, boy! It's a trade!" the monk spat, his eyes gleaming with something dark and self-serving.

A trade? The words lodged in Wilder's throat like a stone. He swallowed hard, his mind racing. The sword—for himself? Wilder’s heart pounded in his chest. "What does he want with me?" he asked, barely able to keep his voice steady.

The warrior, still unable to comprehend their words, seemed to sense Wilder’s growing unease. His expression darkened, his brow furrowing as he took in Wilder’s hesitation. Maybe it was the fearful tone in Wilder’s voice, or the fact that he was digging his heels stubbornly into the sand. Whatever it was, the warrior’s earlier confidence seemed to waver, replaced by something that startled Wilder—nervousness. He turned to Brother Ellion again, this time with a flicker of frustration.

Brother Ellion, however, was unmoved. His face hardened as he snapped, "Do as I say and go with him! It is a sacrifice—be brave, so that the monastery will be safe!"

Wilder’s mind whirled, trying to process the monk’s words. A sacrifice? Was that what this was? His life traded to secure the safety of the monastery? His eyes darted to the sword still buried in the sand, gleaming like a promise of violence. He thought of the two other warriors down by the beach and of the longship with its monstrous prow—a serpent or dragon, its carved mouth open wide as though ready to devour the land. He imagined fleets of longships like it, full of warriors armed with blades like the one before him, descending upon the monastery with violence in their eyes.

Wilder swallowed, his throat dry. Could Brother Ellion be right? Was this his only option? He looked up at the stranger, whose dark eyes watched him with a mixture of expectation and perhaps, just perhaps, something softer.

"Okay," Wilder said, barely above a whisper.

The warrior’s expression softened ever so slightly, though his grip remained strong as he led Wilder back toward the shore. Wilder stumbled along beside him, his heart racing, every step taking him farther from the monastery and the life he had known.

As they approached the beach, Wilder saw the warrior’s two companions kneeling in the sand, their hands busy sorting through a basket of clams they had gathered from the tide. Wilder blinked. The basket looked familiar—he was almost certain he had woven it himself.

The two companions greeted their friend with shouts of good cheer, holding up their spoils as though they had just returned from some grand hunt. They laughed and gestured to the clams, clearly proud of their haul, but then their eyes fell on Wilder standing awkwardly by their comrade’s side. Their laughter turned to boisterous whoops, and one of them clapped the warrior on the back, making a big show of grabbing the empty sheath hanging from his belt.

The other warrior, a woman with short, sun-bleached hair, strode over to Wilder with a wide grin. Without a word, she grabbed his chin between her thumb and forefinger, turning his head this way and that as though appraising him like a piece of livestock. Wilder felt a surge of indignation rise in his chest. He fought the urge to bite at her fingers, though the thought did cross his mind.

She said something in their unfamiliar language, her voice lilting with amusement. Wilder had no idea what she was saying, but the teasing tone was unmistakable. He stared at her sullenly, refusing to play along.

His stubbornness only made her laugh louder. She jabbed her finger into his chest and repeated the same words, clearly asking something of him. Wilder felt a fresh wave of confusion and frustration wash over him. What did she want now? And why hadn’t she just asked her companion, the one who had brought him here in the first place?

Then it clicked. She was asking for his name.

Wilder blinked, the realization sinking in. Did his name really matter to them? And why hadn’t the warrior who had taken him explained it already? But this was a trade, after all. If he went with them, they would leave the rest of the monastery’s inhabitants unharmed—or so Brother Ellion had claimed. It wouldn’t do to make things worse by angering them.

Sighing, Wilder muttered, "Wilder."

"Wild-er," she repeated. She grinned and jabbed the warrior's broad back, as if introducing him. "Anders."

Anders could not seem to meet Wilder's eyes. The tension between them hung in the salty air, thick and awkward, as if the very weight of what was happening pressed down on both of them. Wilder watched as the warrior bent down to help place the baskets, the clinking of shells and the rustling of cloth punctuating the silence. His movements were stiff, mechanical, like he was deliberately focusing on anything other than the fact that Wilder was about to be taken away—away from the monastery, away from everything he had ever known.

Once the baskets were secured in the small, weather-beaten boat, Anders straightened. His dark eyes flickered toward Wilder, but they never made it higher than his knees. It was as if the warrior couldn't bear to see the fear or confusion that must have been etched across Wilder’s face. Maybe there was shame there, hidden beneath his stoic facade.

