Chapter Two

He had lived by the sea all his life, and every inch of its shore was familiar to him. He had scoured its sands for seaweed, dug in its damp earth for clams, and spent countless hours wading beneath its waves. He knew every color it turned, from the pale blue-gray of morning to the deep, rolling navy of a storm. He had fished in its waters since he was strong enough to hold a line, had learned to gauge the weight of his net just by feeling it, and could tell the change in the tides by the scent of the breeze alone. The sea had always been both a friend and a foe, and he respected and feared it in equal measure. Yet never had Wilder thought of it as truly vast—until now.

For nearly a week, they had seen no sign of land. Only the undulating waves stretching to the horizon, the sun rising and falling in its relentless march, and the salty air thickened with the smell of the endless sea. Wilder, unaccustomed to the constant motion, lay curled up under his thin, coarse blankets, clutching the only thing that felt remotely familiar—his small, clucking hen. The waves made his stomach churn and twist, a relentless nausea that seemed to be seeping into his bones. He’d feared, in those dark hours, that this was his life now—that he would spend the rest of his days on this vessel, sick and miserable, with strangers who couldn’t understand him, and whom he could barely understand in return. He felt like a captive, swallowed whole by the great beast that was the sea, as if he were a part of the ship’s wooden belly as it surged through the relentless blue expanse.

But soon he came to realize it wasn’t a curse laid upon him alone. When his nausea began to subside, he noticed that most of the crew were in a similar state—especially the warriors, whose usually proud and fierce faces had grown pale and drawn. Wilder remembered seeing them on the beach when they first arrived, watching with childlike wonder as they prodded the shells, rocks, and even the twisted mermaid’s purse strewn across the shore. Their strength was untested here, their fierce gazes softened by unfamiliarity. In battle, they were likely unstoppable, yet here, wobbling on a rocking deck and slipping across salt-slicked planks, they seemed as vulnerable as children.

Even Anders, who kept a close watch on him, looked worn and exhausted. Anders would press a cool cloth to Wilder’s forehead or bring water to his lips when he was too weak to reach for it himself, his tired face creased in a determined frown. Wilder knew why Anders went to such lengths; it wasn’t kindness alone. If Wilder died on this journey, Anders would have no servant to present when he returned. Wilder’s presence on this ship was Anders’s responsibility, a task he had taken upon himself with grim resolve. And in this strange, isolated place, Wilder had no choice but to rely on him, on Anders’s care and protection. Some of the crew seemed resentful of the extra attention he received, the scarce rations brought to him despite his inability to work or help in any meaningful way. There were mutterings and pointed looks, tensions that simmered just below the surface.

An argument had even broken out over this, or something close to an argument. One of the sailors, red-faced and shouting, had confronted Anders, pointing first at Wilder, then at the sails and animals and the others onboard. Anders had stood silently, letting the angry words wash over him like waves against a rock, until, with a wolfish snarl and a flash of his teeth, he’d ended it. The sailor backed away, grumbling under his breath, leaving Anders to care for Wilder in peace.

Yet not everyone viewed Wilder with hostility. Some looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, occasionally attempting to speak to him in their language. His name, "Wilder," was awkward on their tongues, each attempt ending in laughter as he shook his head in patient correction. Over time, he had picked up a few words—small pieces of understanding that he clung to in the unfamiliarity. There were no books, no scribes to explain these words; only gestures and repetition. Slowly, through broken exchanges, he learned to ask for basic things, though it wasn’t easy. He’d had to pantomime, point, and repeat the word “water” countless times before they finally understood he wanted drinkable water rather than seawater. One of the warriors, the one who had laughed at the mermaid’s purse on the beach, finally understood and showed him which barrels held water meant for drinking.

Bit by bit, his vocabulary grew. Hen, he learned, as he stroked the feathers of his small, brown companion. Sheep, he picked up, though he suspected the word referred specifically to ewes, as they were all female. He tried to expand his understanding of the world around him, but every word came at a slow and often frustrating pace. He learned “sun,” though he longed to know more—what did they call sunlight, or the different shades of dawn and dusk? He held back from asking more, fearing to wear out their patience. Each word was a small triumph, a scrap of belonging he tucked away.

