SerProcrastinate

Chapter Twenty-Eight (TIBK)

Fisk perched on his door-counter stool like an anxious ferret who'd just raided a profitable trash heap. His eyes darted from Eirik to a small, chipped vial he was polishing.

"Ah! My noble friend! Back so soon?" Fisk chirped. "Did the 'Cloud of Agony' deliver? Five-star reviews only, of course! Though five talons apiece might be steep for the feedback form!" He winked.

"They performed," Eirik stated flatly. "Exactly as required. The chaos was decisive." He noted the preening flicker in Fisk's eyes. "Your genius, Fisk, turned the tide."

Fisk puffed up. "Genius! Yes! Fisk's Fine Philtres – Discreet Solutions for Discreet Problems! So, friend, need another batch? Fifteen jars ready in three days? Hypothetically? Imagine refinements! Sweeter bouquet? Longer sting? Or perhaps..." his eyes gleamed, "...a version for enclosed spaces? Guard barracks? Bedchambers? Discretion guaranteed!"

Bedchambers? Eirik filed the idea away. "Actually, Fisk, I have a different problem." 

Fisk's eyebrows shot up. "Tell Uncle Fisk!"

 "Suppose a man needed escalation. Suppose non-lethal agony isn't enough. Suppose he needed purification. Complete, fiery purification. Something that doesn't just blind and choke but burns. Devours."

Fisk's eyebrows shot up. "Escalation? Tell Uncle Fisk more! Are we escalating from crowd control to structural demolition? Something permanent?" He rubbed his hands together. "Complexity scales, friend."

Eirik met his gaze. "Fire."

The word landed like a dropped beaker. Fisk's manic energy froze. His smile vanished. "F-Fire? As in… burning things? Proper, crackling, consuming fire?"

"Yes." Eirik mimicked a throwing motion. "Think smaller. Portable. Like your cloud jar, but hotter. Something that bursts on impact. Not a cloud, but a splash. A splash of liquid fire."

Fisk's eyes widened, then narrowed as implications sank in. 

"Whoa! Hold on! You're talking about lobbing liquid fire?" He started pacing, dodging stacked amphorae. "The concept? Brutal, effective! I like it! But..." He stopped, holding up a finger. "...problems. Major problems!"

He paced his tiny available space, dodging a bundle of dried, stinking weeds. “Fire’s tricky, friend. Very tricky. Needs fuel. Needs ignition. Needs containment until deployment.” He stopped, facing Eirik again. "Glass. You need thick, sturdy, sealable glass bottles. And glass is expensive. Fragile. Hard to source quietly. Not to mention throwing glass bottles full of flammable liquid? One crack and whoosh! Goodbye eyebrows! Hypothetically speaking, of course."

Eirik nodded. “The glass… that’s the problem.”

Fisk threw his hands up. “Exactly! So unless you’ve got a secret glassblower tucked away down here…” He trailed off, looking hopeful for a split second.

“No glassblower,” Eirik stated. Here goes. “What if… you didn’t need glass? What if the container itself… was temporary? Disposable? Vanished without a trace?”

Fisk stared. Utterly baffled. “Temporary… disposable… vanishes? What, like parchment? Parchment burns first, friend! Or clay? Clay jars for fire? Too thick! Breaks messy, fuel spills everywhere before igniting! Wasteful! Inefficient! Unless…” His eyes suddenly widened, almost comically large. “Magic? Are we talking magic? Because Fisk is a genius alchemist, a maestro of mixtures, a purveyor of potent potions… but magic? That’s a whole other barrel of volatile vipers! Very expensive vipers! And frankly, outside Uncle Fisk’s current purview…”

Almost there. Eirik kept his face impassive. “You are on the right track, but no expensive artifacts. Just… ice.”

Silence. Heavy silence broken only by a nearby pot's gentle bloop-bloop. Fisk's mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound. He looked like a beached fish.

"I-Ice?" he whispered. "You want to put… fire… in… ice?" He giggled, high-pitched and hysterical. "That's gloriously insane! Fire melts ice! It's fundamental! Where's the container? Poof! Gone! Pure chaotic disaster!" He shook his head, chuckling. "Physics, friend. Annoying physics."

Eirik remained calm. "The ice wouldn't hold it long. That's the point. It's the delivery system. Think: flammable mixture, thickened like the cloud bomb suspension. Pour it into an ice container. Add your ignition source – a soaked wick sticking out. Seal with wax."

He could see Fisk's mind spinning. "You throw it. The ice shatters on impact. Fuel splashes out. The burning wick lands in the spilled fuel. Or the wick burns down just as it hits. Either way…"

"Fire," Fisk breathed, eyes gleaming with horrified fascination. "Instant fire. Right where you want it. Big splash zone. No traceable glass… just water. Meltwater and ash." A slow, unhinged grin spread across his face. "You nasty, brilliant, dangerous man! A fire bomb with an ice shell! That's…"

"Innovative?"

"Buckets of crazy wrapped in terrifying genius! But!" He held up a finger, shifting to manic practicality. "Big buts! The ice shell needs to survive the throw but shatter on impact! Tricky balance! Plus the melt factor – body heat makes ice sweat! Fuel seeps! Wick gets damp!"

He clutched his head dramatically. "And the fuel! What burns hot, sticks, and won't freeze solid? Standard lamp oil burns okay but doesn't cling. Pine pitch sticks and burns like fury… but thick as troll snot! And the wick timing! Burn too fast? Boom in air! Too slow? Target stamps it out!"

Good. He's engaged. "So, challenges. But solvable?"

Fisk paced, muttering. "Solvable… maybe. Ice shell thickness control… fuel mixing…" He stopped, spinning back. "Prototype! We need proof of concept! See if fire and ice can tango without immolating the orchestra!"

Eirik nodded. "Let's start. I handle the ice container. You handle fuel and ignition." He needed Fisk invested. "Imagine it, Fisk. 'Fisk's Frostfire'. Deployable inferno. Exclusive. Only you can make the fuel blend. Only I can provide the delivery system."

Fisk's eyes lit up like coals. "Exclusive! High-demand niche market! Discreet clientele willing to pay… oh, they'll pay!" He rubbed his hands gleefully. "Uncle Fisk is in! Let's make hypothetical mayhem!"

He immediately buzzed around the workshop, grabbing jars and muttering ingredients. "Pine pitch… where's the good northern stuff? Lamp oil… fish oil? Spirits! Definitely need spirits! Wick material… timing, timing…"

While Fisk raided his inventory, Eirik found clear space on a stained workbench. Time to conjure. He focused inward, feeling his Peak Snow Realm mana's dense cold core. He visualized the ice container – a thick-walled flask, apple-sized, with a narrow neck.

[MANA EXPENDED: 1] 

[MANA: 24/25]

Frost bloomed above his palm. Condensed air swirled, crackling as it solidified. Within seconds, he held a perfectly formed flask of translucent blue ice. He set it on the bench.

"Whoa!" Fisk breathed, staring. "Quick and frosty! How long will it last?"

"I don’t know. Let's test."

"Right! Fuel round one!" Fisk held up a clay cup of viscous, dark brown liquid reeking of pine forests. "Pure Blackroot pine pitch! Sticky, burns hot and long. Problem: thick. Hard to pour."

He tipped the cup toward the ice flask's neck. The pitch oozed out like cold honey, taking nearly a minute to fill halfway. "See? Too slow! Risks warming the ice."

In a fight, pouring time equals vulnerability. "Thin it?"

"Step ahead of you!" Fisk produced clear, sharp-smelling liquid. "High-proof grain spirit! Perfect for cutting goop!" He poured it into the pitch, stirring vigorously. The mixture thinned to dark syrup. "Better flow!"

He demonstrated, pouring much faster into the ice flask. "Good! Now, ignition!" He grabbed rough linen, dipped one end in the pitch mixture, and inserted this soaked wick into the neck. "Sealing!" He softened beeswax over a candle, pressing it over the neck. "Hypothetical Frostfire!"

It looked ominous – dark fuel visible through clear ice, wick sticking out like a fuse.

"Throw test?" Eirik moved toward the stairs. The confined workshop was no place for this.

"Out back! Less flammable collateral!"

They emerged into a small, filthy courtyard piled with broken crates. A clear space of packed dirt lay against the back wall.

"Target practice!" Fisk pointed to a water-stained crate. "Hypothetical enemy supply dump!"

He handed Eirik the ice flask. Cold, slippery, already condensing. Eirik stepped back, drew his arm, and threw underhand toward the crate fifteen feet away.

The flask flew in a smooth arc. Halfway there, a faint CRACK appeared. It hit the crate with a solid THUD, bouncing off intact but cracked. The wick sputtered.

"Impact insufficient!" Fisk rushed over. "Didn't break!"

Suddenly the crack widened. Dark fuel seeped out. The burning wick touched the seepage.

WHOOSH!

Flame erupted, licking up the flask's side. Ice hissed violently as it melted, creating more seepage. Fire grew, fed by leaking pitch, melting the ice faster in chaotic, uncontrolled burn. Within seconds, the flask was a pool of burning goo, black smoke curling upward.

"It burns! But messy. Uncontrolled. Took too long to ignite after impact." Fisk sounded disappointed but analytical. "Need thinner ice. Or more force."

Eirik conjured another flask with thinner walls. 

[MANA EXPENDED: 1] 

[MANA: 23/25]

Fisk refilled it, inserted wick, sealed it. Eirik threw harder.

CRACK!

It shattered mid-air, five feet short! Burning droplets rained down on dirt, igniting small patches that burned briefly.

"Premature detonation! Too fragile!"

Balance. Survive the throw but shatter on impact. Eirik conjured another. 

[MANA: 22/25]

"Try fish oil?" Fisk suggested. "Liquid. Might flow better on impact." He mixed foul-smelling yellowish oil half-and-half with spirits, filling the new flask.

Eirik threw. SMASH! It shattered against the crate's side! Fish oil and spirits sprayed out wide!

FWOMP!

Instant ignition as the burning wick landed in the spreading pool! Satisfying flame erupted, spreading over the crate's wooden surface with hot, bright yellow fire and intense fishy stench.