Without a word, Anders extended his hand, offering it as an awkward gesture of assistance. His palm was rough, calloused from years of sword-fighting and the harsh life of the sea. Wilder stared at the hand for a moment, feeling a surge of resentment and helplessness. He didn’t want to accept it, but there was little choice now. He was outnumbered, trapped. With a resigned sigh, he placed his trembling hand into Anders' and let the warrior hoist him into the boat.

The wood creaked underfoot as Wilder settled into his cramped seat, his legs pressed tightly against the rough edges of the boat. It was a tight fit, far too small for its new passengers. Three warriors, three stolen baskets of clams, and now Wilder, the stolen novice—he wondered what use he would have among them. The others clambered in after him, their armor clanging and jostling as they squeezed themselves into the tiny vessel. Wilder could feel the weight of their bodies pressing against him, each breath they took rattling through the confined space like a gust of wind in a narrow alley.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to make room for himself among the tangled mess of limbs and baskets. The baskets, filled with their ill-gotten gains from the beach, lay haphazardly between them, their contents spilling slightly over the sides—wet sand, shimmering shells, and small fish glistening in the fading light. Wilder looked at them and felt a strange surge of anger. It wasn’t just the clams, the baskets, or even the fact that they had taken him. It was everything. These people had come from nowhere and stolen from his life, turned it upside down, all without a word.

The smallest warrior, the woman who had examined Wilder like livestock earlier, grinned and gave a sharp whistle as she grabbed an oar. She shot a mocking glance in Wilder’s direction, clearly pleased with how the day had gone for her and her comrades. She seemed to be enjoying the chaos she had caused, while Wilder was just trying to breathe, trying to grasp the enormity of the situation. His whole body felt numb, his thoughts scattered.

Anders, on the other hand, remained silent. He sat across from Wilder, his back to the prow of the boat, staring down at his hands as they tightened and relaxed on the oar. His face was tense, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested something was troubling him. Wilder wondered what he was thinking, but there was no point in asking—there was a barrier of language and silence between them, a gulf as wide as the sea that stretched out before them.

As the oars dipped into the water and the boat began to move, Wilder felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. The monastery, his home, grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Its stone walls, once a symbol of safety and routine, now seemed fragile and far away. The wind picked up, cold and biting, whipping through his hair and stinging his eyes. He shivered, though whether from the cold or the fear, he couldn’t be sure.

The woman beside him rowed with steady, practiced strokes, her movements smooth and efficient, while the third warrior leaned back, casually resting his arms over the side of the boat, watching the horizon as if nothing unusual had happened. Wilder could feel their camaraderie, the ease with which they navigated the sea and the strange, twisted code they seemed to follow. He was the outsider here, an unwilling participant in whatever this "trade" was.

As they drifted farther from shore, Wilder felt a hollow ache in his chest. He couldn’t shake the image of Brother Ellion, standing on the beach, his face a mask of smug righteousness. The memory of the monk’s betrayal burned in Wilder's mind—how easily he had offered him up, how little regard he had shown for Wilder's life. It was a sacrifice, he had said, a bargain to keep the monastery safe. But was that truly it? Or had there been something darker at play, a way to rid himself of a novice who never quite fit in, a young man who questioned more than he should have?

The water lapped against the sides of the boat, a rhythmic, almost soothing sound, but Wilder couldn’t relax. He hugged his knees to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible, all the while wondering what fate awaited him at the hands of these strangers. What did they want from him? And why had they traded a sword—an item of clear value—for a novice monk?

A sudden wave splashed over the side of the boat, drenching his robes and startling him from his thoughts. The woman let out a bark of laughter, shaking her head as she continued to row. Wilder closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, trying to calm the storm of panic that roared inside him.

The longship loomed ahead, its black hull cutting through the waves like a predator stalking its prey. As they approached, the carved figurehead—now unmistakably a dragon, its wooden eyes gleaming in the fading light—seemed to watch them, its mouth open in a permanent snarl. It was an omen, Wilder thought, a grim symbol of what lay ahead. Whatever awaited him aboard that ship, it would change his life forever. And there was no turning back now.

There were far more people onboard the ship than Wilder had realized. As the small boat neared, the figures above came into clearer view: sailors, warriors, men and women alike, all peering over the edge of the ship. Their eyes locked onto Wilder, some of them waving to their comrades, others pointing and whispering, grinning as though his arrival was the most entertaining spectacle they’d seen in days.

