Ragnar began by studying the texts. The book was heavy—its pages filled with knowledge beyond what he believed a man could hold in his head. Fortunately, unlike back in Espha where he shared a room with Skadi, he now had a room to himself. The solitude gave him both the concentration and privacy he needed to study in peace.
The book was already written in English, the common tongue of Espha, so reading it wasn't the problem. His only challenge was that he read slowly. He had learned to read and write thanks to his mother's strict, often harsh lessons—lessons she had drilled into both him and Skadi. Very few in their tribe could claim such a skill, which made them unusual.
All those years of "torture," as Ragnar once called them, were now proving useful. He read at a snail's pace but made sure he understood every line. It took him two hours to finish what was supposed to be the first hour of study. By the end of the day, he'd barely read three pages. Frustration boiled in him. He accepted that he was a slow reader, but it still felt like failure.
Disheartened, he closed the book and stepped outside. The night was quiet. Most of the villagers were at the great hall, gathered for the weekly meeting presided over by his father and mother. These gatherings began with important matters but usually turned into little more than a celebration filled with drink and loud conversation.
Children Ragnar's age weren't encouraged to attend. If they did, they were expected to leave after the chief's address. Skadi had gone, of course, and would no doubt return later with their mother in tow.
For now, he needed space—room to clear his head. What better place than the beach, beneath the stars? He walked to the shore and sat down on the cool, sandy edge where the ocean's tide lapped gently at his toes, rising and falling like a slow breath. Above him, the stars shimmered. The world kept moving, and slowly, his frustration began to fade.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" came a youthful voice from behind.
Ragnar turned to see a boy, slightly older than him, with long, black afro-textured hair and deep red eyes. Those eyes unsettled him. He wondered, uneasily, if that was how people felt when they looked at him.
"You're not from here," Ragnar said.
"I'm not. Mind if I share the view?" the boy asked.
He was strange—unusual in both speech and manner—but Ragnar didn't tell him to leave. If anything, he thought he might catch him off guard and take him back to the village for questioning.
"Sure," he said.
The boy smiled and sat beside him. He buried his feet into the sand, wiggling his toes before gazing up at the stars. Ragnar watched him, curiosity flickering beneath his usual guardedness.
"Where are you from?" Ragnar asked.
The boy smiled.
"I'm from Africa."
"Isn't Africa part of Espha now?" Ragnar asked. He remembered the history. After the Dentoris Invasion, much of northern and eastern Africa had merged with parts of northern and western Europe. Together, they became Espha.
The boy's smile didn't fade. His toes poked out of the sand.
"Yes."
"So… you're from Espha?"
"Maybe," the boy said mysteriously.
Ragnar frowned. The boy spoke like his father—annoyingly cryptic.
"You're annoying."
"I know."
The boy looked back to the sky. "Did you know that if you gaze long enough at the stars, then wink at them, they wink back?"
"You're absurd," Ragnar muttered. He wasn't going to be tricked by such nonsense.
"Don't believe me?"
"No."
"Have you ever tried it?"
"...No. But that doesn't mean it's true."
"Try it," the boy said.
Ragnar opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. He looked back up at the stars.
"Wink," the boy whispered.
Ragnar squeezed one eye shut, then opened it again. Nothing happened.
"You lied."
"Watch."
Ragnar did. The sky darkened—just for a moment—as if someone had turned off the stars. Then, just as suddenly, they flickered back on.
He turned to the boy, startled.
"How?"
The boy just smiled. "That's for you to find out."
Ragnar frowned again. The boy definitely spoke like his father.
"Ragnar!!" a voice called out.
He turned his head sharply. It was his uncle's voice—Bjorn—but there was no one in sight.
"It seems my time has run out," the boy said, standing. He dusted the sand from his clothes and looked toward the approaching sound.
"The threads of fate are strange. Perhaps, far in the future, our paths will cross again. Until then, I offer you a gift, Eívarr Einrádi."
He turned toward the sound of footsteps. Ragnar's body reacted instinctively, glancing toward the approaching man.
"Ragnar, there you are," Bjorn said as he approached. His voice carried a touch of worry.
Ragnar stood to meet him.
"What are you doing out here alone at night?" Bjorn scolded.
"I wasn't alone. I was with—" Ragnar turned, pointing to where the boy had been.
But there was nothing. Just empty sand stretching along the shore.
Bjorn followed his gaze but saw nothing, even with his enhanced vision.
"With whom?" he asked, more concerned now.
"I... I don't know," Ragnar said weakly.
Bjorn sighed. "Come. These shores are dangerous."
He took Ragnar's hand, and they walked back toward the village in silence. Ragnar glanced back one last time—and froze.
There, near the ocean, stood the boy again. He smiled, mysterious as ever, and winked.
As he did, the stars above seemed to wink with him. Then he vanished, carried away by a gust of wind and a swirl of sand.
Ragnar stared, stunned. He didn't understand what he had just witnessed.
Back at home, they entered the house. Hilda rushed forward and embraced her son, but her stern expression returned quickly. She turned to Bjorn, eyes sharp.
"Where did you find him?"
Bjorn replied casually, "At the training area. The boy's going to be a fine warrior."
Hilda studied him, unconvinced. She could tell he was lying.
"Ragnar, take your food and eat it in your room."
Ragnar nodded and obeyed. He picked up the plate—deer meat, beans, and vegetables—and carried it to his room.
Once inside, he placed the food on the floor and sat beside it on the edge of his bed.
"What a strange boy," he murmured.
He lifted a piece of meat to his mouth—but paused.
Something was resting on top of his book.
He set the food aside and stepped closer. It was a small, mostly black device, with a faintly glowing stone embedded in its center. Ragnar picked it up carefully, inspecting it.
Beside it lay a small piece of folded paper.
He unfolded it and read:
"Then there were three."
Another cryptic message.
Ragnar sighed. He needed to start expecting less from these mysterious strangers.
His gaze turned distant. He remembered how the boy had winked—and how the sky had winked back.
Was he... a god?
No, he decided. Gods didn't bother with such trivial things.
"He must have been a sorcerer," Ragnar murmured to himself.
He sat back down, picked up his food, and took a bite. The warmth of his mother's cooking—rich with spice and familiarity—grounded him.
But the mystery lingered.