The ferry creaks as it cuts across the cold grey Baltic. Salt stings the air; tar and smoke cling to your cloak. Gulls wheel above, their cries sharp against the rhythmic slap of waves. Ahead, rising from the mist, stand the pale stone walls and towers of Kalmar Castle, flags snapping hard in the wind: Denmark’s red and white, Sweden’s golden cross, Norway’s crowned lion. For the first time, all three hang side by side.

Only days ago, in Kalmar Cathedral, the boy Erik of Pomerania was crowned King of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. The banners still hang fresh from the rafters, the scent of incense and feast-fire not yet faded. But coronation alone does not bind kingdoms—every noble, priest, and captain gathered here now weighs whether they will follow the boy-king, or break the union before it begins.

Danish soldiers on deck murmur of omens. “If this holds,” one says, tugging his cloak tight, “the north will never be the same.” He lets the other half of the thought drown in the sea.