"YES! Impact ignition! Splash! Fire!"

Eirik assessed. Good spread. Immediate ignition. But the smell was overpowering. Tactically the smell might not matter, but transporting these? "It works. But the fuel mix. The smell is distinctive. And burns fast, not sticky enough."

The fire was already dying where initial splash burned off, not clinging like he'd hoped.

Fisk wrinkled his nose. "Smells like a deep-fryer accident. Not subtle. Fish oil burns hot but fast." He stroked his sideburns. "What about rendered animal fat? Tallow? Burns hot, sticky… smells like roasting meat."

Eirik conjured flask number four. [MANA: 21/25] "Try it."

Fisk produced white, waxy tallow, melted it, mixed with spirits. The mixture was thinner than pure pitch but thicker than fish oil – cloudy off-white liquid. He filled the flask. "Fisk's Frosty Fat Fryer!"

Eirik threw. Perfect trajectory. SMASH! against the charred crate. Tallow mixture splashed out thickly. WHOOSH! Deep orange flame erupted! This fire burned with intense heat. The tallow clung to wood, melting and spreading rather than flashing off. Slower, hotter, more persistent than fish oil.

"Better! Clings. Burns hot and long."

"But thick! Flow is better than pure pitch, but still gluggy! Filling took time!" Fisk held up his stirring rod. "Need fluidity for pouring and splash!"

"Ratios. More spirit to tallow? Or mix with fish oil for flow?"

"Experimentation! The Fisk Special!" He pointed at the burning crate. "Notice the wick? Burn time seemed right for that throw. But different distances need consistent wick material."

Eirik conjured flask five. [MANA: 20/25]. "Wick material?"

Fisk mixed a new batch – mostly spirits, healthy tallow dollop, fish oil splash. "Linen's okay. Maybe treat it? Soak in saltpeter? Or slow-match cord from mining? Very consistent burn rate! Expensive, though…"

He filled the flask quickly. It poured like thin cream. "Better!" Longer linen wick, sealed it. "Longer wick for longer throw!"

Eirik backed up to twenty-five feet, aiming for the back wall. He threw hard.

SMASH! against stone! Fuel sprayed in a wide fan. WHOOSH! Instant, intense ignition! The blend ignited with a satisfying thump, splashing flame across two feet of diameter!

"Splash! Ignition! Distance! Perfect!" Fisk crowed. "Burn looks good! Sticky enough! Smell tolerable! Like burning dinner!"

This blend shows promise. Effective splash, immediate ignition, persistent burn. But the wick was still burning at the base of wall flames. Too slow.

"Wick burn time needs standardization. Too long is a hazard for the thrower. Too short risks ignition in hand."

Fisk nodded vigorously. "Slow-match! I know a supplier! Discreet! Consistent! Cut to length for desired delay! Adds cost, but precision costs!"

He rubbed his hands. "Fish-Tallow-Spirit Blend! Slow-match ignition! Ice flask delivery! Destructive! Marketable!"

Proof of concept achieved. "How quickly can you produce the fuel blend? In quantity? Safely?"

Fisk puffed his cheeks. "The blend? Easy! Tallow rendering messy but scalable. Fish oil available. Spirits plentiful! Mixing requires care, ventilation… and space. Bigger batches mean bigger risks. Occupational hazard premium goes up! But for the right client… Fisk can deliver!"

"And the slow-match?"

"Available. Pricey. But consistent! You don't want your firebomb exploding because Jimmy cut the wick too short!"

Eirik glanced at the blackened, smoldering damage in Fisk's courtyard. The potential was undeniable. A weapon of terror. Tool for sabotage. Guaranteed moneymaker. But huge liability if mishandled.

He conjured the sixth flask. [MANA: 19/25] The ice wept cold water onto his palm.

"Hypothetically," Eirik said, voice low and firm, meeting Fisk's excited gaze. "If a client needed one hundred units. Ready in Four days. Consistent fuel blend. Reliable ignition. Packaged discreetly. Cost per unit?"

Fisk's eyes glittered like coins. He looked at the ice flask, then the scorch marks, then back at Eirik. The salesman vanished, replaced by calculating opportunist. He steepled stained fingers.

"One hundred units… Four days…" he mused, dropping into smoother register. "Noble friend. This device requires expertise. My unique, irreplaceable expertise. The fuel blend? Signature Fisk! The ignition solution? Sourced and cut precisely! The sheer volatility? Requires premium compensation."

He gestured at scorch marks. "Not to mention bulk material costs when Uncle Fisk has to hire extra hands willing to risk third-degree burns!"

He leaned forward. "Then there's the ice factor. The truly unique, untraceable delivery system. Provided solely by our discerning client. That's immense value. Eliminates the biggest weakness – traceable containers."

He's angling for a cut. "The ice delivery is non-negotiable. My contribution. Name your price per unit for fuel and ignition components, ready for assembly upon delivery of my containers."

Fisk studied him, shrewd appraisal replacing frantic energy. He knew he couldn't make the ice. Knew Eirik wouldn't share that secret. "Per unit… ready to pour into your special flasks…" He calculated risk, profit, danger pay. "Ten talons."

More than the cloud bombs! "Ten? For fuel and cord? The cloud bombs were complex pressure systems. These are jars of liquid."

"Liquid that burns cities down, friend! Requires hazardous mixing! Precise ignition! Specialty components! One batch goes wrong… Fisk's becomes a permanent hole in the ground! Twelve reflects the premium for controlled, deployable, untraceable inferno!"

Eirik let silence hang. He needed these. Fisk knew it. But Fisk craved the business, exclusivity, profit. "Five."

Fisk winced theatrically. "Five? That barely covers slow-match and hazard pay!"

"The tallow is cheap," Eirik cut in. "Rendered animal fat. Fish oil plentiful. Spirits not expensive. Slow-match a few copper pins per foot. Ten covers costs, hazard, and healthy profit. For one hundred units? Five hundred talons."

Fisk's eyes darted. He chewed his lip. Five hundred talons… more than he usually saw in a year. For a few days’ dangerous work. He looked at the ice flask still weeping condensation. The key to the whole thing. Only this cold-eyed noble can provide it.

He sighed dramatically. "Five. Brutal! Cutting Uncle Fisk to the bone! But for a partner? For the future of controlled combustion?" An oily grin returned. "Fisk accepts. Five hundred talons. Half upfront for materials and labor recruitment? The other half on delivery? One hundred units, ready for your ice magic, one week from today."

Done. Eirik nodded curtly. "Agreed. Half upfront in the afternoon. Yorick will deliver it. With the first batch of flasks. Don't disappoint. My hypothetical enemies are impatient."

He turned toward the reeking stairs, leaving Fisk staring at the smoldering crate.

Now I just need the mana to make it rain icy hell.

Chapter Twenty-Seven (TIBK)

The frigid air of Frostmire Clearing was rapidly being replaced by the heat of victory and roasting meat. 

Huge bonfires crackled, casting dancing shadows over the scene of Eirik's triumph. Tables groaned under haunches of roasted boar, steaming stews, and mountains of black bread. Men clustered around fires, tankards raised.

Eirik stood near the largest bonfire and surveyed his domain. Good. The mood is high.

The moment couldn't be wasted.

A commotion arose near the forest edge. Four of Olaf's burliest recruits emerged, lugging a heavy, iron-bound chest between them. They carried it deliberately across the clearing, weaving between clusters of feasting men, heading straight for Eirik's bonfire.

All eyes followed the chest. Conversations died down, replaced by murmurs and pointing fingers. The Talons nudged each other, eyes gleaming.

The chest landed with a heavy THUD beside Eirik's table. Olaf stepped forward, planting one boot on it like a hunter claiming his kill. He looked at Eirik, who gave a single nod.

Olaf drew a heavy key—the key Garrick had been forced to relinquish—and jammed it into the lock. The click echoed in the sudden hush. He heaved the lid open.

Firelight caught the contents, sending reflections dancing across crowded faces. Silver. Not neat stacks, but a chaotic, glorious pile of silver talons stamped with the Stormcrow raven. A thousand of them. More wealth than most had ever seen in one place.

A collective gasp went up. Followed by a low, hungry roar.

"ONE THOUSAND!" Olaf bellowed over the noise. He held up five thick fingers. "ONE THOUSAND SILVER TALONS! LORD GARRICK'S PLEDGE! DELIVERED BY SUNDOWN, AS ORDERED! COMMANDER STORMCROW'S PROMISE IS KEPT! WE TAKE HALF FROM IT!"

The roar intensified. Tankards slammed on tables. Men whooped and cheered, pounding each other's backs. 

Eirik stepped onto the table, worn wood creaking under his boots. He raised his hands. The cheering subsided slowly, replaced by eager silence. Hundreds of eyes fixed on him—scarred street fighters, weary Fenrir guards, all now bound by shared victory and gleaming silver.

"TALONS!" Eirik's voice rang clear and cold. "You heard Olaf! Five hundred silver talons! YOUR reward for standing firm! For facing down polished tin knights and granite-hard veterans and WINNING!"

He paused, letting the word sink in. Win. "Each man who stood in the line today gets TEN silver talons!" A murmur of disbelief and fierce joy rippled through the ranks. "Proof of your courage! Paid NOW!"

He gestured towards Olaf. "Olaf! Leif! Organize it! Distribute the coin! Every man gets his due!"

Olaf grinned ferally. Leif moved forward with resolve despite his discomfort. They began calling names from Harkin's muster roll. Men jostled forward, forming rough lines. The heavy clink of silver hitting palms became counterpoint to the fire's crackle.

Eirik watched the distribution, his mind ticking. He signaled Harkin and trusted Talons. They cleared space near his table, placing stools. "Olaf! Leif! To me once the coin is flowing."

As silver flowed, a lively tune erupted near one of the fires. A former pickpocket had produced a lute, joined by another man singing a bawdy ballad about a milkmaid and wayward knight. Laughter and raucous singing swelled around them.

Eirik allowed a small, cold smile. Good. He sat at his table as Olaf and Leif joined him, wiping sweat despite the cold.

"You did well," Eirik stated, pouring three cups of potent Fenrir ale. "Both of you."

