At dawn, the fjord of Hrafna breathed mist, as if it hid the language of ancient stories. Astrid, a skald apprentice, ran her fingers over a rune cut in amber from Bornholm. The stone bore a scratch resembling a raven's wing, a mark she dreamt of at night. Axe blows sounded on the beach, and Hildra's longship caught the light like a shell. Nets hung from the palisade and the gate posts had the sharp heads of wolves carved into them. The ice still held shadows in the coves, but the sun rubbed patiently, like a helmsman. The village was getting ready to spring, but Astrid had her own purpose for this trip. Svanhild's grandmother had said that the raven fleece wakes a road that does not end in land. Her father disappeared on this road, and the only trace was amber and the smell of tar. Her mother asked her not to tempt the sea because it takes away the memory and names of people. Now that the snow had come off the cliffs, she decided to see where the sign really led. Leif, the elderly helmsman, handed her a wooden oar, and smiled without question. "You have eyes like a bird before a storm," he murmured, "watch for signs on the water today." Yrsa, the blacksmith, slid a box of nails and a bag of dried seaweed under the bench. "For luck or hunger," she said briefly, "take it if you need to soften the wind." On the prow hung a slender dragon's head, polished so that it bit the morning light. Astrid whispered a short song to the sea so that it would remember her name when the mist thickened. Hildra moved away from the pier and the village narrowed to a line of smoke above the forest. Strands of ice lay on the water, crackling like bones as the bow of the ship cut them. Astrid could feel the heat in the amber, barely perceptible, as if the stone was breathing with the rhythm of the waves. The fog moved from the north in a compact wall, and the echoes of the oars' strokes stretched like skins. In the silence, only the flutter of the eiders' wings could be heard, lost in the white veil. "Do you hear?" - Leif raised his hand, and the silence fell, heavy as wet fluff on the hoods. Something banged under the keel twice, not like a wave, more like a palm against a wooden box. A slab of rock emerged just off the side, with a wing-shaped fleece blackened on it. The amber in Astrid's hand warmed to the point of pain, and the mist parted into a narrow corridor. Leif put his ear to the board, as if searching the wood for the beating of a stranger's heart. In the middle of the clearance glided a drakkara without sails, silent, and a raven mark flashed on its prow. The helmsman gripped the tiller, but the oars were no longer listening, as if the river below had changed direction. Astrid raised the amber to eye level and then someone slowly sat down on the black deck. No face was visible, just a hood and hands as wet as the gills of a discarded fish.