One day, he felt brave enough to ask for the word for “lord.” He wanted to know how to properly address Anders, especially since he was unsure how long he would be bound to the man’s service. He pointed to Anders, then himself, hoping she’d understand he meant his relationship to Anders, a title or a term of respect. "My lord," he said haltingly, the words strange on his tongue, as though they were foreign. For so long, he’d resisted the idea of serving anyone but God; now he was bound to a mere man.

The warrior-woman’s eyes brightened as she clapped her hands and, with a delighted laugh, launched into rapid speech with Anders. He glanced at Wilder, surprise flickering across his face as he listened, before the warrior-woman finally turned back to him, a playful smile on her lips.

Wilder attempted it as best he could. "My lord," he said, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "My lord Anders."

The words felt odd and foreign in his mouth, like stones he was reluctant to spit out. He didn't expect much of a reaction, yet as soon as the words left his lips, Anders froze. For a moment, his face went slack with shock, his eyes wide with an expression that Wilder couldn't quite read. Then, as if his knees had simply buckled beneath him, Anders sank down onto a nearby crate, looking dazed and more vulnerable than Wilder had ever seen him. He seemed, in that brief instant, utterly floored.

The surrounding crew noticed immediately. Someone let out a shout of approval, and soon the air was filled with laughter and rowdy cheers. Men clapped Anders heartily on the back, grinning and offering words of congratulations in their own language, a celebratory clamor Wilder didn’t fully understand. Yet it was clear that his use of the title had somehow marked a milestone, a sign of loyalty and acceptance that held more significance than he’d anticipated. Anders himself was still sitting, almost dazed, as if struggling to process what had just occurred.

The loudness of it all made Wilder feel small and exposed. Heat prickled at his cheeks, and he wished he could shrink away. The celebration, the claps on Anders’s shoulders, even the sly smiles some of the warriors shot him—every reaction only intensified his growing discomfort. This was not what he’d intended. His words hadn’t been a declaration of loyalty, not exactly. They were just an attempt to navigate his new reality, to show the bare minimum of respect to someone on whom he relied for survival. Yet, looking at Anders now, the pride in his face, and the camaraderie all around, it seemed to mean much more to everyone else.

Feeling suddenly out of place, Wilder took a step back and slipped away from the commotion, retreating to his familiar corner near the animals and the stash of loot. He sank down, trying to make himself small among the bleating sheep and clucking hens, away from the noise and watchful eyes. His stomach churned, though this time it wasn’t from seasickness. He felt a strange shame prickling at him, as though he had unwittingly admitted to a kind of servitude he still resisted in his heart. To him, the title was nothing more than a necessity, something to help him stay on Anders’s good side, yet the crew’s reaction had made it feel like he had just sworn some oath, as though he’d given up a part of himself.

As he sat there, nursing his conflicted thoughts, he felt a soft weight settle on his knee. Looking down, he found the little brown hen, her head cocked as she looked up at him with beady eyes, clucking softly as if in understanding. Normally, her small presence brought him a measure of comfort, but today even her weight on his lap felt like a reminder of his changed role, his shift from the freedom he’d known to this unfamiliar submission.

He absentmindedly stroked her feathers, her warmth grounding him, though his mind still buzzed with embarrassment and resentment. He wondered what the monks at home would think if they could see him now, if they’d laugh or feel disappointed. They’d taught him that all service should be directed toward the divine, that to serve another man was to lower oneself. And yet here he was, in the belly of a ship far from any familiar shore, submitting to a man he barely knew, a man whose language he didn’t speak, a man who now seemed to think Wilder’s allegiance was assured.

The voices of the crew still echoed nearby, and every cheer felt like a further weight pressing down on him. For them, his words had marked an acceptance, a bond that went deeper than he could fathom. But to Wilder, they only reminded him of his loss. His old life, his freedom, his sense of self—each cheer felt like one more thread tying him to Anders’s service, binding him further to a fate he’d never chosen.

◆◆◆

For all that Wilder had done to avoid the endless, menial chores at the monastery, he had never shirked his prayers. Rising before dawn to shuffle into the cold chapel, feeling the stone beneath his knees as he knelt in the predawn silence, had always come more naturally to him than sweeping the floors or scrubbing the pots. Even on the days when he was bone-weary, longing only to slip into the quiet of his cell and lose himself in sleep, he found the strength to join the others as they assembled in flickering candlelight, their voices rising together in sacred song and whispered pleas to the Divine.

