A young Viking and his friends follow an ancient map beneath the cliffs of Jomsborg, only to find a cave that seems to be waiting for them.
Night still clung to the sea when Eirik stood on the cliffs above Jomsborg, watching the Baltic churn against the rocks below. Behind him, the fortified village was already waking: axes rang against wood, warriors called to one another, and smoke drifted up from the longhouses. But this morning carried a different weight. A rumour had spread through the settlement before dawn, and every whisper led back to Ingrid, the blacksmith's youngest daughter, and the map she had found by accident.
Eirik knew better than to trust rumours. He had learned that much after his father died fighting the Saxons. Still, the map in Ingrid's hands was no tavern tale. Its edges were worn thin, its lines marked with runes so old even the village scholars argued over them. Bjorn, eager as ever and already grinning at the thought of danger, swore the markings pointed beneath the cliffs. Ingrid said almost nothing, which made Eirik trust the map even more.
By moonrise, the three of them slipped through the gate and into the dark, the map hidden beneath Eirik's cloak and the bone hilt of his father's sword cold against his side. The path down to the shore was steep and slick with salt, but none of them slowed. When they reached the place the runes described, the sea wind died as if the night itself had drawn a breath.
Before them yawned a cave in the cliff face, black and still. From inside came a low hum, so faint Eirik could not tell if it was the wind or something else entirely. Bjorn raised his torch, and firelight caught on copper glints and carved symbols in the stone. Then Ingrid bent close to the wall, traced one rune with her finger, and whispered what it meant.
The ground shuddered.
Dust rained from the ceiling. Somewhere deep in the cave, something heavy shifted in the dark, and a shape large enough to swallow the torchlight moved toward them.