After weeks of practicing his attacks and defense, Marty’s training moved to a new location—a mountain lake, nestled high among the peaks where the wind howled across the water and the cold air bit deep. The lake shimmered under a pale sun, and around its shores, dark, jagged peaks rose like silent sentinels. He imagined he was standing on the edge of the world.

  “You’re going to need more than muscle and instinct here,” Roskva’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “It’s time to learn to navigate the storm, not just summon it.”

  Marty glanced at her, still processing the weight of her words.

  They reached the water’s edge, and there, waiting as if it had always belonged there, was Skíeblaenir.

  The longship—sleek, gleaming, its runes carved into its sides like ancient secrets—lay still in the shallows.

  “You’ve seen this before,” Roskva said, as if reading his thoughts. “But now, it’s time to learn how to use it.”

  Marty approached, drawn to it, his fingers brushing against the cool wood of the boat. There was something about the longship that called to him. It was alive with a history older than anything he could comprehend.

  Roskva tossed him a rope and motioned for him to get in. “Get in, lille-Tor. It’s time to move.”

  Marty nodded, his heart pounding. Stepping into the boat felt like stepping into legend, tied to him by a rite he barely understood.

  Roskva stood at the edge of the shore, her eyes never leaving him. “You’ll learn to sail her. Both at sea and in the skies.”

  This wasn’t just a boat. It was a tool. It was a way to move the storm—to control it.

  “Start small,” she said. “Summon the wind. Learn its rhythm. Feel its pull.”

  He raised his hands, summoning the wind. It was wild at first—chaotic, a mess of gusts that slammed into the boat, tossing it on the water. He gritted his teeth, tightening his grip on the boat’s edges. He had to control it.

  Slowly, the wind began to settle, a steady breeze picking up and filling the sails. The boat surged forward with a surprising grace, cutting through the water like a creature with a mind of its own. Marty let out a breath, amazed.

  But it was only the beginning.

  Over the ensuing days, Marty’s control over the boat—and the storm—accelerated. He could sail Skíeblaenir with precision, guiding it through the water and air with equal finesse.

  “Control,” Roskva said, every time they set out. “Focus.”

  They sailed higher and higher into the sky, the world below shrinking beneath them. A storm gathered on the horizon, dark clouds rolling in faster than they should.

  Marty had been practicing. Calling the lightning. Pulling it from the sky, guiding it to the water, making it arc across the surface like veins of pure energy. He had learned to harness it.

  Until today.

  The sky darkened in an instant. Marty felt the power surge within him—familiar, intoxicating. He raised his hands. The storm answered.

  The wind howled, and the lake below churned violently. Lightning split the sky with a crack that echoed through the mountains. Marty’s heart pounded. His hands trembled with the overwhelming force coursing through him.

  Then—he lost it.

  The mountain reservoir bore the brunt of the storm’s fury. Winds ripped across its surface, sending waves cresting over the earthen dam. At first, the dam only sagged under the strain. Then, with a final monstrous wave, the center of the dam gave way.

  With a deep, shuddering groan, the structure collapsed.

  Water exploded through the breach.

  A deafening roar—like some ancient beast awakening—filled the canyon. A wall of water surged downward, carving a path of destruction through the narrow canyon.

  Marty’s breath caught. He had done this.

  He didn’t know what lay at the bottom of the canyon.

  “What’s down there?” His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the wind and thunder.

  Thialfi’s reply was sharp. “It’s done. We have to move, Ole-Martin. Now.”

  But Marty didn’t move. He stood frozen, staring at the devastation he’d unleashed. The storm still raged above him like a living thing, feeding on his fear.

  Then—he took a breath. He focused.

  The winds stilled. The rain softened. The ship steadied.

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  Marty gritted his teeth and grasped the tiller.

  “What are you doing, Ole-Martin?” Roskva’s voice rose in alarm.

  “Trust me,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “I have a plan.”

  He steered Skíeblaenir into the canyon, the treetops whipping past the hull. The flood roared ahead, consuming everything in its path. Marty’s gaze flicked along the cliffside, searching for something—anything—he could use.

  Then he saw it.

  A massive rock outcropping jutted from the canyon wall.

  Without hesitation, he reached deep, calling the storm back. Summoning lightning. This time, he was aiming.

  The bolt hit with a thunderous crack.

  Rock shattered. A cascade of boulders tumbled into the canyon, forming a makeshift dam.

  For a breathless moment, Marty thought it had worked.

  The flood slammed into the blockade, surging high against it. The rock wall held—shuddering, straining—then, with a terrible lurch, it failed.

  Water surged through the breach, angrier than before.

  Marty's stomach sank.

  Roskva gave him a sharp look. “Do you see now? Control isn’t just about power. You can’t use brute force to achieve victory.”

