The winds that carried Ragnar Bjornsson and his men to the shores of England were sharp and biting, the sea’s cold spray stinging their faces. The longships, with their fierce dragon-head prows cutting through the waves, glided silently toward the distant shore, the low songs of the crew barely rising above the rhythm of the oars.

“My mother told me

Someday I will buy

Galleys with good oars

Sail to distant shores”

Ragnar stood at the prow of his ship, eyes fixed on the approaching land. The coast of England was a faint line in the distance, slowly growing as they neared. His long wheat-colored hair whipped in the wind, and the weight of his lineage—of being the grandson of Ragnar Lothbrok—sat heavily on his broad shoulders.

As the ships slipped into a narrow cove, sheltered by towering cliffs, Ragnar gave the order to make landfall. The oarsmen quickly stowed their oars, and the longships slid onto the rocky shore with a soft scrape. Ragnar leapt onto the sand, his boots sinking into the earth of England for the first time. The land smelled different here—rich, damp, foreign.

He raised his hand, signaling his men to start unloading the supplies. “Make camp,” he commanded, his voice low but firm. “We will scout the area before making any further plans.”

His second-in-command, Thorvald, approached with a smirk. “We’re on enemy soil now, Bjornsson. How long before the Saxons send their men?”

Ragnar’s lips curved into a grim smile. “Let them come. But first, we’ll see what they are made of.”

The camp was quickly established in the small clearing near the beach. Tents were raised, and fires were kindled, the smell of burning wood mixing with the salty sea air. Ragnar walked the perimeter, his mind already racing with thoughts of their next move. This journey was different from the raids he had grown up hearing about—this was not just a plundering expedition. He had a vision, one that could change the fate of his people.

As the sky darkened and night descended upon them, Ragnar stood before the fire, staring into the flames as the shadows of the flickering light danced across his face. Thorvald approached again, but this time his expression was serious.

“A small scouting party from the Saxons has been spotted. They ride under a white banner,” Thorvald said, his eyes narrowing. “It seems they want to talk.”

Ragnar turned, intrigued. “Talk? What do they hope to gain by talking?”

Thorvald shrugged. “Maybe they’ve heard of you, Ragnar Bjornsson. Or maybe they’re afraid of what we’ll do if they don’t.”

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Ragnar nodded, considering the possibilities. This could be an opportunity to test the waters, to feel out the enemy’s strength—or perhaps something more. “Send word that we are willing to meet. Let them think we seek negotiation.” His eyes glinted darkly. “But stay vigilant. Trust is a currency we do not deal in lightly.”

The message was sent, and the camp settled into an uneasy quiet. Ragnar retired to his tent, the events of the day swirling in his mind. He could feel the pulse of the land beneath him, the strange newness of it all—a kingdom ripe for the taking. But as he lay down on the fur-lined bedding, exhaustion pulling at him, something deeper began to stir within him.

That night, Ragnar dreamed.

In his dream, the world was vast and endless, the sky a dark, churning storm of clouds and wind. He stood on the edge of a cliff, the sea roaring below, its black waves crashing violently against the rocks. The air was thick with the scent of salt and earth, but there was something else—a presence, an energy that hummed all around him.

He looked down at his hands, and they were not hands but wings. Black, powerful wings, each feather sharp as a blade, gleaming in the storm’s dim light. He was no longer Ragnar Bjornsson, man of flesh and blood—he was a raven, a creature of the air, wild and untamed.

He stretched his wings wide, the wind lifting him from the cliff’s edge as he soared into the sky. Below him, the sea churned and swirled like a beast awakening, but it was not the sea that called to him. It was something else—something bright, something alive.

A flash of white against the darkness.

He flew toward it, his heart pounding with a strange, unfamiliar yearning. There, in the distance, cutting through the storm, was another raven. But she was not like him. Her wings were pure white, her feathers shimmering like moonlight on the water. Around her neck, she wore a collar—a delicate, gleaming circle that bore a hammer of Thor entwined with the sun of Freya, set around a deep blue stone. The symbols were etched with intricate beauty, glowing faintly as she flew.

She moved with a grace and power that took his breath away. She was the light in the darkness, the flame that drew him in. He felt the pull toward her, as if their destinies were bound together, written in the stars long before he was born.

She flew closer, her pale wings brushing his, and in that moment, the world around them disappeared. There was no storm, no sea—only the two of them, suspended in a timeless space where nothing mattered but their connection.

He could see the collar more clearly now. The Hammer of Thor and the Sun of Freya intertwined around the blue stone, the symbols of strength and light, binding them together in a sacred dance. The collar was a symbol of something ancient and powerful, and it seemed to echo with the same force that pulled them together.

She was more than just a raven—she was the light, the sea, the future. She was the beacon that guided him, the force that shaped his destiny.

In the dream, they soared higher, the sky around them growing brighter, the storm dissolving into a brilliant expanse of light. The white raven’s eyes locked onto his, and in that moment, Ragnar understood.

She was his future.

She was the light that would guide him, the sea that would carry him to new lands. The black raven, dark and fierce, would fly beside her, and together, they would shape the world.

But as they flew, something shifted. The light began to fade, the storm returning with a vengeance. The white raven was pulling away, her form dissolving into the wind, and no matter how fast Ragnar flew, he couldn’t reach her. She slipped from his grasp, her pale wings vanishing into the storm’s fury.

He called out, a desperate cry that echoed through the clouds. But she was gone, swallowed by the darkness.

And then, just as quickly as the dream had begun, it ended.

Ragnar woke with a start, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling as if he had truly been flying. His heart pounded, the memory of the dream vivid in his mind—the white raven with the collar, the symbols of Thor and Freya, the storm, the feeling that she was more than just a vision.

He sat up, running a hand through his damp hair, his mind racing. The dream had felt more real than any he had ever experienced, and the name—Teaghen—lingered on his tongue like a secret.

Who was she?

And why did he feel as though he had known her all his life?

As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, Ragnar stepped out of his tent, the camp around him still quiet in the early morning mist. The dream clung to him, a strange mix of hope and uncertainty swirling in his chest.

The white raven. The collar. His future.

Whatever lay ahead, he knew one thing for certain: his path, and hers, were now intertwined.