Olaf slammed back the ale in one gulp. "Aye, Commander. We showed 'em. Pretty boys and granite blocks both."

Leif took a measured sip. He couldn't quite bring himself to praise Eirik directly.

Eirik leaned forward, lowering his voice. "We aren't just men who won a fight. We're a company now. A mercenary company."

"Already?" Olaf repeated. "Under the Stormcrow banner?"

"Under my banner," Eirik corrected. "Eirik Stormcrow's Talons. Cedric gave me the men, the authority, and now," he gestured to the emptying chest, "thanks to my dear brother, the funds to start."

He met Olaf's gaze. "Olaf. You know these men—the street fighters, the brawlers, the survivors. Effective immediately, you are Captain of the Talon Foot. You organize the infantry. You train them. You make them harder than Stormkeep granite."

Olaf's chest swelled. He slammed a fist on the table. "Captain Olaf! Aye, Commander! They'll be harder than diamond shards!"

Eirik turned to Leif. "Leif Fenrir. You have discipline. You understand formations, logistics, command structure. You know the lands, the politics. And today, you proved you can lead under pressure."

He paused, letting the praise sink in. Leif looked stunned. "Effective immediately, you are Captain of the Fenrir Guard contingent and my lieutenant. You handle supplies, scouting reports, liaison with Stormkeep logistics."

Leif blinked. Lieutenant. A flicker of something besides resentment entered his eyes. "Lieutenant Leif Fenrir," he murmured, testing the title.

"Good," Eirik said. "Captain Olaf. Lieutenant Leif." He raised his cup slightly. "To the Talons."

Olaf raised their cups in return. "To the Talons!" Leif slowly did likewise. 

The bard's tune shifted to a slower song, creating momentary quiet near the command table. Yorick the scribe seized the opportunity, leaning closer. "Lord Eirik. A word about the funds? Before celebrations… cloud the accounts?"

Eirik nodded. Time to tally the cost of victory. "Go on, Yorick."

Yorick pulled a small leather ledger from his tunic, pages filled with neat columns. "The One thousand talons from Lord Garrick—that's secure." He traced down the page. "House Fenrir's contribution, delivered this afternoon from our vaults…" He swallowed. "Lady Isolde managed one thousand, two hundred talons."

Less than I hoped, but given the circumstances, monumental effort. "Acknowledged. Fenrir's commitment is noted."

Yorick’s finger moved down. "Then… there were the wagers." He lowered his voice further. "Lady Isolde took everything—the Fenrir coin, jewels she couldn't immediately pawn, even borrowed against future wool shipments… and placed it all. On you. To win outright. "

A cold flicker of satisfaction cut through Eirik's fatigue. "And the payout?"

"One thousand, five hundred talons, Commander. Cleared discreetly this evening."

1,500. Eirik kept his face impassive. Either way, it paid. "Add it to the chest."

"It's included here," Yorick confirmed. "Total inflow: Garrick's 1,000. Fenrir's 1,200. Winnings 1,500. Total: Three thousand, seven hundred talons."

3,700 silver. Significant sum. Seed capital for his company. But Eirik felt a cold stone settle in his gut. He knew what came next.

Yorick flipped a page, expression turning grim. "Expenditures. Fisk's alchemical components, his fee… The blacksmith for climbing gear, extra ropes… Jens and his trappers for the logs, traps, hazard pay… Basic provisions for fifty men for a week… Replacement gear… The feast tonight…"

The list went on. Eirik listened, mentally tallying. Every copper spent was necessary.

Leif finished. "Total expenditures to date… three hundred and seventy talons. Minus the five hundred talons paid out tonight."

3200 - 870 = 2,330.

Yorick closed the ledger, knuckles white. "Leaving two thousand, three hundred and eighty talons in reserve after tonight's payout, Commander. And if these men do decide to join the mercenary company, we need to pay them wages on a weekly basis."

Eirik stared into the leaping flames. 

[Tutorial Quest #3 (out of 7): Build A Warchest] 

[Quest Type: Stewardship] 

[Objective: Amass 5,000 Silver Talons (2,330/5,000)]

The number mocked him. After all this, he was not even half way to the target? The feast roared around him—men celebrating ten talons like kings, unaware of the immense gulf still separating their commander from his goal.

Five thousand. How?

Garrick was bled dry. Fenrir was tapped out. The wager was one-time. He had a company to feed, equip, and pay. Mercenary contracts would bring income, but slowly. Too slow.

He needed bigger gambles.

Eirik looked up, meeting Yorick’s gaze. 

"Enjoy the feast tonight, Yorick. Tomorrow, we will talk about building a real warchest." 

He drained the bitter ale in one long pull. The feast roared around him: firelight, roasting meat, spilled ale, and voices. 

Olaf moved through the throng. A few others peeled off from groups, tankards raised, lumbering towards Eirik's table. They didn't bow – that wasn't their way. They slammed fists against chests, nods sharp and fierce.

"Commander!" Edvard, or Forty-Two, the burly brawler who'd held the left flank, grunted. "Never seen a fight like that." He hefted his coin pouch. His gratitude was rough but genuine. Eirik acknowledged him with a curt nod.

"Stormcrow," a wiry man with flint-chip eyes approached. Thirteen. "Cliff climb. That were… somethin' else. Never figured climbin' could win a war. You've got stones, Commander." Eirik raised his mug in a silent toast. The man grinned before melting back into the crowd.

Even some Fenrir guardsmen approached hesitantly. Their salutes were crisper yet formal. 

"Commander Stormcrow," a grizzled sergeant said. "The shield wall held, sir. Because you put us where we needed to be." Eirik met his gaze. "You held. Sergeant." The man's posture straightened before he stepped back.

Eirik watched them celebrate, cataloging faces, gauging morale. Then, His gaze snagged on the outlier. 

Leif Fenrir stood near a secondary fire, separate from the revelry. He held an untouched tankard. His posture was rigid.

As the latest well-wisher, a wiry trapper who’d helped rig the logs, staggered away, Eirik caught Isolde Fenrir’s eye across the clearing. he saw his glance, and her gaze darted pointedly towards Leif.

Perfect timing, Lady Fenrir, Eirik thought. He raised his mug slightly to her.

Isolde reached Leif. She didn't speak immediately. She simply stood beside him, looking at the same fire, letting her presence be the first rebuke.

Leif didn't turn to face her. "Leave me be, Mother."

"No, Leif," Isolde Fenrir carried the unmistakable weight of command he'd known since childhood. "I most certainly will not."

He whirled around. Firelight from the distant feast flickered on her face, highlighting the deep shadows under her eyes and the firm set of her mouth. "What do you want? To tell me to be grateful? To thank him for not having my head on a spike?" Bitterness choked his voice. "He used us! He forced your pledge! He used Grandfather as leverage!"

Isolde stepped closer, her eyes like chips of frost. "Look at yourself, Leif Arnson Fenrir," she hissed, her voice low and intense. "Look at what you've become right this moment."

Leif blinked, taken aback. "What?"

"You are sulking," she stated flatly. "Like a child denied a sweetmeat. Like Garrick Stormcrow when the attention isn't solely on him. Is that who you are? Is that the heir Stalwart Arn Fenrir raised? The heir I poured every hope, every resource, into preparing?"

Shame warred with anger. "I am not sulking! I am angry! He humiliated me! He humiliated House Fenrir!"

"Did he?" Isolde cut him off. "Or did you humiliate yourself? And us?" She took another step, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Let us review, since your memory seems clouded by self-pity. Who, Leif, drew a dagger after losing a fair duel? Who invoked lethal magic against a Baron's son? Who committed treason in the Baron's own training yard?"

Leif opened his mouth, but no defense came.

"Who," Isolde pressed relentlessly, "faced execution by the axe? Who would have left his mother utterly broken? Who would have condemned his grandfather to rot forever in the Ice Mines?" Her voice cracked slightly on the last point. "Who stood shackled in the Great Hall, weeping like a terrified child?"

Leif looked away. The memory of that cold stone floor, the chains, the crushing weight of his father’s ghostly disapproval, flooded back. He had wept. A memory he’d like to never recall again for the rest of his life.

"And who," Isolde continued, "stepped into that ugliness and pulled a miracle from thin air? Who turned your certain death into service? Who not only spared your life but secured Brynn’s freedom? Who gave House Fenrir, shattered by your actions, a chance at redemption? A chance to stand tall again, alongside a rising power?"

She pointed a finger towards the distant glow of the feasting fires. 

"That man out there, Leif. The one you sneer at as a bastard, as an upstart. He did that. He fought Garrick and Gunnar Stormcrow with fifty scarecrows and jars, and he won. He didn't just win; he annihilated them. He used their own pride and discipline against them. He climbed an icy cliff with a piece of iron, for Frost's sake! Do you have any idea the sheer will, the cunning, the strength that took?"

Leif stared at his mother. The image of Eirik on that ledge, hurling shields and spears, directing the battle with terrifying calm, flashed in his mind. The impossible climb... He hadn't really processed it before, lost in his own misery.

"That man," Isolde jabbed her finger emphatically, "his name will be sung. Not just in Stormkeep, Leif. Beyond. He is forging something here. And he offered you a place beside him. Lieutenant. A position of trust."

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "Is this the gratitude of Arn Fenrir's son? Is this the honour I raised you with? To spit on the hand that saved your life, your grandfather’s life, my life? Do you truly think I would have survived your execution? The shame?" Tears glittered unshed in her eyes. "He gave us back our future, Leif. All of us. And you stand here in the shadows, pouting because he gave extra coin to a man who fought like a demon? Because he didn't bow and scrape to your wounded pride?"

"Grateful? Are you jesting, mother?" Bitterness choked Leif’s voice. "What about the sword? What about my future? Lady Astrid... that betrothal Grandfather worked for... it's dust now! Who would marry the fool who lost his family's honor and its treasure to a bastard?"He glared at her, years of pressure boiling over. Since Father died, it’s been me. "I've carried this House since Father passed! And now you ask me to throw it all away? To bow and scrape to the thief?" 

Isolde didn't flinch. Her eyes blazed with an icy fury that silenced Leif’s outburst. 

