The days that followed were filled with talk of timber and tides. Rurik questioned the captured Berbers in painstaking detail—what woods they favored, what cloth they cut for sails, how they bound their planks and set their rudders, what pitch or resin they used to seal the seams. His mind, always turning toward the future, devoured every word.
The feast that night stretched long into the small hours. At last, when the hall grew quiet and the torches burned low, Bjorn managed to escape the web of Rurik's inquiries. He staggered toward his chamber, one hand on the wall for balance. The corridor swam before his eyes—and there, beneath the flicker of lamplight, stood a figure both elegant and unexpected.
"Princess Eve?"
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, half-convinced that mead had conjured a vision. They had barely exchanged words before; now she waited outside his door, her cloak of pale blue gleaming faintly.