  Marty said nothing. He only pressed the ship forward, chasing the flood down the canyon, faster now.

  The canyon walls began to spread apart. Below, at the valley’s base, he saw it.

  The town.

  “Ole-Martin,” Roskva said, her voice urgent. “There’s nothing you can do. We must not be seen.”

  He didn’t respond. He only pushed the ship harder.

  Roskva exhaled sharply and muttered something under her breath—dark words. The ship shimmered—vanishing from sight just as they reached the outskirts of the town.

  Marty set the ship down as the floodwaters reached the first buildings. People were scrambling everywhere, shouting to their neighbors. The torrent slammed into the outermost houses, breaking down fences, pushing mud and debris through windows. But the worst had been blunted. By the time the flood spread through the town, it had slowed enough to make the damage less catastrophic. Water swirled through the streets, rising to the floorboards of cars, filling basements and window wells.

  It was still a disaster. But it wasn’t complete destruction.

  Thialfi rested a hand on Marty’s shoulder. The boy dropped to his knees, eyes locked on the flooded town.

  Roskva shifted. “Come,” she urged. “We must leave.”

  Marty didn’t move. He just stared.

  Night had fallen by the time they returned to the lake. The storm had passed, leaving only a crisp stillness in its wake. Skíeblaenir floated motionless, anchored in a pocket of calm in what remained of the lake. The air smelled of damp earth and charred ozone—the only remnants of the havoc they’d unleashed.

  Marty sat on the edge of the ship, feet dangling over the side, staring at his hands. He flexed his fingers, remembering the raw energy that had burned through them. It had been his—then it wasn’t. The storm had answered his call, but it hadn’t obeyed. He had thought he was in control.

  He wasn’t.

  He clenched his jaw. “You don’t have to whisper,” he muttered. His voice was quiet, but the weight in it pressed against the night. “I know what I did.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I lost control. Practically destroyed a town.” His throat tightened. “I did that.”

  Thialfi settled onto a crate across from him, arms resting on his knees. He studied Marty for a long moment before nodding. “Jo da.”

  Marty turned toward him, waiting for more. Anything. But Thialfi just sat there, unbothered.

  Marty scoffed. “That’s it? Just ‘jo da’?”

  Thialfi shrugged. “What else is there? You called the storm. It answered.” He tilted his chin toward the dark sky. “But in the end, you made it listen.”

  Marty’s fists clenched, frustration curling inside his chest. “You’re acting like that’s supposed to make me feel better.”

  Thialfi shook his head. “No. Just telling you what is.”

  Before Marty could argue, Roskva spoke, her voice sharp and cold. “He’s being soft on you.”

  Marty turned to face her. She stood with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable, but something burned behind her eyes—something heavy.

  “You lost control, Ole-Martin,” she said, and this time, the name was like a rebuke, not a sign of familiarity. “And people suffered for it.”

  The words hit like a hammer—blunt and unforgiving.

  Marty swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “That’s why I want to help.” He inhaled sharply. “We could send nisse to the town. They could clean up, clear the debris, fix what can be fixed.”

  Roskva’s expression darkened, her lips pressing into a thin line. Then, she laughed—a short, bitter sound.

  “Nisse?” she repeated.

  “Yes,” Marty insisted. “Isn’t that what they do? Help keep things in order? Fix things while no one’s looking?”

  Roskva’s shoulders stiffened. “Do you think they are yours to command?”

  Marty frowned. “I don’t—”

  Roskva lifted her hand, silencing him.

  “They are not here to clean up your mistakes,” she said coldly.

  Marty’s breath caught. Shame rose in his cheeks.

  Silence stretched between them. Heavy. Unforgiving.

  He exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands over his face. “I just—” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, then tried again. “I just wanted to do something. Something more than watch.”

  Thialfi studied him for a long moment before speaking. “You did more than you think.”

  Marty let out a humorless laugh. “Did I?” He gestured toward the valley beyond the lake. “I set a flood loose, failed to stop it, and then just watched as it swallowed a town.”

  Thialfi leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And yet—when you lost control, you found it again.” He pointed at Marty’s hands. “The storm was yours to command by the end.”

  Marty shook his head. “That doesn’t change what happened.”

  “No,” Thialfi admitted. “But it means next time, you’ll be better.”

  Marty looked away, staring at the dark water.

  The flood had been his fault.

  But in the chaos, he had done something he hadn’t realized until now—he had guided the ship, steered it through the storm’s fury, controlled it with precision even as he struggled with his own power. And at the end, when it mattered, he had aimed the lightning. It had listened.

  It wasn’t perfect.

  It wasn’t enough.

  But it was a start.

  The thought settled in his chest, small but solid. A silver lining in the storm.

  He had lost control.

  But then—he found it again.

  and an entire town paid the price.

  took control back.

  Not soon enough.