"Throw it away?" Her voice cut through the cold air. "You fool. This is the only future our House has left!" She stabbed a finger towards the distant Stormkeep, barely visible through the trees. "Cedric Stormcrow? That man locked your grandfather Brynn in the Ice Mines to save his own pride! Your father died serving him, and what did we get? Pretty words at the funeral, Leif! Pretty words, and not a single silver talon in compensation for his widow or orphaned son! Do you understand? He does not care for Fenrir! He uses us and discards us!"

Leif stared, stunned. No compensation? But... the Baron always spoke so highly of Father... The thought tangled with his anger, confusing him.

Isolde leaned closer. "Think! Where would we be if you stayed that 'nice little noble'? Begging at Cedric’s table for scraps? Hoping Garrick’s boot didn’t land too hard when he passed? Cedric would throw us under the sleigh the moment it suited him! He already did with Brynn! House Fenrir is dying playing Cedric’s loyal dog!"

Leif felt the foundation of his anger crumble. 

"Our House’s future, Leif?" Isolde looked towards the bonfires where Eirik held court. "It lies with him. With Eirik Stormcrow. Thus, you must follow him. Wholeheartedly. Not as a prisoner. Not as a sulking child. But as Lieutenant Fenrir. Serve him with your mind, your sword arm, and your loyalty. That is how you carry our House forward now. That is your duty. Stop being like the brat Garrick Stormcrow wanted you to be, and Cedric needed you to be. Become a man that earns respect instead of whining for it!"

Silence stretched between them, heavy with the scent of pine and the muffled roar of the feast. Leif closed his eyes. He saw his father’s stern, proud face. He saw the Ice Mines. He saw his mother’s tear-streaked face as she begged for his life. 

She was right. Utterly, painfully right.

He opened his eyes and met his mother’s with a single, slow nod.

Isolde reached out and squeezed his arm. "Go back," she said softly. "Do your duty. Not as Leif Fenrir the wronged heir, but as Lieutenant Fenrir of the Talons. Earn your place."

Leif took a deep, shuddering breath of the cold air. He straightened his tunic, wiped a hand across his face, and turned back towards the light and noise of the feast. 

Eirik watched Leif emerge from the shadows, his mother a step behind. 

Leif approached the head table. He didn't meet Eirik's eyes immediately, focusing instead on the half-empty ale mug before him. He cleared his throat.

"Commander." Leif’s voice was flat. "Apologies for my… absence. There were matters requiring attention." It was a thin excuse, but it was an effort. "The coin distribution is complete. Harkin has the final tally." He gestured towards the old guard, who was carefully locking the now significantly lighter chest containing the remaining war funds.

Eirik nodded curtly. "Noted, Lieutenant." He emphasized the title. "See that Harkin secures the chest under guard for the night. Olaf will assign men." He paused, then added, "Your direction of the shield wall was crucial today, Leif. Timely. It sealed the victory."

Leif froze for a second. The unexpected, specific praise, devoid of mockery or condescension, struck him. He looked up, finally meeting Eirik’s cold, assessing gaze. There was no warmth there, only acknowledgment of a tactical fact. Yet, coming from this man, after everything, it carried weight. It felt… earned.

"Thank you, Commander," Leif managed, the words feeling strange but not entirely unwelcome. "The men… the Fenrir contingent… they fought well." 

"They did," Eirik agreed. "Because you led them. Remember that." He let the statement hang. "Now, see to the chest and the guard detail. Report back when it's done."

"Yes, Commander." Leif’s response was crisper now. He turned and strode towards Harkin and the chest, issuing orders to nearby Talons with renewed, if still slightly brittle, authority. 

Eirik watched him go. 

He turned his attention back to the feast. The energy was starting to wane, men succumbing to full bellies, potent ale, and the draining aftermath of battle. Olaf was still holding court near a large barrel, regaling a rapt audience with an embellished account of cracking a veteran's shield with his head. Yorick the scribe sat nearby, carefully noting something on a scrap of parchment, perhaps capturing tales for future recruitment. Harkin fussed near the supplies.

Eirik took a slow sip of the bitter ale, watching the flames dance, already planning the morrow’s negotiations.

His mind replayed the wargame: the choking clouds, the chaos. Effective, yes. But non-lethal. There were situations where chaos wasn't enough. Situations where you needed walls gone, supplies burned, morale shattered with primal terror. 

Fire.

But medieval fire weapons were crude, dangerous, unreliable. He remembered history texts from Blackridge – petrol bombs, Molotov cocktails. Simple. Brutal. Perfect. But no petrol. No refined accelerants. But what limited that idea in his world was glass. It exists, yes, but the technology for mass-producing it hasn't arrived. Glass was fragile, expensive, hard to source in bulk.

A different thought crystallized. He visualized the ice dagger, the ice arrow. Solid, transparent. Replace the glass bottle. An ice vessel. Holds the fuel. Shatters on impact. Creates the initial burst. Then... the fire.

He felt the possibilities ignite. Fire and Frost, wielded together. It was audacious. Exactly the kind of weapon that could tip scales and fill coffers. But how?

A name surfaced on his mind. 

Fisk.

Chapter Twenty-Six (TIBK)

Fierce joy burned inside Eirik. He wanted to celebrate with his men, yet the system prompt meant he needed somewhere alone to sort out his rewards and plan out his next moves. Celebration could wait. 

He raised a hand. The ragged cheer died instantly. Every eye – Talon, Fenrir guard, even captured knights – locked onto him.

"TALONS!" Eirik's voice cut through the cold air. "You fought. You bled. You conquered!"

A raw roar erupted, echoing off the Blackroot trees. Men pounded shields, stamped frozen ground. They were victors, and the taste was intoxicating.

"And victory demands reward!" Eirik declared. "Tonight, we feast! Right here! Fenrir ale and Stormcrow provisions!" 

He saw Olaf's eyes widen, then harden with approval. 

"Olaf!" The scarred lieutenant snapped to attention. "You oversee the feast. Get it organized. Coordinate with Harkin on supplies."

Olaf slammed a fist to his chest. "Aye, Commander! Ale flows tonight!" His loyalty was no longer just necessity; it was bought with shared victory and spoils.

"Lady Fenrir, ensure our funds arrive in time now."

Isolde curtsied low. "House Fenrir stands ready, Commander Stormcrow."

Eirik's gaze landed on Leif. "Leif Fenrir. You commanded the shield wall that held. You pushed Gunnar's veterans onto my blade. You performed your duty."

The acknowledgment struck Leif. His jaw tightened, conflicting emotions warring on his face – hatred, shame, and a grudging flicker of something else. 

"Assist Olaf. Ensure security during the feast. The Talons look to their officers now." He held Leif's gaze. Like it or not, you are one of my officers now. 

Leif swallowed hard, managed a stiff nod. "Understood, Commander."

Satisfied, Eirik turned his back on the noisy clearing. "I need solitude. To plan our next steps. The celebration is yours tonight!"

He strode towards the Blackroot Forest, ignoring the renewed shouts behind him. He pushed through snow-laden undergrowth, seeking deep shadow. He found a small clearing dominated by an ancient pine's massive roots. The camp sounds faded, replaced by sighing wind and crunching boots.

He leaned against the rough bark, finally letting the mask of command drop. 

Weariness slammed into him, making his legs tremble. He slid down until sitting, breath misting in the frigid air.

Now. Show me the prize.

He closed his eyes and willed the interface into his mind's eye.

[Tutorial Quest #5: Leader of the Pack (Martial) - COMPLETE!] 

[Objective: Rally a warband under your banner and crush an enemy force of 50 souls or more in a single battle.] 

[Enemies Defeated: 100 Souls] 

[Overwhelming Victory Bonus Applied!]

[Reward Claimed: 8,000 Mana Fragments] 

Eight thousand exactly. His mind raced. The final step. Snow Rank 5.

[UPGRADE TO SNOW RANK 5: COST 8,000 MANA FRAGMENTS] 

[UPGRADE? YES/NO]

YES!

Raw, elemental energy roared through his meridians. Agony unlike anything before – not the tearing of Rank 3 or compression of Rank 4, but both simultaneously amplified tenfold. His vision whited out with searing blue.

The pressure finally vanished. Profound stillness settled within him. He felt complete. Whole. Like a blade finally quenched and tempered to its absolute limit. A core of intense, focused cold pulsed where his heart beat.

[UPGRADE SUCCESSFUL! REALM: SNOW RANK 5 (PEAK OF SNOW REALM)]

[MANA CAP INCREASED: 20 → 25] 

[THIRD MANA SLOT UNLOCKED!] 

[REWARD: + 5 FREE STAT POINTS] 

[PEAK REALM ACHIEVEMENT BONUS: UNIQUE ABILITY UNLOCKED!] 

[UNIQUE ABILITY REWARDED FOR OVERWHELMING VICTORY!]

[UNIQUE ABILITY: ICE CONJURATION]

[AUTOMATICALLY EQUIPPED TO ABILITY SLOT TWO]

Rank 5! Peak of Snow! Excitement crackled through him. Twenty-five Mana! A third slot! Five stat points! And... an Ability? Unique?

His eyes scanned the messages hungrily. This is the peak of the Snow Realm... but what comes next? How do I break through to the next level?

He willed the interface to show him the path forward, focusing on the Realm information.

[REALM: SNOW (RANK 5 of 5)]

[STATUS: PEAK ACHIEVED]

[ASCENSION REQUIREMENT TO FROST REALM:

[1. Mana Fragments: 10,000]

[2. Crystal of the Frozen Heart: 1]

[ASCENSION PROCESS WILL INITIATE AUTOMATICALLY ON REQUIREMENT FULFILLMENT]

Eirik's excitement chilled slightly. Ten thousand mana fragments? That’s a huge jump. But manageable with grinding and quests... eventually.

But a Crystal of the Frozen Heart?

The name alone sounded rare and powerful. What is it? Where do I get it? He focused intently on the name within the interface, hoping for more information. A tooltip flickered.

