Spring came late that year.
The ice held longer than usual. The ground stayed frozen well into what should have been planting season. Even the birds seemed reluctant to return from their winter refuges.
But eventually, the world thawed.
And with the thaw came visitors.
I was practicing sword work behind our house when I heard the commotion from the harbor. Voices raised in alarm. People running toward the water.
"Ships," someone shouted. "Three longships approaching!"
My father appeared at my side instantly. His hand already on his sword hilt.
"English?" I asked.
"Worse," he said grimly. "Vikings."
We hurried to the harbor with the rest of the village. The three ships were still distant but getting closer. Their dragon-head prows cut through the dark water like predators scenting blood.
These weren't fishing boats like ours. These were warships. Built for speed and battle. Each one could carry forty or fifty warriors.
"Do we know them?" asked the village elder.
My father studied the approaching vessels through narrowed eyes. "The lead ship. I've seen that figurehead before."
"Where?"
"Danish waters. From the southern kingdoms. Professional warriors."
The Danish kingdoms. I'd heard stories about them. Organized territories with powerful jarls who commanded fleets of longships. Not like our isolated fishing village.
"What do they want with us?" someone asked.
"Nothing good," my father replied.
The ships beached with practiced efficiency. Warriors poured out onto our small harbor. Maybe a hundred and fifty men total. All armed. All experienced.
They moved with the confidence of predators who knew they faced no real threat.
Our village had maybe sixty fighting-age males. Most were fishermen. Only about twenty had any real combat experience from our monastery raid.
The odds were not in our favor.
Their leader was exactly what I'd expected. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Covered in scars and tattoos that told stories of countless battles. His red beard was braided with silver rings. His eyes were the color of winter ice.
He walked up the beach like he owned it. His warriors formed a loose circle around him. Not threatening yet. But ready.
"Which one of you leads this village?" he called out in a voice that carried easily across the harbor.
The village elder stepped forward. He was old but he had dignity. Backbone. "I am the elder here. What do you want?"
The Danish leader smiled. It wasn't a pleasant expression. "I hear you've been busy this winter. Word travels fast among raiders."
My stomach dropped. He knew about the monastery.
"I don't know what you mean," the elder said carefully.
"Of course you don't." The Dane's smile got wider. "Just coincidence that a village of poor fishermen suddenly has English silver to spend with merchants."
He'd done his research. Talked to the traders who'd visited us during the winter. Pieced together the truth from their stories.
"We had a good fishing season," the elder insisted.
The Danish leader laughed. A harsh sound like breaking ice. "Fish don't pay in monastery silver, old man."
The circle of warriors tightened slightly. Still not openly hostile. But the threat was clear.
"What do you want?" my father asked, stepping up beside the elder.
The Dane's cold eyes fixed on him. "Ah. The fisherman who led that monastery raid. Very impressive work."
There was mockery in his tone. But also something else. Calculation.
"I want tithe," he announced. "Half of everything you took from England. Plus an annual payment to the Danish crown."
"We're not part of the Danish kingdom," the elder protested.
"You are now."
The words hung in the cold air like a death sentence.
This was conquest disguised as taxation. The Danish kingdoms were expanding their influence. Claiming territory that had never been theirs.
"And if we refuse?" my father asked.
The Dane gestured to his warriors. "Then we take everything. Kill everyone who resists. Burn your village to the ground. Your women and children get sold in the slave markets."
The villagers began backing away. Parents pulling children behind them. Old people finding places to hide.
"But refuse what exactly?" the Danish leader continued with mock confusion. "You're subjects of the Danish crown now. This is just collecting taxes that are already owed."
Legal fiction. He was making conquest sound like legitimate governance.
"I need an answer," he said. "Now."
I could see the conflict playing out on my father's face. On the elder's. On every adult in the village.
We could fight. Maybe thirty or forty of us against a hundred and fifty professional warriors. We'd all die but we'd die free.
Or we could surrender. Give up half our treasure. Become vassals to foreign kings who'd bleed us dry year after year.
Neither option was good.
"How much time do we have to gather the payment?" the elder asked quietly.
Defeat was in his voice. The practical acceptance of the inevitable.
"Three days," the Dane replied. "We'll make camp on your beach. Enjoy your hospitality while you decide how much you value your independence."
His warriors laughed at that. They knew we had no real choice.
"Three days," the elder repeated.
"Don't think about running," the Danish leader added casually. "We know these waters better than you do. And we have friends in every port between here and England."
The trap was complete. Fight and die. Submit and live as slaves. Try to escape and get hunted down.
As the Danes began setting up their camp on our beach, I watched my father's face. Saw the calculations he was making. The options he was weighing.
All of them bad.
That night, the village leaders met in the elder's house. I wasn't invited but I listened from outside anyway.
"We have to pay," someone said. "We have no choice."
"Half our treasure," another voice protested. "That's food out of our children's mouths."
"Better than all of us dead," the elder replied grimly.
"What about next year?" my father asked. "And the year after? Once we start paying tribute, it never stops."
Silence. Everyone knew he was right.
"Maybe we could contact other villages," someone suggested. "Form an alliance. Fight back together."
"With what?" my father asked. "Fishing boats and farm tools? Against Danish longships?"
More silence.
I crept away from the window and walked down to the harbor. The Danish warriors had built fires on our beach. They were cooking fish they'd taken from our stores. Drinking ale they'd demanded as hospitality.
Acting like conquering heroes instead of extortionists.
[New Skill: Strategic Thinking lv1]
[New Achievement: The Weight of Choices]
The system was tracking my growing understanding of complex situations. The ability to see multiple moves ahead.
But understanding the problem didn't mean I could solve it.
I was eleven years old with the stats of a grown warrior. But I was still just one person against an army.
Unless...
An idea began forming in my mind. Dangerous. Probably suicidal. But maybe our only real option.
I walked back to our house and found my father sitting by the fire. Staring into the flames like they might hold answers.
"What if we don't pay?" I asked quietly.
He looked up at me with tired eyes. "Then we all die."
"What if we pay but find a way to make them regret taking it?"
His expression sharpened. "What are you thinking?"
"They're raiders," I said. "They understand strength. Respect it. Right now they see us as easy prey."
"We are easy prey."
"Are we?" I pulled up my status screen where only I could see it. Thirty-five strength. Combat level eight. "What if we prove we're not?"
"How?"
I took a deep breath. "Challenge their leader. Single combat. If I win, they leave us alone."
My father stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "You're eleven years old."
"I'm stronger than any man in this village," I replied. "You know it. I know it. The system has made me into something different."
"Different enough to beat a Danish war chief?"
"Maybe. And if not, at least I die trying to protect our people instead of watching them become slaves."
My father was quiet for a long time. I could see him weighing the idea. Calculating odds. Looking for alternatives.
"They'd never accept," he said finally. "A child challenging their leader? They'd laugh."
"Then we make them take it seriously," I said. "Tomorrow morning, I walk into their camp. Kill one of their warriors in front of everyone. Demand trial by combat."
"That's suicide."
"Is it worse than slavery?"
He didn't have an answer for that.
Outside, the Danish fires burned bright against the darkness. Inside, my father and I sat in silence, contemplating a choice that could save our village or destroy it completely.
The blood price was coming due.
The only question was who would pay it.