It was during those times, with his hands clasped tightly and his head bowed, that Wilder felt an undeniable peace. The world faded away, and it was as though God was there beside him, close enough to hear every hope, every worry, and every fear he dared not voice aloud. As a novice, he’d been taught to keep his words to himself, to let his devotion show in silent reverence, not idle chatter. But in prayer, he had found a confidant who demanded nothing of him but honesty. God had never answered him, at least not in any way he could understand, but he never doubted that his words had been heard. His chatter, his confessions, even his frustrations—he left them all at the feet of the Divine.

Even aboard the ship, Wilder clung stubbornly to his prayers. God knew his heart; they understood that his whispered words were equal parts defiance and desperation. Each time he knelt on the rough planks of the ship, surrounded by the bleating sheep and restless chickens, it was a way to lash out against his captivity, to carve out a private corner in this strange, godless place. It was his act of rebellion, his way of preserving a small, stubborn shred of the life he’d left behind. Even if every other routine had been torn from him, he would hold onto this.

The sailors and warriors gave him strange looks, but no one interfered. When they passed by and saw him with his head bowed, whispering softly into his hands, their expressions ranged from puzzled to wary. He didn’t know if they even recognized what he was doing. Perhaps they had their own ways of praying, done in private or with elaborate rites he couldn’t begin to imagine. Or maybe they worshipped different gods altogether, gods he knew nothing about, gods who didn’t listen or care for the longings of mortals. Wilder couldn’t know. All he knew was that his strange behavior had made him even more of an outsider. It was almost amusing to him, how the sight of him mumbling by the animals made the others avoid him, how it created a sort of protective bubble around him. When he was tired of the sea’s endless rocking, the relentless taste of dried fish, the alien chatter and the laughter he was never sure wasn’t aimed mockingly at him, he took comfort in the way his prayer set him apart.

Only Anders seemed unbothered by his daily devotion. Whenever Wilder knelt down and pressed his palms together, the warrior would sit nearby, silent and watchful. Sometimes, Wilder felt Anders’s gaze on him, as if the man was observing every bow of his head, every whisper that left his lips. Other times, Anders’s focus was turned outward, as if keeping an eye on the others and their watchful glances. Wilder understood what Anders was doing—he was a shield, a silent guard against any contempt or resentment that might be festering in the crew. There were times Wilder felt almost grateful for the quiet protection.

But that gratitude was a bitter thing, tangled with resentment. It was Anders, after all, who had taken him from his life of quiet piety and study, who had plucked him from the monastery and dragged him into this strange new world. Anders had been the one to give him a new name, a new role, a new purpose he had never asked for. If it weren’t for Anders, Wilder would still be there, living a life of contemplation and service, illuminating manuscripts by candlelight, surrounded by the familiar voices of the choir. He would be safe, content, never knowing anything beyond the walls of the monastery.

The memory of it all—the candlelit chapel, the quiet of the scriptorium, the steady rhythms of a life devoted to study and faith—washed over him, and before he knew it, his eyes were stinging with tears. He tried to hold them back, tried to focus on the familiar ritual of prayer, but a few stray drops escaped and splattered onto the deck, glistening against the rough wood. Wilder didn’t bother wiping his face, didn’t dare make a sound. He sniffled quietly, pressing his hands together more firmly, and whispered his words with renewed fervor, praying for guidance, for understanding, for some hint of what he was meant to do in this new life that felt so painfully foreign.

As he whispered his prayer, he felt Anders’s gaze on him, as steady and unrelenting as the sun. There was an odd comfort in knowing that Anders was there, watching over him, even if Anders himself was the source of his pain. And yet, for the first time, Wilder allowed himself to acknowledge the complexity of that feeling—a mingling of resentment, gratitude, and something else he couldn’t quite name, something that stirred uneasily in his chest whenever Anders was near. He prayed harder, letting the words tumble out in a rush, hoping they could drown out the conflict in his heart.