[ITEM: Crystal of the Frozen Heart]

[GRADE: RARE]

[DESCRIPTION: A naturally formed conduit of intense Frost energy, found only in places where the world's cold has concentrated over centuries. Essential for bridging the gap between Snow and Frost Realms.]

[SOURCES: Deep Ice Caves, Glacial Rifts, Sites of Ancient Frost Elemental Manifestations. ]

Found only in dangerous places..., Eirik thought, the challenge sinking in. Reaching Peak Snow was a victory, but the path ahead demanded even more. 

Still, the victory of Peak Snow was real. His gaze snapped back to the most immediate reward: [UNIQUE ABILITY: ICE CONJURATION]. Let’s see what this can do...

[ICE CONJURATION]

[Forge constructs of solidified Frost energy using Mana. Visualization determines form. Complexity, size, and duration dictate Mana cost. Requires intense focus and mental clarity.]

[Current Mana Pool: 25.]

I can create things? Out of mana!  The sheer potential took his breath away. His mind raced through possibilities: A wall blocking a charge. A bridge over a chasm. A spike beneath an enemy's foot. A dagger when disarmed... Or an arrow.

He needed to test it. Now.

Focusing inward, he envisioned a simple arrow. Not sophisticated fletching or iron head, but the basic concept: straight shaft, sharpened point. He poured his will into the image while mentally grasping his dense, cold mana.

[MANA EXPENDED: 1] 

[MANA: 24/25]

Frost bloomed in his palm. Tendrils of condensed, shimmering cold air coalesced, swirling rapidly. Within seconds, the mist solidified into a perfect shaft of translucent blue ice. Cold to the touch but solid as ironwood. Light fractured through its crystalline structure.

By the Frost... It's real! He marveled at it. Sharp enough to draw blood. 

[IDENTIFY ACTIVATED]

[MANA: 23/25] 

[ITEM: Conjured Ice Arrow (F-Grade)] 

[DURABILITY: Low. Shatters easily under significant impact. Vulnerable to intense heat.]

[DURATION: Stable until ambient temperature rises significantly. Will gradually sublimate in prolonged cold.] 

[DESCRIPTION: A simple projectile created through nascent Ice Conjuration. Functional but fragile. Cost: 1 Mana.]

One Mana for a simple arrow. Fragile, but functional. Instant ammunition. He grinned fiercely. Never truly unarmed. But could he make more than simple projectiles? Could he make weapons?

He dismissed the arrow – it dissolved into shimmering vapor. The expended mana felt like a faint tickle returned to his core. He focused again. This time, he visualized a hunting knife. Short, sturdy blade, maybe five inches long, straight and sharp, with a basic grip. He poured more will, more intent into the visualization.

[MANA EXPENDED: 2] 

[MANA: 21/25]

The frost bloomed faster, swirling with more purpose. The ice formed thicker, denser. In moments, he held a gleaming dagger of pure ice. The blade was clear, edged with blue-white light. The grip felt solid, molded perfectly for his hand.

He tested its weight – good balance. He jabbed at the ancient pine root beside him.

THUNK!

The ice blade sank a quarter-inch into the tough, frozen wood. It held. No cracks, no shattering. When he pulled it free, the edge was still sharp.

[ITEM: Conjured Ice Dagger (F-Grade)] 

[DURABILITY: Moderate. Can withstand moderate impact but will chip against harder materials (steel, stone).] 

[DESCRIPTION: A basic melee weapon conjured from Frost energy. Effective in cold environments but lacks the resilience of forged steel. Cost: 2 Mana.]

Two mana for a functional dagger. His heart pounded. What about a sword? A real weapon? He pictured his Fenrir longsword – the weight, the balance, thirty inches of lethal steel. He poured his focus into it, demanding the ice take that shape.

[ATTEMPTING CONJURATION: ICE LONGSWORD] 

Eirik gritted his teeth, pouring all his willpower and mana into the demanding visualization. Frost surged violently in his grasp, churning and expanding. The air crackled with intense cold. He felt the hilt begin to form, thick and solid. Glistening ice swirled upwards, extending rapidly.

[MANA EXPENDED: 15!] 

[MANA: 5/25]

The blade grew halfway – a foot and a half of shimmering ice – then faltered. A sharp CRACK! echoed in the clearing. Jagged fissures spiderwebbed through the forming blade. Eirik poured more mana, but it was too much, too fast. With a final SNAP!, the blade shattered. Super-cold shards exploded outwards like tiny daggers, stinging his face and vanishing into mist. 

Fifteen Mana... wasted, he thought bitterly, staring at the vanishing mist. And it didn't even work. A sword? Stupid ambition. Conjured ice clearly has limits – it’s just ice. Good for temporary tools, maybe simple weapons, but it can't become steel... or anything else. The shattered blade proved that.

Ice stays ice. He panted, glancing at his palm, still tingling from the cold backlash. But a dagger? Arrows? Simple spikes? Shields? Hope surged through the fatigue again. That's still revolutionary. I just need to be smarter. Stick to things ice can be.

He focused inward. [MANA REGENERATION RATE: 1 point per 100 minutes.] Slow. Painfully slow. He needed to be smarter. Conjure only what was absolutely necessary. Small, targeted creations.

He thought bigger. If a simple dagger costs three Mana... how much for a wall? A barrier tall enough to stop a charge? He visualized a section of ice wall, chest-high, thick as his arm. Probably fifty Mana? A hundred?

And a castle? He imagined Stormkeep itself, carved from shimmering ice. Probably hundreds of mana. Maybe even thousands. The scale was staggering.

But ambition ignited. This ability... He saw his future fortress potentially augmented, replaced, by conjured ice if he grew strong enough. Instant defenses. Bridges over impassable terrain. Fortifications appearing where enemies least expected.

The power... it's limitless. If I have the Mana.

He looked at his status screen:

[NAME: EIRIK STORMCROW] 

[REALM: SNOW (RANK 5 of 5)] 

[PEAK ACHIEVED] 

[STATS] 

[STRENGTH: 18] 

[ENDURANCE: 10] 

[AGILITY: 15] 

[INTELLECT: 12] 

[CHARM: 6] 

[MANA:5/25] 

[FREE STAT POINTS: 5] 

[SKILLS] 

[SWORDSMANSHIP: (C-)]

[ALCHEMY: (D)] 

[CLIMBING: (C-)] 

[RIDING: (D)] 

[ARMOR PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)] 

[ABILITIES] 

[SLOT ONE: IDENTIFY (EQUIPPED)] 

[SLOT TWO: ICE CONJURATION: (EQUIPPED)] 

[SLOT THREE: EMPTY]

Five free points. And an empty slot. His mind raced. Ice Conjuration burns Mana fast. My pool is 25, but Regeneration is slow. Intellect governs mental focus and likely helps control complex conjurations and maybe Mana Regeneration?

Intellect. He needed to fuel his greatest new weapon.

[ALLOCATING STAT POINTS…] 

[INTELLECT: 12 → 17 (5 Points Used)]

The surge wasn't physical. It was crystalline clarity washing through his mind. The lingering fog of exhaustion retreated. His thoughts snapped into sharper focus. Details he'd overlooked – the specific grain of pine bark, faint squirrel tracks in nearby snow – registered instantly. The complex process of visualizing for Ice Conjuration suddenly felt less straining, more intuitive.

[MANA REGENERATION RATE: 1 point per 60 minutes] 

Faster! Confirmed! Intellect did matter for Mana Regen.

He still had 5 mana… What if he could use it for something… 

No. A memory he kept locked deep surfaced. Home. Before the Academy. 

A cramped apartment smelling of old books and burnt toast. Winter sunlight streaming through frost-rimed windows. Laughter. Her laughter. 

Anya.

His sister. Twelve years old, forever trapped in that time before everything went wrong. Before the illness that sapped her strength and stole the light from her eyes. Before the desperate scramble for treatment funds that turned him towards the harsh, well-paying path of the military. Before the inevitable silence in that sterile white room.

He hadn't thought of Anya in years. Hadn't allowed himself. Her memory was a reminder of the helplessness he despised. Of the cost of softness. Of standing there, watching her die, knowing there's nothing that he could do for her. 

Why now? Why here? Is it the cold? The sheer fucking weirdness of wielding ice magic?

He opened his eyes, staring at his empty hands. Hands that had wielded knives, silenced men, triggered explosives, and today, hurled shields and weapons and medieval alchemy bombs. Hands that had held Anya's fragile ones as she faded. A lump formed in his throat.

Five mana.

The idea bloomed fully formed, shocking in its simplicity. Something utterly useless. 

The snow globe.

It had been cheap tourist tat, bought from a stall near her hospital during one of the rare outings she felt strong enough for. Glass dome. Plastic base painted gold. Inside, a miniature cityscape dusted with fake snow. He'd shaken it for her endlessly, watching her tired eyes sparkle as the plastic flakes swirled.

He could see it perfectly. The smooth curve of the glass. The slightly garish gold paint. The clumsy miniature skyscrapers inside. He knew every detail, etched by a thousand anxious glances while sitting beside her bed.

Ice, his practical mind cut in. That’s all I have. Ice. He couldn't make glass. He couldn't make plastic. He couldn't make paint. It won't be the same thing. It can't be.

Yet... the shape... the feeling... Could he capture that?

This is stupid. Dangerous sentiment. His hands, calloused from all that climbing, felt suddenly empty. Hands that had held Anya’s fragile ones. Five mana. A useless expenditure. But... maybe... just for a moment...

Fine. Just ice. Simple shapes. 

He pushed the thought against his soldier’s logic. He focused inward, past the exhaustion, pushing the sharp pang of memory into fuel for his will.

Forget gold paint and plastic. He concentrated solely on the idea of it: The smooth dome shape. The tiny city cluster inside. The swirling white flakes. He poured his remaining mana into this simpler visualization, focusing on creating the forms of ice, not trying to mimic impossible substances. 

He focused inward, past the exhaustion, pushing the sharp pang of memory into fuel for his will. Focus. 

He poured his remaining mana into the visualization, shaping it: a clear dome, a cluster of miniature ice towers, and countless fine ice flakes suspended inside a conjured liquid shell. Just to capture the look.

The feeling.

