The journey to Constantinople had been less of a voyage and more of a slow-motion execution. Every creak of the mast sounded like a bone snapping. Leif looked back at Harald, whose eyes were fixed on a horizon that refused to reveal the Golden Horn. They were men out of time, caught between the old gods of the forest and the new God of the stone cathedrals.

"Almost there," Harald whispered, a predatory smile touching his lips.

"We are carrying more than just furs and amber," Harald shouted over the gale.

But Leif kept his eyes on the dark water. He knew that in the world of the Valhalla files, the greatest danger wasn't the storm you could see—it was the cliffhanger waiting just before the credits rolled.