Teaghen had slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning as visions haunted her dreams. Each time her eyes closed, she was transported to a place that felt both familiar and strange—a dream as vivid and haunting as the open sea. But when she finally surrendered to sleep, the dream came in full force.
In her dream, she was the white raven. Her wings stretched wide, cutting through the skies as the wind carried her over the vast, dark ocean. Below her, the waves roared, black and unforgiving, crashing against jagged rocks. As she flew, a black raven appeared, circling her. Its presence was dark, brooding, and powerful. They flew together, swirling in an intricate dance above the chaos of the sea.
The vision was both beautiful and terrifying, a silent battle between light and shadow. She felt a strange pull toward the black raven, as if she were tethered to it by an unseen force. Around her neck hung a collar—a Thor’s hammer and the sun of Freya, entwined around a brilliant blue stone. The weight of it was both comforting and foreboding. The dream pulsed with energy, every detail seared into her mind.
Suddenly, the sea surged, waves rising higher as a storm roared to life. The black raven dived toward the water, vanishing into the swirling depths. Teaghen, the white raven, hovered above, torn between diving after it or flying away. But something deep within her knew her fate was bound to the raven. She plunged toward the waves—and just as she neared the surface, the dream shattered, pulling her back into the waking world.
Teaghen sat bolt upright in bed, her chest heaving as the remnants of the dream clung to her like the morning fog. She touched her throat, half-expecting to feel the weight of the collar there. But it was gone, just as the dream was slipping away.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The sun was only just beginning to rise, its early light filtering through her chamber window. She swung her legs out of bed, her bare feet meeting the cold stone floor, and she rose to begin her day. Dressing in a simple gown, her thoughts turned to the strange connection between the dream and the arrival of the Norsemen.
At breakfast, her father, King Alfred, was already seated at the table, his brow furrowed as he read over reports from the scouts. Her brother, Rolph, stood nearby, arms crossed and wearing a worried expression. The mood in the room was tense, the weight of the previous night’s argument still lingering.
“Father,” Teaghen greeted softly as she took her seat. Alfred barely looked up, his attention fixed on the parchment in his hand.
“Another report from the coast,” Alfred muttered. “The Norsemen are making camp. We’ve sent a patrol to establish contact with their leader, but we must be prepared for anything.”
Rolph leaned forward. “Do we know who leads them?”
Alfred shook his head. “Not yet. But if it’s anything like before, we can expect them to demand land and resources.”
Teaghen remained silent as she sipped her tea, the dream still vivid in her mind. Could it be a sign? She glanced at her father, wondering if she should mention it, but the thought quickly faded. Alfred would dismiss it as nonsense. The affairs of gods and dreams meant little to him, especially now with such a pressing threat on their shores.
Alfred set down the report with a sigh. “I’ve sent word for a meeting with their leader. We cannot risk an all-out war. If we can negotiate, we may be able to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.”
Rolph frowned. “And if negotiation fails?”
Alfred’s face hardened. “Then we will meet them with force. But let us hope it does not come to that.”
Teaghen’s mind was elsewhere as her father and brother discussed strategy. The dream still tugged at her, its meaning just out of reach. The black raven, the stormy sea—it all felt like a warning. Or perhaps, an invitation.