The fjords of Grænland loomed ahead like vast gray jaws, their granite teeth slick with meltwater. Ice cracked and drifted in a slow, reluctant dance across the narrow sound.
Above, clouds gathered low and heavy, brooding over the peaks that still wore winter's white shroud.
Fáfnirsfangr slid between the stone walls under a tense hush. The longship's dragon prow cut the frigid water, its carved eyes seeming to glare defiantly at the icy cliffs.
Behind it, the other ships followed close in a disciplined line, their sails half-furled to catch the uncertain winds.
Vetrúlfr stood at the prow, one hand braced on the snarling draconic figurehead. His wolfskin mantle flared behind him in the chill breeze.
Beneath it, the mail shirt he wore felt strangely heavy, as if the iron itself remembered the last time he had brought it to this cursed land.
