The Last Flame

The sea crashed against the cliffs of Kattegat as seventeen-year-old Astrid Ragnarsdottir stood on the watchtower, staring toward the horizon. Everyone in the village knew her father: Ragnar Lothbrok. Nobody knew her mother. Some whispered she was a queen from a distant land. Others claimed she was a shield-maiden who vanished into the sea. Ragnar never spoke of her, and Astrid had long stopped asking. Unlike her famous father, Astrid wasn’t interested in glory or conquest. She preferred exploring hidden caves and listening to stories. Her closest friend was Sigrun, a cheerful girl who worked at the village tavern. Whenever sailors returned from distant voyages, Sigrun collected their tales and shared them with Astrid. One stormy evening, a terrified fisherman burst into the tavern. The room fell silent. People laughed. But the fisherman swore he had seen them on a black island far beyond the northern fog. Astrid believed him. The next morning, Astrid and Sigrun stole a small longship and sailed north. Three days later, thick mist surrounded them. Then they saw it. An island shaped like a sleeping dragon. And circling above it were dragons. Exactly seventy-three. There were tiny blue dragons no bigger than cats.