It was a cruel, mocking curiosity, the kind reserved for something that had been won or captured. And Wilder knew, with a sinking feeling, that he was the object of that attention. They weren’t laughing with him; they were laughing at him. He was no longer a novice of the monastery. Now, he was something else entirely—an outsider, a prisoner, or worse, a plaything for their amusement.

A sailor above tossed down a rope ladder, which flopped against the side of the ship like a snake. The first order of business was passing up the baskets of clams, the very ones they had stolen from the beach. The clams were received with eager hands and approving nods, their worth evident in the smiles of the crew. Then, the warrior who had spoken to him before—the one who had told him Anders’s name—began his ascent up the ladder with a quick, practiced agility that belied his size.

The boat, now significantly lighter, swayed precariously on the waves. Wilder yelped, gripping the wooden sides as the boat tilted. He wasn’t used to the unpredictable movement of the sea, and a wave of nausea churned in his gut. Before he could make any attempt to climb up on his own, Anders was there, lifting him with alarming ease, as if he weighed no more than the baskets of clams they had just hauled up.

Wilder scrambled up the rope ladder as quickly as he could, his damp robes sticking to his legs and hindering his movements. He all but tumbled over the edge of the ship, landing on the hard deck with a graceless thud. The salty sea air bit at his skin, chilling him through to the bone. He struggled to his feet, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, but his legs trembled beneath him, not just from the cold but from the overwhelming fear of what was to come.

Dozens of eyes were on him now—grizzled sailors, their hair tangled from the sea wind, their faces weathered from years on the ocean. Some of them whispered to each other, no doubt exchanging jokes at his expense, while others stared at him openly, their expressions unreadable but filled with a palpable curiosity. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, but he forced himself to stand tall, though every muscle in his body screamed for him to retreat, to hide.

The ship rocked with the tide, the constant sway disorienting him. Wilder stood there, paralyzed by uncertainty. What was he supposed to do now? Where was he supposed to go? He had no idea what was expected of him, and every passing second felt like an eternity.

Anders climbed over the side of the ship with ease, his movements fluid and confident. He made his way over to Wilder without a word, placing a strong hand on his shoulder. The gesture wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t comforting either—it was simply a way to guide him. Wilder flinched slightly but followed, allowing himself to be led to the center of the ship.

There, in the belly of the vessel, was where they kept the animals and their loot. Wilder’s stomach turned at the sight of it all—the stolen goods piled carelessly, the cages where animals clucked and bleated, terrified and helpless. It dawned on him then with a sickening clarity: he, too, was a part of this hoard. A piece of their spoils, to be kept, bartered, or sold as they saw fit. Which category did he fall into, he wondered—loot or livestock?

With as much dignity as he could muster, Wilder sat among the stolen goods. He tried to arrange his robes to appear composed, but they were too damp and heavy. A scrawny hen pecked at the hem of his robe, then, with surprising boldness, hopped into his lap. Wilder blinked down at the creature in disbelief but soon found himself clutching it to his chest, holding it like a lifeline. The warmth of the hen was the only comfort he had in this strange and hostile place.

One of the sailors—an older man with a grizzled beard—said something in their unfamiliar tongue. His tone was light, and the words must have been some sort of joke, because it prompted an uproar of laughter from the others. Wilder felt his face burn in shame, though he hadn’t the faintest idea what the joke was. Was it about him? His awkwardness? His fear?

But whatever mirth the men had found in the joke vanished almost immediately when Anders growled—an actual growl, low and menacing. Wilder hadn’t expected that sound from him, and neither had the rest of the crew, it seemed. Their laughter died in their throats, and they exchanged uneasy glances.

Wilder looked up at Anders in confusion. What had the sailor said to provoke that reaction? Why had Anders come to his defense? Or was it something else entirely? He didn’t know how to read this man, his captor, his… protector?

The boat rocked again, the gentle sway of the waves now feeling more sinister. Wilder’s grip tightened on the hen in his lap. He didn’t know where they were taking him or what his fate would be aboard this strange ship. But one thing was certain: whatever lay ahead, he was completely at their mercy. And that realization settled over him like a cold, wet shroud.

As the ship rocked gently on the waves, Wilder took in his surroundings with growing unease. He hadn’t realized it at first, but he was the only captive. Of all the supplies that had been loaded onto the ship—crates of vegetables, dried meat, bolts of fabric, chickens, a few bleating sheep, and a small chest of jewelry—there wasn’t another soul from the monastery or the nearby village. No other monks, no villagers, no other prisoners.