After a long moment, he felt Anders shift beside him, as if he were waiting for Wilder to finish. But Wilder stayed where he was, fingers laced together, head bent low. He didn’t want Anders to see the tear stains on his cheeks, didn’t want him to see the way he trembled, caught between anger and grief. He closed his eyes, willing the memories to fade, willing himself to focus only on the sound of his own voice, the quiet murmur that was all he had left of his former life.

◆◆◆

A hand on his shoulder gently pulled Wilder from sleep. Groggy, he squinted up into the morning light, still half-lost in dreams. Anders loomed over him, face unreadable, nodding toward the ship’s edge with a silent command. Still drowsy, Wilder rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering pull of sleep. With a murmured, “My lord,” he staggered to his feet and followed.

Dawn had broken over the water in a wash of gold, illuminating a landscape Wilder had begun to fear he’d never see. Ahead, cliffs rose on either side, draped in dense, untamed forest, while a winding river cut through like a gleaming ribbon. Birds chattered and darted through the mist-laden trees, and a breeze, rich with the scent of earth and wildflowers, teased past them. Wilder leaned over the railing, his face breaking into a wide grin as he took it all in.

“Land,” he whispered, almost disbelieving. He clutched the ship’s edge, feeling the rough wood beneath his fingertips, grounding him to this moment. “It’s… beautiful.”

Anders, standing beside him, gave a low hum and tugged him back from the rail before he tipped over in his excitement. Wilder glanced at him, a bit sheepishly, but Anders only looked back with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

The rest of the crew began to stir, yawning and stretching until one sailor finally spotted the shore and let out a triumphant whoop. A cheer rose up, filling the ship with a mix of laughter and song as they drew closer to the riverbank. For Anders’s crew, this was a homecoming—an end to months at sea, a return to families, friends, and solid ground. Wilder, watching the joy ripple through the warriors and sailors, felt a bittersweet pang. This was no homecoming for him. Yet he couldn’t help but join in their excitement, his spirits lifted by the energy surrounding him.

As the longship docked, Wilder took in the bustling town rising along the shore. Smoke curled from chimneys, carts rattled over cobbled streets, and a crowd had already gathered to meet the returning crew, their voices carrying across the water. Horses stamped their hooves, cattle grazed, and fishers hauled nets from the river with practiced ease. It was all so alive, so grounded in a way that made Wilder’s heart ache with nostalgia for a home he’d never known.

Anders disembarked first, turning and extending an arm for Wilder to follow. Wilder hesitated, eyeing the gap between the ship and dock. He lifted his robes, bracing himself, then made an awkward leap. His foot landed unsteadily on the dock, and he would have slipped if Anders hadn’t steadied him with a firm hand, pulling him upright before releasing him onto solid ground.

And then he laughed, giddy with relief, feeling the earth beneath his feet, sturdy and unyielding after so many days at sea. He spun in a small circle, arms outstretched, feeling like a child at play. But his laughter faded as he caught sight of the townsfolk watching him. They stared at his strange clothing and his joyful antics with open curiosity and suspicion. His face flushed, and he forced himself to stand still, painfully aware once more that he was an outsider.

A gentle peck at his ankle broke the silence. Wilder looked down, surprised to find the hen at his feet, clucking as if she belonged nowhere else but by his side. He scooped her up, stroking her feathers absently as he scanned the crowd for her owner. On the ship, she’d always managed to escape her pen, sneaking away from the sheep and goats to perch in his lap, unbothered by the rocking of the waves.

A warrior woman with a pack slung over her shoulder spotted him holding the hen and made her way over, greeting Anders with a nod before turning to Wilder. She pointed to herself and then to the hen. “Mine,” she said, a faint smile on her face.

Wilder’s own smile faded. He looked down at the hen, sadness creeping over him. She’d been a comfort on the ship, a small, constant companion amid the overwhelming noise and unfamiliarity of his journey. “So you have to go home too,” he murmured to her, running a hand down her back.

The warrior reached to take the hen, but Anders put out a hand, stopping her. He gestured toward her with three fingers, a silent offer. The woman raised an eyebrow, her gaze sliding to Wilder and then back to Anders. She laughed, nudging Anders in the ribs, but shook her head. Anders grunted, raised his hand, and added a single finger to the offer. At that, the woman agreed, laughing as she shook his hand.