[MANA EXPENDED: 5]

[MANA: 0/25]

The air directly above his open palm shimmered violently. Condensation formed rapidly, coalescing into a thick, swirling mist that glowed faintly blue from within. Tiny points of intense cold sparked like distant stars within the haze.

For a single, breathless second, the mist collapsed inwards with a faint ping, as if a tiny bell had been struck.

Then, it was there.

Resting gently on his palm: a snow globe made entirely of magically conjured ice.

Eirik sucked in a sharp breath, freezing air scraping his lungs. He didn't dare move. 

Instead of glass, the dome was pure, transparent ice, flawlessly smooth and cool. Inside, suspended in a clear, conjured liquid, floated countless, impossibly fine flakes of pure white ice. At the center, anchored to the bottom, stood a cluster of miniature buildings – rough-hewn, abstract representations of skyscrapers, carved entirely from ice. The base itself was simply a smooth cone of ice, shaped to hold the dome – no paint, no gold, just solid, clear frost.

A wave of vertigo washed over him. His hand trembled. He raised the icy construct slowly, level with his eyes, peering into its tiny, frozen world.

Anya.

Her face surfaced in his mind, pale but smiling. He saw her small hands reaching for the globe he'd shaken endlessly. Heard her soft sigh of wonder.

His vision blurred. He blinked fiercely, the harsh reality of the frozen forest pressing back in. The cheers from the distant men seemed worlds away. Here, cradled in his palm, was a piece of his soul he'd buried deep.

This is ridiculous. The soldier in him snarled. But his fingers tightened protectively around the cool base. 

He'd just fought a brutal battle, secured his position through ruthless cunning and physical prowess, and here he sat, trembling over a child's toy conjured from ice and memory.

He lifted the globe higher and gave it a tiny, careful shake.

Inside the glass sphere, the microscopic ice flakes exploded into motion. A miniature blizzard raging within the confines of the globe, catching the fading grey light of the forest dusk.

They danced and tumbled in the viscous liquid, chaotic, beautiful… he watched the silent storm, utterly mesmerized. 

Silence returned.

He carefully tucked the snow globe inside his tunic. The cool ice was a grounding point. He pushed himself up from the roots, ignoring the groan of his muscles.

The feast.

Chapter Twenty-Five (TIBK)

Lord Cedric Stormcrow felt the world tilt beneath him.

Beside him, Lady Ingrid was rigid. Her flawless composure fractured, revealing pure, icy rage beneath. She said nothing, but her gaze burned holes into the field where Garrick's stripped knights were being herded.

Garrick stood nearby, hauled back after his surrender. Stripped of gleaming armor, clad only in a sweat-stained gambeson, he vibrated with humiliation and fury. His face was flushed crimson, eyes wide and wild.

Cedric watched the Marshal of his garrison being hauled away by two ragged street thugs.

Silence fell over the platform. The nobles who had jeered Eirik's 'pot boys' were now deathly quiet.

The silence shattered.

"THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!" Garrick's voice was a strangled shriek. He lurched forward, pointing a shaking finger at the field. "DISHONEST! CHEATING! FATHER! YOU SAW IT!"

Cedric slowly turned his head. His gaze, colder than the Frostmire wind, settled on his heir. Garrick flinched but pressed on.

"He prepared all of that!" Garrick spat, gesturing wildly. "The logs! The ropes! The jars! He had those vile things made beforehand! This wasn't a fair contest! He didn't face us with men, he faced us with tricks and traps!"

He whirled to address the stunned nobles. "He ambushed us! Like bandits! This isn't warfare, it's cowardice! He violated the spirit of the wargame! DISQUALIFY HIM!"

Garrick's chest heaved. "And the cliff! How did he get men up there? Impossible! Unless he used forbidden means!" The implication hung heavy – magic, though he dared not say it outright. "He planned it all meticulously, unfairly, long before the horn!"

Cedric remained silent, his face a mask. He watched as Eirik descended a less treacherous path from the cliff, flanked by Olaf and several Talons carrying ropes. They moved with purpose toward the clearing where Leif organized the prisoners.

Marshal Gunnar walked stiffly beside them under guard, his face stone, radiating quiet fury mixed with profound shame.

Garrick saw them approaching and his tirade intensified. "There! Look at him! Smug in his victory built on filth! Father! You must declare this null! It was dishonorable! He shames our name with these gutter tactics!"

Eirik reached the base of the rise. He looked up. His face was pale with exhaustion, etched with strain, but his ice-blue eyes were clear and unwavering as they met Cedric's.

"Lord Cedric," Eirik's voice rang clear despite fatigue. "The wargame is concluded. Commander Garrick Stormcrow yielded his force. Commander Gunnar yielded his force. I stand victorious."

Before Cedric could speak, Garrick exploded. "Victory? VICTORY? Stolen through deceit and trickery! Father, I demand justice! He violated the rules!"

Eirik turned his gaze slowly toward Garrick. The contempt in that look could have frozen fire.

"Violated what rule, Garrick?" Eirik asked, voice deceptively calm. "Did the rules state we could not prepare the field? Did they forbid the use of terrain? Did they outlaw alchemy?"

He gestured toward Garrick's disgraced knights. "You brought the finest coursers, the shiniest armor your mother could buy. You brought trained knights." He pointed toward Gunnar's veterans. "The Marshal brought his finest shield wall, decades of discipline. Was that not preparation? Was that not bringing an advantage?"

Garrick spluttered. "Th-that's different! That's proper warfare! Arms and armor! You used filth! Traps!"

"Different how?" Eirik pressed. The intensity in his voice silenced the murmurs among the nobles. "Because your preparation relied on wealth and tradition, while mine relied on intelligence and exploiting weakness? You think because my traps were made of wood and clay, not steel and silver talons, they are somehow less valid?"

Cedric observed in silence.

"The rules," Eirik continued, addressing Cedric and the nobles, "stated no live steel. No Mana. Victory by incapacitating the opposing force or forcing surrender. They said nothing about how to achieve that incapacitation."

He gestured toward the field. "My men used blunted weapons. They captured, they didn't slaughter. Was it brutal? War is brutal. But dishonorable?"

He locked eyes with Gunnar. "Marshal Gunnar. You are a veteran of true wars against Skarl raiders, border skirmishes. Tell me. Did your victories ever come solely from matching shield wall against shield wall? Or did you ever use an ambush? A night raid? Did you ever exploit a river crossing? A narrow pass? Did you ever use tricks?"

Gunnar remained silent, but his jaw worked. He couldn't deny it. Every commander knew surprise and terrain were weapons as potent as any blade.

Garrick saw Gunnar's hesitation and pounced. "The cliff! How, bastard? How did you get men and equipment up that ice wall? Explain that! No one could climb that so fast! You must have cheated!"

All eyes turned to Eirik. This was the crux. Cedric leaned forward slightly. Yes. How?

Eirik met Garrick's accusation head-on. "I climbed it."

A disbelieving snort escaped Garrick. "You? Alone? In minutes? With dozens of heavy armor? Don't insult our intelligence!"

"Not alone. Not with armor initially," Eirik corrected, voice calm and logical. "I climbed it first. Then I hauled the others. It's challenging, yes. But climbable, with skills, practice and patience. Something you wouldn't understand."

He let the barb land, seeing Garrick flush. "Once I was atop the ledge, I secured ropes." He gestured to the thick coils carried by the men behind him. "My men then climbed those ropes, bringing the jars and equipment. We have three men hauling up the two who carried the bulk. It took planning, coordination, and preparation."

He emphasized the last point, subtly referencing his physique, contrasting it with Garrick's softness. "Preparation. Exactly as you prepared your knights and coursers. Exactly as the Marshal prepared his shield wall and his vantage point."

He climbed it himself? Cedric stared at his bastard son. The sheer physical audacity... the risk…

"Lord Cedric. The wargame tested strategy, resourcefulness, and command. I used the terrain. I used available resources – craftsmen, alchemical components purchasable in any market. I used the predictable aggression of one opponent and the disciplined caution of the other against them."

He stepped forward, gaze unwavering. "I prepared exhaustively because I had no wealth or veterans to rely on. If using intelligence and preparation is 'dishonest,' then every general who ever won through cunning rather than brute force was dishonest. Do you condemn them too?"

The silence hung heavy, thick with alchemical residue drifting from the field, groans of defeated men, and crackling tension.

Garrick looked frantically between Eirik and Cedric, desperation twisting his features. "Father! You can't—"

"ENOUGH!" Cedric's voice cracked like winter lightning. The single word silenced Garrick instantly.

His mind raced. To deny Eirik the victory publicly now was impossible without appearing weak, favoring incompetence over brutal efficiency. But the sheer, impossible speed of scaling that ice-slicked rock face gnawed at him.

If he cheated with magic… if there’s even a whisper…

Eirik felt the weight of Cedric’s scrutiny instantly. He needs undeniable proof. The proof that he’d kept it hidden for this very moment. He needed them to see him do it.

"Lord Cedric," Eirik called up. "My brother questions how we scaled the cliff. I understand his doubt. To those accustomed only to polished stairs and guarded gates, a sheer rock face is impossible."

He took a deliberate step towards the base of the cliff face he’d descended from, gesturing upwards. Its thirty-foot height seemed even more imposing from ground level, especially the lower section slicked over with a treacherous glaze of verglas where meltwater had refrozen.

"But it is not impossible. Merely difficult. Requiring strength, skill, and the right tool."

He reached for his belt. His fingers faked fetching something inside his tunic, then mentally drew it out from the storage ring, holding it up for all to see.

It was forearm length, thicker than a standard stonemason’s tool, made of dark, unpolished wrought iron. Simple, unadorned, with a leather-wrapped grip stained dark with use. One end was blunt, the other tapered to a sturdy point – more like a thick nail than a blade.

Murmurs rippled through the nobles. What is that? A prybar?

"That?" Garrick spat, finding his voice again, fueled by disbelief. "That rusty bar? You expect us to believe you scaled that," he jabbed a finger at the ice-sheathed cliff, "with that? Father, this is absurd! A peasant's tool!"

Cedric remained silent, his gaze fixed on the chisel.