For a moment, this struck him as odd. After all, these warriors had certainly raided the land. He could see the spoils of their plunder scattered across the deck. But there was nothing familiar among the goods. No relics, no books, no jars of the precious spices the monks used in their rituals and meals. None of the monastery’s more sacred items, which they had so painstakingly hidden. Only a basket—the very one he’d woven—had been taken. It was as if the warriors had made a deliberate choice not to pillage the monastery’s treasures.

The trade with Brother Ellion, Wilder realized, must have been more than just an exchange of flesh for a sword. It was a symbolic gesture, a contract of protection. By giving up his sword, Anders had secured Wilder as his prize, but it seemed to come with an unspoken agreement: nothing else would be taken. The warriors had made their bargain. They could have ransacked the monastery, sniffed out every hidden relic if they’d wanted to. But they hadn’t.

Wilder wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or burdened by this revelation. As long as he remained on this ship, as long as he stayed where he was, he was keeping the others safe. He was a token of peace, a trade made to protect the sacred place he had once called home. But what did that make him now? A captive? A sacrifice? He hugged the hen closer, feeling the weight of that realization settle heavily in his chest.

Anders crouched beside him, breaking his thoughts. His large, calloused hand extended a waterskin, a bit of dried fish, and a rough woolen blanket. For a moment, Wilder considered refusing it. A small, defiant part of him wanted to reject their provisions, to show that he would not be tamed so easily. But the cold sea air gnawed at his bones, and his stomach twisted in hunger. Starving himself wouldn’t help anyone—not him, not the monastery.

Swallowing his pride, he accepted the offerings with a quiet, "Thank you," and wrapped the blanket tightly around himself. The warmth was a small comfort, but it was something. He took a tentative bite of the dried fish. It was tough and overly salty, making his jaw ache as he chewed. He tore off a small piece and offered it to the hen in his lap. She gave it a single, disinterested peck before turning her beak away in disgust.

Wilder chuckled softly, though the sound was hollow. "I agree," he murmured to the hen, tossing the piece of fish aside. He glanced up at Anders, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. There was no malice in his gaze, but Wilder couldn’t discern what lay behind those dark eyes. Was he expected to express gratitude? Submission? Or was this simply the routine care of a possession, like tending to a newly acquired animal or tool?

He couldn't bring himself to look at the other warriors. Their laughter and whispered conversations continued, though none of them dared approach him after Anders’s earlier growl. It was strange, this unspoken authority Anders held over them, especially considering he had traded his weapon away. Yet there was no doubt that the others deferred to him, respected him, even feared him in some quiet way.

The ship swayed again, and Wilder’s thoughts drifted back to the monastery. What were the monks doing now? Were they praying for his safety, or had they already resigned themselves to his fate? Brother Ellion’s cold, calculating words echoed in his mind: It’s a sacrifice—be brave, so that the monastery will be safe! Had Ellion truly believed what he said, or had he simply been eager to rid himself of a novice he’d never liked?

A lump formed in Wilder’s throat, but he pushed the rising emotions down. He couldn’t afford to wallow in self-pity. Not here. Not now. He was still alive, still capable of making choices. The question was, what could he do with that? What power, if any, did he still possess?

He looked out over the endless stretch of water, the shore disappearing into the distance. His fate was uncertain, but for now, he was a part of this ship, a part of these warriors’ world. He had to survive. Whatever that meant, whatever it took.

By the time Wilder found the courage to stand and study his surroundings, the monastery had completely vanished from view, swallowed by the vast expanse of water that surrounded him. The salty breeze whipped through his hair, and the waves crashed against the hull, a constant reminder of his precarious situation. The hen, startled by his sudden movement, tumbled to the deck with an angry squawk, her feathers ruffled as she regained her footing. Wilder, trembling with uncertainty, dropped her and shakily walked to the edge of the ship, staring out into the endless sea.

He hadn’t cried when Brother Ellion had cast him aside so callously, nor when the stranger had led him to the boat and placed him among the animals like mere cargo. But now, as the reality of his situation sunk in, he felt the tears spill over, pressing a hand to his mouth to stifle the sobs that threatened to escape. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the salt of the sea air, and he couldn’t help but feel embarrassed by this show of weakness. His cheeks burned crimson as he realized he was utterly alone. The place he had called home for his entire life had vanished, leaving nothing but an aching void filled with uncertainty and fear.

