It had been days—agonizingly slow, mind-numbing days—since we set sail for DunBroch.
I'd imagined our journey would feel like a warrior's march—wind in the sails, steel in hand, the roar of adventure in our ears. But instead, it was a monotonous crawl across a vast blue emptiness. No sparring. No training. No action. Just the ceaseless creaking of the ship and the endless sway, like the world itself had grown tired and decided to rock me into a stupor.
I didn't think sailing could be this… dull.
Father had forbidden me from any rigorous movement. "You must arrive in your prime," he'd said, standing stiff as stone with arms crossed and eyes like polished iron. "No injuries, no strain. Presentation matters."
So instead of testing my strength or sharpening my form, I sat. I paced. I brooded. I counted the knots in the wooden planks until the numbers blurred together. I watched the crew scrub decks and hoist sails. I watched the horizon. I watched him—my father—towering at the prow like a sentinel, his eyes locked on the distance as if daring the world to challenge us.
He never spoke much during the voyage, but his silence spoke volumes. Every breath he took was deliberate. Every step echoed with purpose. He carried the weight of our name like a crown and a burden.
I sighed for what had to be the hundredth time and leaned on the railing.
"I'm going insane," I muttered to no one.
And just as my patience thinned to its final thread, a long, low blast shattered the stillness. A horn, deep and mournful, reverberated through the fog like the voice of the gods themselves.
I snapped upright, heart pounding, breath caught in my throat. Shapes emerged through the mist—wooden docks, fluttering banners, the jagged cliffs of DunBroch rising like ancient teeth from the sea.
Land. Civilization. At last.
"Thank the gods!" I surged forward, feet already moving toward the edge of the ship, eyes wide with relief. The wind hit my face, briny and sharp, and for the first time in days, I felt alive.
But before I could even lean over the rail, a hand shot out—unyielding, strong, like iron forged in winter.
"Control yourself," came the voice, low and steady.
I blinked, startled, and looked up. My father's face was calm, but the look in his eyes was anything but soft.
"You are the heir of Berk. A representative of our people. Compose yourself. You will not walk into that hall like some feral beast."
His words landed with the weight of command. I felt heat rise to my cheeks, anger prickling at the edge of my pride. But I swallowed it. I knew better than to argue—not here, not now.
"…Yes, Father."
The ship creaked as it pulled into the harbor, and the castle of DunBroch loomed above us, carved into the cliffs like a monument to defiance. Banners danced in the wind—Macintosh blue, Macguffin green, Dingwall red. Guards in tartan and chainmail lined the docks, hands resting on their weapons, eyes sharp and searching.
As we disembarked, the air shifted. Tense. Expectant.
We walked through the winding stone paths into the heart of the stronghold. The great hall was vast—its ceilings arching like the ribs of a giant beast, its walls etched with the scars of time and flame. Torches burned with orange fire, casting shadows that danced like ghosts of warriors past.
People from every clan stood gathered—lords and ladies, warriors and heirs, all draped in the colors of their bloodlines. The murmurs dulled as we entered, like ripples stilling before a storm.
At the head of the hall sat King Fergus—massive, broad-shouldered, with a beard as wild as the Highlands. His good eye was sharp, piercing. The other, long lost to a bear, only made him look more dangerous.
I scanned the crowd.
Some wore flowing blue with noses raised too high, walking as if their bones were carved from ice. Others were built like boulders—thick, wide, more muscle than man. And then there were the odd ones—short, round, faces twisted by years of drink and rage, their voices loud even in silence.
But I wasn't looking at bodies. I was looking for strength. Power.
And then I saw her.
A girl—no, a flame—standing with shoulders relaxed, but every line of her body spoke of readiness. Her hair was red as fire, braided and fierce. Her eyes, sharp and gray, locked onto mine the moment I saw her.
A shimmer flickered in my vision:
Archery (Lv. 50/50)
I felt my pulse quicken.
Max level?
My lips curled into a smirk. Finally, someone interesting.
Then the hall fell silent as King Fergus rose from his throne, his voice booming across stone and heart alike.
"Let the presentation of suitors begin!"
The Macintoshes were first. Their chieftain shoved his son forward like a prize boar.
"He who slew a thousand men! With his blade the stab Blooder.
The son spun his sword with flair, then struck a pose that looked more like constipation than confidence.
The crowd erupted in cheers. I resisted the urge to groan.
Next were the Macguffins.
"Breaker of Viking longships! Slayer of two thousand men!"
This one cracked a log in half with bare hands. Applause thundered.
Yes, yes. Big strong man. I'd seen better.
Then came the Dingwalls. A towering man strode up, shadowing a tiny boy at his side.
"I present to you—"
The man stepped aside, revealing another boy. The "real" heir. Short. Unimpressive. His stats didn't even break 10.
I almost laughed.
And then—chaos.
"Oi! You stepped on my kilt, ya stump!"
The hall exploded in shouting and shoving. The Dingwalls lunged at the Macguffins. The Macintoshes joined in, fists flying, weapons drawn. Guards rushed in, shouting orders, trying to break up the brawl.
I didn't move. I stood still, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded.
Pathetic.
And then the chaos parted like mist before a storm.
My father stepped forward. The hall fell into a hush so thick, it felt like the air itself held its breath.
He didn't need to raise his voice.
"Your Majesty," he said, his tone like tempered steel. "I present my son—Erik Horrendous Haddock, heir of Berk."
A pause.
"Since the day of his birth, he has never known defeat. At five, he slew a wolf with his bare hands. At fifteen, he cleared the forests of Berk of every predator. That same year, he faced dragons—and won."
He turned, his gaze meeting mine like a challenge.
"They call him Erik the Untamed. Many challengers came, lured by tales of his power. Every one of them left broken. Defeated. Humbled."
The silence that followed was deeper than any fog we'd sailed through. Then a whisper rose.
"Erik…"
And another.
"ERIK…"
The chant grew, surged like a tidal wave.
"ERIK! ERIK! ERIK!"
My name echoed through the stone walls, carried by the voices of warriors and nobles alike. Not just strangers—witnesses. Witnesses to what would come.
I stepped forward, the weight of their gazes resting on my shoulders. I felt no fear. Only fire.
Let them watch. Let them remember.
This is only the beginning.