From a pouch at his belt, Anders withdrew three copper coins and one silver, handing them to her. Wilder watched the exchange, puzzled. He wasn’t sure how much that was, but it seemed a generous price for a chicken. Not that he had any idea what things were worth to these people – he'd been traded for a sword, after all. Still, he didn’t understand fully until Anders turned back to him, gesturing toward the hen still nestled in his arms.

Wilder looked down at the hen, realization dawning slowly. She was his now—a gift, a purchase, he couldn’t say which. She clucked softly, unfazed, nuzzling her head under his chin. His chest tightened as a strange feeling of gratitude welled up. He glanced up at Anders, who was already striding ahead, his back to him, as if embarrassed by his own kindness.

They were in a strange land, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and a world that seemed as alien as the sea had been. But now, holding the hen, feeling her weight in his arms, he had a piece of something stable, something that was truly his. He hugged the hen close and followed Anders, feeling a little less like a stranger in this strange land.

◆◆◆

Wilder had expected Anders to linger in town, to celebrate with his warriors, to bask in the warmth of familiar faces after so long at sea. Surely he would want to drink with old friends, share laughter and stories with the townspeople, and visit family. But instead, Anders gathered his belongings with a brusque efficiency, gave a nod to a few smiling comrades, and started out through the town, his steps purposeful as he led Wilder straight into the dense forest beyond.

Wilder followed, clutching the hen close to his chest as he took in his surroundings. The monastery had been barren by comparison, situated too close to the harsh saltwater winds for trees to truly thrive. There, only a few twisted, stunted trees clung to life along the shore, their branches thin and fragile. He’d tried to climb one once as a child, and it had snapped beneath his weight, sending him tumbling down onto the cold, rocky ground. But here, the trees loomed large and ancient, towering over him like guardians of the land. The forest floor was carpeted in fallen leaves, and with every step, they crunched and whispered beneath his feet, releasing earthy scents into the warm air. Wilder occasionally nudged a pile of leaves with his toe, watching as they scattered, fluttering upward like startled birds, while the hen clucked her disapproval at the jostling.

It was a long walk, and Anders moved with a long, steady stride that Wilder struggled to match. His robes, so practical in the chill of the sea, now clung to him, stifling in the warmth of the forest. His breath grew ragged as they climbed a gentle incline, and every now and then he glanced up at Anders, marveling at the man’s seemingly inexhaustible energy.

Finally, Wilder could go no further. “Wait a moment, please, my lord,” he panted, stumbling to a halt. He leaned against the trunk of a nearby tree, grateful for its solid support, and carefully set the hen down at his feet. She pecked eagerly at the dirt, unbothered by his struggle for breath.

“Water?” he managed between gasps, reaching out a hand. He’d quickly learned how to request basic needs in Anders’s language, and it had become his lifeline during the journey. Without a word, Anders passed him a waterskin. Wilder took it eagerly, bringing it to his lips and drinking deeply. The water was cool and fresh, a balm against the heat and exhaustion. When he’d finally had his fill, he lowered the waterskin with a grateful sigh. “Thank you.”

Anders took the waterskin back, but didn’t move. He simply stood there, watching Wilder, his face impassive yet unreadable. Wilder could feel the weight of his gaze, but if Anders had any thoughts to share, he kept them to himself.

Wilder let himself relax against the tree trunk, savoring the unexpected pause. Here in the heart of the forest, a hush had settled around them, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and distant bird calls. The air smelled sweet, infused with the earthy aroma of damp soil and decaying leaves, so different from the salty tang of the sea or the cold, stone-scented halls of the monastery. It was peaceful in a way that tugged at Wilder’s heart, yet a creeping unease soon followed.

The isolation here was absolute. Wilder hadn’t missed the way Anders had navigated the forest without hesitation, taking seemingly random turns and trails that Wilder, unfamiliar with this land, could barely follow. The trees all looked the same, with no distinct markers to differentiate one stretch of forest from the next. No boulders or peculiar shapes stood out, no streams or patches of unusual flowers to serve as landmarks. He had tried, fruitlessly, to commit their path to memory, but his mind spun in circles as they twisted and turned. He couldn’t shake the sense that he was entirely dependent on Anders now, that if he strayed even a few paces off their path, he’d be hopelessly lost.