Nearby, one of the sailors spoke to him in a soothing tone, attempting to offer comfort, while another one jeered something that sent a ripple of laughter echoing across the deck. Wilder glanced at the crew, their faces a mix of curiosity and amusement, and felt a surge of humiliation wash over him. Whether his tears unsettled or irritated them was clear; he was a bother either way. Someone called for Anders, likely insisting he deal with his emotional charge, and Wilder found himself wishing desperately that he could simply disappear.

Anders approached him, his presence looming as he gestured for Wilder to return to the animals, urging him to sit. Wilder merely stared at him with red-rimmed, watery eyes, a mixture of confusion and defiance brewing within him.

The man’s expression was almost pleading, and Wilder wondered if it was unseemly for a warrior to have a servant so obviously unhappy with him. His eyes narrowed at the thought. What did it matter? He had lost everything. If he was going to express his dissatisfaction, now was as good a time as any. The monastery was safe, he was sure of it. It would only be a waste of time and resources to return and reprimand the monks, taking their food and livestock if Wilder indulged in his unhappiness now. He had nothing to lose but his own dignity, and perhaps it was a small price to pay.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” he asked, wiping his face with his sleeve, his voice unsteady. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not going anywhere.” There was nowhere else to go, except for the depths of the sea.

Amidst the muttering of the crew, Anders picked up the blanket that had fallen to the deck and wrapped it around Wilder's shoulders, a gentle yet firm gesture. Wilder stiffened for a moment, then reluctantly let the warmth envelop him, seeking solace in the fabric. He could feel the eyes of the crew on him, weighing and judging, but this small act of kindness made him feel a fraction less vulnerable. Finally, he sat down beside the hens and sheep, preferring the company of these animals to the crew of armored warriors and hardened sailors who surrounded him.

Anders’s demeanor shifted; he shifted from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his head as if grappling with his own uncertainty. Then, making a decision, he pulled the chainmail over his head and let it pool to the deck without another glance at it. The metallic clank echoed softly in the air as he sat beside Wilder, his body language radiating an unexpected sense of camaraderie. He reached for Wilder’s hand, and Wilder instinctively recoiled at first, but Anders pressed forward, pulling aside the high neckline of his tunic to reveal the skin beneath.

“Wha—” Wilder gasped, his breath hitching in his throat. There, across Anders’s neck, was a long line of scar tissue, raised and rough, a stark reminder of a past trauma.

His throat had been slit.

Wilder’s mind raced as he processed this revelation. Anders had survived such a brutal wound—obviously, or else they wouldn’t be sitting there together. He could feel the pulse beneath his fingers, hot and strong, as he stared at the man in disbelief. How strong was he? Who had managed to inflict such violence and yet failed to take his life?

“I see,” Wilder murmured, voice trembling. “I understand.”

Understanding came slowly but surely, like the tide creeping up the shore. The silence they shared, the gestures Anders made, the way the other warrior had introduced Wilder to him—all of it began to weave a tapestry of shared experience. Wilder still couldn’t comprehend why, out of all the shores they could have chosen, Anders had come to his monastery, or why, of all the treasures they could have taken, he had deemed Wilder an acceptable trade for his sword.

Anders continued to gaze at him, his expression gentle and sad, much like it had been when he first removed his helmet. Wilder’s heart ached, not just for himself but for the burden Anders must carry. The silence stretched between them, heavy and pregnant with unspoken words.

Then, when Wilder said nothing else, Anders dropped his hand, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a hard-boiled egg. He deftly shelled it, crushing the remnants of the shell in his fist and tossing them to the hen, who pecked at the bits with much more enthusiasm than she had shown for the dried fish. The egg white he peeled away and ate, savoring it, while the golden yolk he gently dropped into Wilder’s hand.

Wilder stared at the yolk, considering it. There weren’t many hens on the ship, and each egg had to be precious. Here on the sea, it was practically a luxury—a taste of the fresh, nourishing food he’d taken for granted back at the monastery. He held it up to the sky, marveling at its rich, dark orange hue. It was like a little sun, a glimmer of warmth amidst the chill of his situation.

He hesitated, feeling the weight of Anders’s gaze on him. The yolk represented more than just food; it was a gesture of kindness, an offering of comfort in a time of fear and uncertainty. Swallowing his pride, he popped it into his mouth. The taste was rich and creamy, yet it left an unexpected bitter aftertaste that lingered on his tongue.