Eirik ignored Garrick. "This tool," he stated, his voice carrying clearly, "is designed for one thing: securing purchase where nature provides little."

Eirik turned from the platform, scanning the trampled snow until his gaze landed on the cliff face. Sunlight glinted hard off the ice-glazed rock. He ignored the stares, the whispers, the tension from the Stormcrow entourage.

"Olaf!" Eirik's voice cut through the stillness.

The scarred lieutenant materialized at his shoulder. "Aye, Lord?"

"The ropes we used. Retrieve them from the top ledge."

Olaf nodded, signaling to several Talons who began scrambling toward the cliff paths.

Eirik stepped up to the ice-slicked rock. His left foot found a tiny protrusion, smearing for friction. His left hand reached high, fingers finding the familiar crack. He wedged his fingertips deep, muscles bunching.

Then he raised the iron chisel. He positioned its blunt end against the crack above his head, braced, and slammed his palm against the pommel.

THUNK.

The sound echoed dully. The chisel bit deep, transforming the crack into a solid handhold.

A collective intake of breath hissed across the platform. Eyes widened. Even Gunnar leaned forward.

Eirik didn't pause. His right hand grasped the chisel's shaft and pulled, using it to lift himself. His left foot left its ledge. His right foot found purchase on slick rock. He hung suspended, supported by the wedged chisel and boot friction.

They think it's impossible because they've never tried.

He twisted his hips, repositioning. His left hand probed higher, finding a shallow depression. He hooked his fingers, testing his weight. It held. He jammed the chisel higher.

THUNK. Another solid bite.

He hauled himself up. Eight feet off the ground now, clinging to the near-vertical face like a spider against grey rock.

Murmurs erupted into astonishment.

"He's actually doing it!"

"With a digging tool?"

"Look at him move!"

Garrick's jaw hung slack. His accusations about magic withered under the brutal reality unfolding before him. Cedric's expression stayed granite, but his eyes tracked Eirik's every move with laser focus.

Eirik ascended. He jammed the chisel into cracks, slammed it home, used it as an anchor. He smeared his boots on slick holds, contorting for balance. Blood smeared faintly on rock.

Ten feet. Fifteen. The icy glaze thickened. His breath puffed in visible clouds. His muscles burned, but his movements remained steady, relentless.

Twenty feet. The wind whipped harder. Olaf and the Talons had reached the top ledge, uncoiling ropes. But Eirik wasn't waiting.

He spotted the crucial crack higher up – the one that had taken a sideways jam at dawn. He reached up, probing with the chisel tip. Deep. Good. He twisted the chisel perpendicular and slammed it sideways.

THUNK.

He pulled hard, testing. Solid. He transferred his weight, found a bump with his right foot, and lunged upward. His left hand shot high for the familiar knob of rock. Contact!

A ragged cheer burst from some Talons. A noblewoman gasped. Someone shouted, "He'll fall!"

But Eirik didn't fall. He exploded upward, kicking, scrambling, leveraging the knob and boot friction. He hauled himself over the lip, rolling onto the snow-dusted summit thirty feet above the stunned onlookers. He lay for a moment, chest heaving, blood dripping from scraped knuckles.

Silence. Utter, profound silence.

Then chaos erupted.

Gasps became shouts of disbelief. Pointing fingers stabbed the air. The impossible feat rendered even cynical Stormcrow retainers speechless.

Eirik rose to his feet on the ledge, dusting snow from his hands. Without ceremony, he grasped the rope Olaf had lowered and began his descent. He rappelled down in smooth, controlled drops, boots touching the rock face lightly.

Within moments, he stood back on solid ground, coiling the rope with practiced efficiency.

"Impossible!" Garrick choked out, the word hollow with shock.

Cedric slowly rose from his seat. His imposing frame seemed larger against the frozen forest.

"Eirik Stormcrow!" Cedric's voice boomed. "Where… did you get that tool?"

Eirik pushed himself upright. He stood tall on the precipice, silhouetted against winter sun. Below, Olaf tossed down a rope. Eirik ignored it, holding up the iron chisel.

"I designed it, Lord Father," Eirik called down.

"Designed?" Cedric echoed sharply. "By whom? "

"I designed it, Lord Father. After assessing the training grounds and terrain near Stormkeep. Vertical ascents are a weakness in our defenses. And potential attack avenues. I sketched the specifications. A smith in the Fenrir lands forged it."

Another ripple of shock. He designed it?

The greatest reaction came from Marshal Gunnar. The defeated commander snapped his head up, eyes widening. Shame and fury momentarily eclipsed by professional astonishment. He stepped forward involuntarily, gaze locked on the simple iron tool.

"You… designed this?" Gunnar's voice was rough but intense. He stared at the chisel like a newly unearthed relic. "For… climbing battlements? Ice walls?"

"For any vertical obstacle a soldier might face," Eirik confirmed. "Scouting posts, scaling defenses unseen, escaping pursuit, flanking maneuvers. It gives infantry options cavalry don't have."

Gunnar nodded slowly, the soldier overriding the humiliated commander. His mind raced, envisioning possibilities. Small units scaling impossible cliffs under darkness. Scouts reporting from impossible vantage points. Flanking attacks from terrain the enemy believed secure.

"The design…" Gunnar rasped, stepping closer, chains clanking. "Is it replicable? Could it be forged for garrison troops?"

Eirik met his gaze. The shift was happening. The cheating bastard was becoming the innovator who might strengthen their entire force.

"Easily. Simple wrought iron. Any competent smith could forge it."

The platform atmosphere transformed. Garrick looked lost, his cheating accusations rendered irrelevant by this turn toward military innovation. Nobles murmured with dawning strategic curiosity.

Cedric remained standing. His gaze stayed fixed on Eirik, the chisel, and the implications.

"Bring the design to the Stormkeep forge master tomorrow," Cedric commanded, his voice still hard but lacking earlier fury. "We will assess its viability." He looked at Gunnar. "Marshal, you will oversee the evaluation. If this tool has merit, training protocols will be devised."

Gunnar snapped a stiff salute. "Understood, Lord Baron." His voice held a trace of old professional vigor.

Cedric's gaze swept the field – captured knights, humbled veterans, victorious Talons, dangling ropes, and finally Eirik, still standing tall. He had proven his victory wasn't stolen. He had demonstrated unexpected value. He had forced respect, however reluctant.

"The wargame is concluded," Cedric declared, his voice rolling across the clearing. "Eirik Stormcrow stands victorious. House Fenrir's pledge is secured. Leif Fenrir is bound to serve at Commander Eirik's side."

He paused, gaze landing on Isolde, who stood trembling, tears of relief on her cheeks. "Steward Brynn Fenrir will be released from the Ice Mines immediately."

A choked sob escaped Isolde. She sank into deep curtsy. "Thank you, Lord Baron! House Fenrir is in your debt!"

Cedric didn't acknowledge her gratitude. His eyes found Garrick, who flinched. "Garrick Stormcrow. You pledged one thousand talons upon Eirik's victory. See that it is delivered by sunset."

Garrick looked like he'd swallowed a wasp. "But Father—"

"SUNSET!" Cedric snapped. Garrick recoiled, snapping his mouth shut.

Cedric turned back to Eirik. "You have your company, Commander Stormcrow. You have your man. You have your funds. Report to me then with your muster roll and deployment plans. Dismissed."

The words were cold, formal, devoid of praise. But they carried weight that nobody dared to challenge.

Blue light enveloped Eirik.

[Tutorial Quest #5: Leader of the Pack (Martial) - COMPLETE!]

Chapter Twenty-Four (TIBK)

Gunnar's gaze swept the clearing. Eirik's men swarmed over Garrick's incapacitated knights like ants. Others herded the terrified coursers into the woods.

Garrick himself, stripped to his gambeson, was hauled to his feet by two burly Talons. Kael stood nearby, unhelmed, his expression one of profound shame as he supervised his disarmed men being pushed into a tight group.

And where is the architect?

Gunnar scanned intently. He saw Leif Fenrir barking orders near the weapons pile. Olaf directing the horse wrangling. But Eirik was nowhere to be seen.

He glanced at his veterans. Steady as stone. Shields locked. Spears level. Our turn, Gunnar thought. Now the real challenge begins. Eirik wouldn't charge like Garrick. He'd use the woods, try to lure, rely on those damned jars and tricks.

A subtle shift caught his eye. The stripping and herding wrapped up. Leif conferred with Olaf near the captured knights. A sharp nod from Olaf, then the scarred man grabbed recruits and vanished into the tree line.

Leif turned, straightened his shoulders, and raised his voice. "Talons! Form up! Shields front! Spears ready! On me!"

The response was sluggish, disorganized. Street fighters looked reluctant, eyeing their loot. The Fenrir guards moved with more purpose, forming a front rank and shoving Olaf's recruits into place behind them. A messy, uneven formation compared to Gunnar's perfect block.

The ragged formation began moving. Not towards Gunnar's rise. Instead, Leif led them sideways, skirting where Garrick's force had been shattered, keeping well away from Gunnar's position. They marched diagonally across open ground, angling towards the rise but maintaining distance – easily three hundred paces.

They moved slowly. Painfully slowly. Less a march than a grudging shuffle. Shields weren't locked. Spears dipped and wavered.

They're deliberately showing themselves, Gunnar realized. Bait. His gaze swept the dark Blackroot edge opposite his position. He's over there. Eirik. Setting an ambush.

A cold smile touched Gunnar's lips. Amateur. Trying the same trick twice?

His veterans remained a silent fortress on the rise. He counted the shuffling figures. Fifty had started with Eirik. They'd taken casualties against Garrick – maybe ten? That left forty? A few are missing.

The Talon column shuffled closer, now within two hundred fifty paces. Still slow. Leif visibly sweated despite the cold, glancing nervously towards the forest, then back at Gunnar's position.

He's been pushed onto the stage, Gunnar realized. Eirik's put him out here to fail.

Leif stopped the column. He took a visible breath, puffed out his chest, then stepped forward.

"Marshal Gunnar!" Leif's voice rang out. "House Fenrir... The Talons... we stand before you! Your veterans cower on their hill? Afraid of a real fight? We offer you a chance! Surrender now! Spare your men the humiliation!"