Could he even find his way back to the town? And if he did, would he be safe there? He’d stick out at a glance—his robes, his language, his very presence marked him as an outsider. The crew from the ship would recognize him as Anders’s servant, his property. They’d turn him over without question if he tried to slip away. Even if he could avoid them, he had no coin, no way to barter for passage. He clenched his jaw, pushing the thought away.

Lost in these uneasy musings, Wilder’s gaze drifted down to the hen pecking at the earth, blissfully ignorant of his turmoil. Her presence was oddly grounding, a small reminder of familiarity and companionship amidst the strangeness of his surroundings. Gently, he scooped her up, smoothing her feathers as she settled against his chest. He looked up at Anders, who was still standing there, impassive but watchful.

“My lord? We can continue now,” he said, the words coming out softer than he’d intended.

Anders’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, as though assessing him, then he gave a brief nod and resumed his pace, leading the way deeper into the forest. Wilder kept close, falling back into rhythm, yet with each step, he felt himself sinking further into unknown territory, surrounded by vast, silent trees that seemed to close in around them.

◆◆◆

Once, a great beast had washed ashore near the monastery, its massive body sprawled across the sand like an island in its own right. The older monks had called it a whale, a leviathan of the sea, and to the young Wilder, it was both terrible and beautiful. Even in death, the creature had a strange dignity, its long, gray flanks glistening in the dim light. He could only imagine what a magnificent sight it must have been in life, gliding effortlessly through the depths, a great heart beating within, lungs swelling as it sang its haunting songs beneath the waves. But that glory was short-lived. Over days and weeks, its body was gradually stripped away, scavenged by men and animals alike—the seagulls and foxes, villagers and monks, and even the crabs that crept up from the water’s edge. Bit by bit, all that remained of the once-grand leviathan was a skeleton of towering, bleached bones, stark against the sand like the ghost of a dream.

Now, standing outside Anders’s dwelling, Wilder thought of those bones, the silent remnants of something once full of life. The land around the house was lush, green in a way that seemed to drink deeply from the earth itself. The river shimmered nearby, sunlight dancing on its surface, and the grass was a richer green than any he’d seen at the monastery. Trees stretched overhead, tall and strong, their leaves swaying gently in the breeze, creating dappled patterns on the ground. Anders’s home had the same rough beauty as its surroundings. The long, thatched building looked more like a hall than a simple house, with sturdy walls that had clearly weathered many seasons.

It must have been lively once, Wilder thought, gazing at the structure. But now, it seemed lonely, too large for just one man. It was clear that Anders had been on his own for some time; though he’d patched the walls here and there, the repairs looked like temporary fixes, meant to hold off nature’s relentless advance rather than maintain the home. The house felt empty, unadorned by the warmth of daily life. What might have been a garden beside the building had grown wild in Anders’s absence, overtaken by weeds. Wilder could imagine the kind of work that lay ahead of him here—chores and labor to fill every day, much like at the monastery. He sighed, the sound escaping him before he could catch it, and he was already picturing a future of endless tasks, his life swallowed by drudgery.

Anders noticed the sigh, and Wilder stiffened as their eyes met. Anders’s brows drew together, and a faint flush crept up his neck as he scratched the back of his head, looking between Wilder and the house as though he, too, were seeing it with fresh eyes. For a moment, Anders’s usual stoic expression softened, something apologetic or uncertain flickering in his gaze.

Realizing his mistake, Wilder quickly forced a polite smile. This man would have control over every part of his life for the foreseeable future; it wouldn’t do to insult him, to make him feel embarrassed or—worse—angry. “Forgive me, my lord,” Wilder murmured, forcing a note of exhaustion into his voice. “I’m just… tired.” He added an exaggerated yawn, hoping it would be enough. Thankfully, Anders’s expression softened with relief. Wilder noted how expressive his new lord was, his body betraying his emotions openly—his shoulders relaxing, his jaw unclenching, his gaze warming with understanding. And then, to Wilder’s surprise, Anders’s hand reached out and settled tentatively on his shoulder, his fingers hovering as if unsure, finally resting there in a gentle grip before guiding Wilder toward the entrance.

