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When the northern waters began to tremble beneath the weight of the wind, and the sun skimmed the horizon like a dying ember—low, blood-red, unwilling to rise—then came the time of departure. Not a march, not a conquest, but a leaving. A slow, grievous uprooting. The kind that tears through the marrow more than the muscle.

From villages nestled among cold, unyielding stone, from halls where timber beams bore the carvings of eight generations, they stepped out—those who would go. There was no shouting, no clamor. Only the heavy rhythm of feet pressed against the earth that had fed them, sheltered them, buried their fathers. They carried not the weight of arms alone, but the greater burden of memory.

The sea did not call. It received. Silently, indifferently, like a grave accepts a body. In that silence was a deeper truth—no god, no spirit, no world would weep for the ones who left.

The longships moved like beasts freed from their chains, their prows slicing the shallows with solemn grace. The sails, bloated by wind, rose like great bones pulled from ancient cairns. There were no chants. No horns. Only the creak of wood, the muted clatter of shield against hull, the breath of men too full of loss to speak.

The wind smelled of ash, of salt, and the far-off dust of unknown lands. It crawled beneath cloaks, found the cracks in skin and soul alike, whispering not promises, but remembrance. Faces turned forward, yet the eyes—they lingered on the vanishing shore. Where smoke still rose from hearths now fading. Where someone still watched the path, hoping for a return that would never come.

But no return would follow.

For this was no heroic voyage. It was an exodus—slow, bitter, resolute. Not born of hope, but of necessity. Not carried on dreams, but on the grim certainty that somewhere, beyond the gray, endless swells, there might lie a place where a man could die with purpose.

So the North departed. Without names. Without farewells. Only with a weight in the chest too vast for words—held fast by silence.

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