A pale sliver of morning light pierced through the smoke-stained window, cutting a golden path across the cold stone floor. It fell upon a small cot near the hearth, where a girl lay curled beneath a thick wool blanket. The fire had burned low, but the forge's lingering heat still kept the chill at bay.
Iris stirred.
She blinked groggily, her moonlight-white hair tousled and wild. Golden eyes, vivid and searching, opened to the morning silence. She yawned, then slipped out of bed barefoot, moving with quiet grace across the room. Her feet padded softly to the larger sleeping pallet laid near the forge.
There, face-down among rumpled furs and thick pelts, lay a man built like a mountain.
One massive arm hung off the edge of the bedding. His broad, scarred back rose and fell with each deep breath. Red hair, like fire untamed, sprawled across the blankets like a warning.
Iris reached out and poked his shoulder.
Nothing.
She poked harder.
"Papa," she whispered.
A low, rumbling groan rolled out of his chest. Ragnar turned slowly, his golden eyes opening like twin suns breaking through fog. He blinked once at the light, then locked on her, already awake in spirit if not in motion.
"Morning, little star," he rasped, voice thick with sleep.
"Time to get up," she said, hands on her hips.
He stretched, groaning as his joints cracked like breaking timber. Then he sat up and, without a word, scooped her into his arms. Even half-asleep, there was no weight he couldn't carry.
In the corner stood a basin, warmed by the forge overnight. He sat her on the carved stool beside it—a little wooden throne he'd made just for her.
"Open," he said.
She obediently opened her mouth as he brushed her teeth with a soft bristle brush. He scrubbed with the same quiet care he gave to sword hilts and whetstones. Then came the hair. He picked up a wide-toothed horn comb and slowly began working through the tangled strands.
"Ow," she muttered.
"Then stop wriggling," he said softly. "I fight fire with less resistance."
"You fight everything," she grinned.
He chuckled, low and deep. "Only the ones that deserve it."
Once her hair was tamed into a single thick braid, he secured it with a thin leather tie, then took out the clipper.
"Hands."
She placed her fingers in his massive palm, watching closely as he trimmed her nails with surgical care.
"Papa," she said after a moment. "You used to fight pirates, right?"
"I used to be worse than most of them," he said with a grin. "Now I just build things."
"Like swords?"
"And breakfast."
She giggled as he kissed her forehead. "Done," he declared. "You're sharper than anything I've forged."
She twirled in front of the low mirror, inspecting her reflection. "What do I wear today?"
He pointed to the open chest by the cot. "Pick something you can run in. There's snow."
She chose a simple pink dress with lace cuffs and a faded ribbon. He helped her into it, buttoning the back and smoothing the skirt. She gave a small spin, her legs long and quick.
"You look like spring trying to sneak into winter," he said, then laced her boots.
Wrapped in thick coats, they stepped outside.
The cold bit at their cheeks, but the world was beautiful—silent, bright, fresh. Snow lay untouched across the valley, glittering beneath a rising sun. Iris ran ahead, leaving small footprints beside her father's massive ones.
"Catch me!" she shouted, laughing.
"I already have," he called back, before swooping her up in a single motion, spinning her until she squealed.
They made their way down the winding path to the village. Nestled between the mountain ridges, the settlement was a cluster of wooden homes and smoke-stained chimneys, dusted with white. The sign above the largest building read:
People's Tavern.
Ragnar pushed open the door, and warmth wrapped around them like an embrace. Firewood crackled. The scent of baked bread, old grog, and stewed meat filled the air.
"Boss," Mira greeted, tossing a towel over her shoulder. "You missed a hell of a storm last night. Thought the roof would fly off."
Ragnar unwrapped his coat and hung it behind the bar. "If it does, build a new one stronger."
Iris had already disappeared behind a table, pretending to man a pirate ship.
"Avast!" she shouted. "You there! Bring me the map!"
Mira laughed. "You raising a Marine or a pirate?"
Ragnar smirked. "Depends on the day."
Iris ran up and leapt into his arms again, and he caught her without even looking. Her laughter filled the tavern like bells on a clear morning.
But far to the south, the skies told a darker story.
Through thick fog, a monstrous silhouette tore through the waves. The sails, stitched with scars and patchwork patches, flapped like torn wings. The figurehead—twisted into the grin of a laughing skull—cut through the snowdrift shoreline.
The Saber of Xebec had returned to the New World.
Heavy boots thudded onto ice.
Blackbeard stepped onto land with a grin wider than his jaw should allow. His black coat billowed in the wind, and the scars across his face flexed as he laughed.
"Zehahahaha… Ain't this a nice slice of nowhere," he growled. "Far from the Navy's snout. Perfect."
"Too cold for my taste," one crewman muttered.
"Then warm yourself up with a fight," Blackbeard snapped. "We ain't here to build snowmen"
Back in the village, Ragnar stood beneath the eaves of the tavern, Iris resting against his chest, half-asleep.
Something was wrong.
The wind shifted. The air tasted different—copper and salt.
He gently placed her down. "Go inside, princess."
"But I just—"
"Tell Mira to make your milk extra warm. And stay with her."
His voice had changed. Still calm—but now like the surface of frozen water over something ancient and moving underneath.
Iris looked up at him, then nodded, running back toward the door.
He turned and stared at the mountains.