Inside, the house was a single, long room, cleverly partitioned with beams and heavy blankets to create small, private areas. A layer of dust hinted at how long Anders had been gone, but otherwise, the room was tidy and well-kept, despite its sparseness. Against one wall stood a simple table and benches, a chest with folded bolts of cloth piled on top, and shelves stacked with plates and bowls—though Wilder noted only one set that looked recently used. The hearth sat cold and empty, its ashes swept neatly into the center. Herbs hung from the rafters in fragrant bundles, their earthy scents mingling with the dust. Wilder recognized some of them from his time at the monastery, and he breathed in the familiar smells with a hint of nostalgia.

Setting the hen down, Wilder wandered over to a ragged bunch of angelica hanging from the rafters. He plucked a sprig, inhaling the sweet, earthy scent. “At least we’ll eat better here than at the monastery,” he muttered to himself, envisioning meals of simple, hearty foods rather than the thin porridge and stale bread he’d grown accustomed to. With only the two of them, provisions would go much further, and Anders seemed unlikely to enforce the same austere restrictions as the monks. Wilder allowed himself a small smile at the thought of cooking with fresh herbs, of foraging in the forest for nuts or berries, of having a little more freedom.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Anders watching him. Caught off guard, Wilder flushed and tried to compose himself. “It smells good,” he explained, gesturing toward the angelica. “We grew this at the monastery. I’m glad there are some things I recognize here; it’ll make cooking easier… if you don’t mind a lot of pottage.” He chuckled softly, though he was mostly speaking to himself. But Anders nodded thoughtfully, as though he’d grasped the gist of Wilder’s words. He nodded once, then again, a little more enthusiastically, before clapping his hands and heading toward the back of the room.

“Um,” Wilder murmured, watching Anders’s retreating figure. Unsure what else to do, he continued following him, clutching his hands awkwardly. Anders led him toward the hearth and gestured to a low, inviting bed of furs arranged beside it. Wilder took in the sight, noting how different it was from the cold stone floor of the monastery and the thin pallet he’d slept on there. The bed of furs was soft and looked warm, but there was a certain bleakness to the setup—no personal items, no decorative touches. It was as if the space had been constructed solely for function, a place to sleep and eat and nothing more. A chill crept over Wilder, a reminder of his uncertain place here, far from anything familiar.

Anders made a sweeping motion toward the bed, clearly indicating that it was meant for him. “Oh,” Wilder said quietly. The thought of resting on something so soft was unexpectedly comforting, though he was painfully aware of Anders’s gaze, watching him with a curious intensity. Gathering himself, he forced another smile. “Thank you for showing me where I’ll be sleeping, my lord.” Trying to ease the tension, he added, “Will you show me the rest of your home?”

His lord looked puzzled. Wilder cleared his throat, trying to think of a way to convey his intentions. “Would you like me to clean, or perhaps… cook something?” He mimed stirring a pot, then pretended to eat from an imaginary plate, hoping Anders would understand.

The corners of Anders’s mouth quirked, and for a moment, Wilder thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in the man’s eyes. Anders nodded, pressing a hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn, then pointed toward the bed and made a small, mimed gesture of eating, indicating that rest should come first. Wilder understood. “Yes, I’ll prepare something after I sleep,” he agreed softly.

At last, he lay down on the bed of furs, feeling their softness envelop him. They smelled faintly musty, like something stored away for too long, but they were warm, and he sank into them with a deep sigh. His body, weary from the long journey, relaxed completely. For the first time in days, he felt something close to comfort. As his eyes closed, the house around him faded, and sleep took him, a heavy, dreamless sleep that chased away all thoughts of monastery, of sea, and even, for now, of the whale bones.

◆◆◆

When he awoke, warmth and comfort cocooned him, a sensation so rare that Wilder lay still, savoring it. Soft, thick furs encased him, and he could feel the gentle rise and fall of his own breath as if the world outside was content to wait. But then, the scent of something savory drifted over him, drawing him out of his drowsiness. The aroma carried with it hints of herbs, earthy and green, and the faint saltiness of simmering fish. The muffled sound of bubbling water and the low crackle of a fire made his stomach rumble, coaxing him out of his cozy nest.

Reluctantly, Wilder pushed back the furs, their warmth peeling away as he sat up. The longhouse glowed with the dancing light of the hearth, now a bright, crackling fire that filled the space with a welcoming heat. The shadows it cast flickered along the timber walls, highlighting Anders’s figure as he stirred a pot suspended over the flames. Gone was the imposing warrior clad in heavy armor; Anders now wore a simple tunic and breeches, his sleeves rolled up to his shoulders. Yet, far from appearing diminished, he seemed even more commanding without the extra layers. His powerful arms, dusted with a sheen of sweat from the fire’s warmth, rippled as he stirred, muscles visible even beneath the thin cloth of his shirt. Wilder noted the solid strength of his calves, the breadth of his shoulders, and a quiet awe took hold. He hadn’t realized a man could be built like this—so tall, so solid, like the trunks of the great trees surrounding the house.

At the sound of Wilder stirring, Anders glanced over and, without a word, reached for a wooden bowl. With practiced ease, he ladled a hearty portion of the steaming broth and poached fish into it and handed it to Wilder, along with a spoon. The bowl radiated warmth in his hands, and he peered curiously into its contents, expecting the same monotonous fare he’d grown used to during his time on the ship.

Fish. It was, of course, fish. The irony of it, after the weeks of dried fish at sea, hit him all at once, and a laugh bubbled up from within. It started as a chuckle, but soon he was laughing uncontrollably, his shoulders shaking as he clutched the bowl. “Fish,” he managed to say between laughs, tears pricking his eyes as he thought of the endless meals of dried, salted fish. Here he was, still in a new, strange place, and yet—more fish.

Anders looked at him with a faintly puzzled expression, a soft sound of curiosity escaping him. He raised an eyebrow, glancing from the bowl in Wilder’s hands to Wilder’s face, clearly not understanding the humor but waiting for an explanation. Wilder took a deep breath, trying to calm his laughter, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“It’s fish,” he said finally, as if that explained it all.

Anders’s brow furrowed, but he nodded slowly, looking down at the bowl as if affirming it. Yes. Fish. Wilder let out a final chuckle, shaking his head before dipping his spoon into the steaming broth, lifting it to his lips. He could smell the delicate mingling of fresh herbs—the angelica from the rafters—and it tasted every bit as appetizing as it looked. The fish was tender, flaking easily with each bite, the broth rich and buttery, filling his mouth with a savory warmth. After so long surviving on dried rations, this tasted like the finest meal he could imagine.

“Thank you, my lord,” he murmured, the words muffled by a mouthful. The warmth of the broth seeped through him, chasing away any lingering chill and filling him with a rare sense of contentment. He looked up and, to his surprise, found Anders watching him closely, a small, tentative smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

The transformation was startling. That one small expression softened Anders’s entire face, making him look almost… boyish. Wilder found himself staring, mesmerized by the way the smile warmed Anders’s hardened features. For a moment, the fierce warrior who had taken him from the monastery vanished, replaced by someone gentler, a man simply pleased to share a meal with him. It struck Wilder that happiness suited him, that the smile gave him a warmth and humanity that made it easy to forget the tension, the wariness he’d felt since being brought here.

But reality settled over him again, a shadow draping itself around the warmth. Despite the kindness of this moment, Anders was still the man who’d taken him from everything he’d known. He was still his captor, and Wilder was still bound to serve him, to work for him, to be the one who tended the fires, cleaned the floors, cared for the hen, and managed the house. A life of toil lay before him, and however kind Anders might seem, it didn’t erase the fact that he was here against his will, that he had no say in this new life.

Wilder forced himself to take another spoonful of the broth, savoring it even as these thoughts settled like a weight on his shoulders. For now, at least, he could enjoy this one small comfort. The meal was good, hearty, and, he realized, an unexpected kindness on Anders’s part—preparing a warm meal for him, a foreigner he’d taken from his home. He wondered if Anders understood how much such a simple act could mean to someone whose life had just been overturned.

When he looked up, Anders was still watching him with that same, faint smile, and Wilder couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something strange—a sense of connection, perhaps, or maybe just the beginnings of understanding. Taking another sip of the warm, fragrant broth, he wondered if, amid all the unknowns, there might be some peace to be found here, even if only in these shared, silent moments.