The words landed like stones in a frozen pond. Leif sounded like he was reciting lines he didn't believe. His eyes darted towards the forest, desperately seeking approval. From Gunnar's veterans, no reaction. They stared ahead, impassive.

Leif flushed crimson. "Y-you hide behind your shields! Like frightened children! Is that the pride of Stormkeep? Is that Marshal Gunnar's famed courage?" He trailed off, unable to find words.

A figure shoved forward from the Talon ranks.

Number Forty-Two. His limp from Eirik's nerve strike was pronounced, but his swagger was back. He elbowed Leif aside. "Alright, Lordling, you made a mess of it. Let a real talker handle this!"

Forty-Two planted his feet wide and tilted his head back. His voice, honed in a thousand gutter brawls, cut through the air.

"OY! GRANDPA GUNNAR! YOU LOT UP THERE!"

A faint ripple went through Gunnar's front rank. Forty-Two saw it and grinned wider.

"Nice shiny toys you got! Real pretty for polishin'! Bet they look lovely hangin' on your mum's wall! Shame they're about to get dented when we drag you off that fancy hill!"

He took a limping step forward. "We just finished kickin' the shit outta the Heir's parade dolls! Saw 'em cry like babes! And what do we see now? The famous Marshal hidin'! Scared stiff!" He cupped his hands. "DID THE BIG SCARY MARSHAL PISS HIS POLISHED PANTS?!"

A young guardsman in the second rank flushed beneath his helm. The grizzled sergeant beside him growled low. The desire to charge radiated from the block.

"STEADY!" Gunnar's command sliced through the tension. The veterans locked down hard on their fury.

"See?!" Forty-Two yelled. "They need their nursemaid! A bunch of old women with pointy sticks! COME ON DOWN THEN, GRANNY!"

Gunnar ignored the filth. He scanned the Talon force. They'd halted two hundred paces out, well beyond charge range. Leif looked miserable. Forty-Two looked frustrated. The formation was a mess – gaps in the shield wall, spears pointing different directions. Utterly vulnerable to a disciplined downhill charge.

Too vulnerable. It's a trap.

He raised his voice, projecting calm authority. "Hold position. We. Do. Not. Move."

The Talons shifted uneasily. Gunnar had refused the bait. 

"Alright, you useless lumps!" Forty-Two bellowed, turning fury on the Talons. He shoved a nearby recruit. "What? Scared of these shiny tin cans? FORWARD! Or I'll kick your arses myself!"

His raw aggression cut through uncertainty. Fear of Forty-Two proved stronger than fear of distant veterans. A ragged growl went up from Olaf's men. Leif seized the moment. "Talons! ADVANCE! Shields high! Keep formation!"

The column lurched forward. Uneven pace – street fighters swaggering, Fenrir guards moving with stiff reluctance. They covered fifty paces, closing to two hundred yards.

Forty-Two limped ahead, a one-man vanguard of vitriol. "SEE?! Even this bunch ain't scared of ya! They know what you are! Washed-up relics!"

Another fifty paces closed. One hundred fifty yards. Despite its shambling appearance, the formation advanced with clear intent. Forty-Two's tirade whipped them into bravado.

"And YOU!" He pointed at the growling sergeant. "Yeah, you, grandpa! I saw ya flinch! Remember the last time you saw real action? Prob'ly when yer mum slapped yer arse at birth!"

The sergeant took half a step forward before the men beside him locked shields, pulling him back.

Why? Gunnar's mind raced. What does Eirik gain by closing this distance? Even thrown hard, jars wouldn't reach uphill. A downhill charge would catch them easily before they reached woods.

Ninety yards. Eighty. Well within effective range of a downhill cavalry charge. Forty-Two stood barely seventy yards out, hopping on his good leg.

"HEY, GUNNAR! REMEMBER LARKSFORD BRIDGE?! HEARD YOUR MATE TOMMAS DIED SCREAMING LIKE A GUTTED PIG!"

Tommas died while defending Stormkeep, fallen at the hands of the Skarl raiders just a year ago. Pure fury rippled through the veterans. Several men shuffled, shields dipping. The young guard muttered a curse. The sergeant's eyes burned with rage. 

Gunnar felt it too – cold fury in his gut. This had officially crossed a line. But what’s the play here? He calculated rapidly. The forest behind them was still two hundred paces away. His could catch half of Eirik’s men before any reinforcements would show up. He's forced my hand.

He wants me to charge? Fine. I'll charge.

He drew his blunted longsword, steel rasping loud. Every veteran eye snapped to him. He raised the blade high, pointing at the Talon formation's heart.

"VETERANS OF STORMKEEP! SHIELDS UP! SPEARS LEVEL! ADVANCE AT THE WALK!"

The effect on the Talons was instant. Forty-Two's sneer vanished, replaced by panic. "FROST! BACK! BACK TO THE TREES!" The Talon line dissolved into chaotic scramble, discipline gone. Men turned, tripping, dropping spears, sprinting towards distant forest safety.

Exactly as planned, Gunnar thought. They run. We run them down.

"HOLD SPEED! MAINTAIN FORMATION!"

Shields slammed together with thunderous impact, forming an unbroken rampart. Spears pointed downhill. The formation stepped forward as one.

"NOW!" Leif Fenrir's voice cut through the panic – sharp, utterly unlike its earlier hesitation. Not a scream of fear, but a command.

The scrambling Talons stopped running. 

Men planted feet, pivoted with surprising speed, snapped shields together. Fenrir guards slammed shoulders into recruits' backs, locking shields into a tight defensive wall facing uphill. Spears lowered over shield rims in a bristling barrier. The transformation from fleeing rabble to solid defensive line took five heartbeats.

TRAP! 

The realization detonated in Gunnar's mind. But how?! They can't hold us! The woods are too far!

Then the sound came.

FWEET-FWEET-FWEET!

Three sharp, piercing whistles echoed down from behind and above Gunnar's advancing veterans. From the steep, wooded slope he'd dismissed as impossible.

Gunnar's head snapped around, his blood freezing.

Thirty feet up, above the slope that was a near-vertical rock face, five figures stood. 

By Frost mother’s tits. How did they get up there?!

Eirik Stormcrow stood at the center of the small group. Even at this distance, Gunnar could see the cold calculation in his eyes. 

"SHIELDS UP! OVERHEAD!" Gunnar roared. His veterans reacted instantly, shields angled skyward. The advance stuttered to a stop.

What can five men throw? Gunnar thought desperately. Rocks? Jars?!

Eirik's voice cut down from the heights. "Now."

Three heavy Stormcrow shields materialized directly above the veteran center. Tossed from thirty feet.

THUMP! CRACK! BONGG!

The impacts were sickening. The first shield slammed onto an upraised shield, snapping the sergeant's arm. He dropped screaming. The shield bounced, smashing into the helmet behind him with a ringing BONGG!

Before the screams registered, blunted practice spears were thrown at the rear ranks. Heavy oak shafts with weighted iron tips rained down. One struck a helm dead center. Another punched into an exposed neck joint.

CHAOS.

Discipline shattered. Men shouted in pain and confusion, the solid formation buckling. Shields dipped wildly. The perfect wall became a mess of flailing limbs and panicked shouts.

"STEADY!" Gunnar bellowed. "SHIELDS HIGH!" But his heart hammered. This was witchcraft.

"NOW THE JAR!" Eirik commanded.

Helga drew back and hurled the jar high, directly over the densest cluster of veterans. Gunnar tracked its arc, horror dawning.

THWOMPH-CRACK!

It shattered on a helmet. The explosion was a dense, billowing cloud of yellow-white gas that erupted downwards. Not just vinegar and pepper—heavier, choking grit. It sank like poisonous fog, engulfing the rear two thirds of Gunnar's formation.

Hell erupted. Men screamed from agony. The heavier dust mixed with acidic vapor, blinding, searing throats, clawing into lungs. Soldiers dropped shields to clutch at faces. Some ripped off helmets, desperate for air. The solid block dissolved into a choking mass of terror.

"WITCHCRAFT!" a veteran screamed. "DEMONS!"

"FORM UP! MASK FACES!" Gunnar choked, but it was too late. Half his force was blind and incapacitated.

Eirik's hand dipped inside his cloak. Another jar appeared. "Helga!"

"No!" Gunnar roared. "BREAK RANKS! SCATTER!"

Too late. Helga hurled the jar high. The jar exploded over the front ranks, doubling the chaos.

Below, Leif Fenrir's heart thundered. He'd seen the shields materialize, heard the screams. It was terrifying. Glorious. Their only chance.

"NOW!" Leif screamed, ripping his shortsword high. "TALONS! FOR VICTORY! CHARGE!"

He ran. Uphill. Straight towards Gunnar's dissolving formation. His boots churned frozen earth.

"GET 'EM!" Forty-Two roared. "STAB THE BLIND ONES!"

The ragged line erupted upwards with a collective roar. Olaf's recruits surged forward with spiked clubs and rusty axes. The Fenrir guards found discipline morphing into fierce aggression. They hit the slopes like howling furies.

Gunnar stood amidst carnage. His men were scattered, choking, half-blinded. Panic ruled. And now the rabble was charging uphill.

I underestimated him. Severely.

He saw Leif scrambling over a fallen veteran, shortsword stabbing down. His precious veterans were being swarmed by thieves and farmers.

"VETERANS!" Gunnar bellowed, shoving towards a knot of untouched men near the back—a dozen who'd avoided the worst. "TO ME! SHIELD WALL!"

His voice cut through chaos. Men stumbled towards him. Shields slammed together, a desperate hedgehog facing the charging Talons.

"SPEARS OUT! IGNORE THE CLIFF!" Gunnar ordered, taking his place. He hoped Eirik was done.

He wasn't.

"Bjorn! Goran! Shields!" Eirik commanded. They heaved shields sideways off the cliff edge, letting them tumble down the steep slope.

THUD! WHUMP! CLANG!

The shields bounced violently down the scree, slamming terrifyingly close, spraying rock shards, forcing men to flinch just as the Talon wave crashed into their line.

Leif slammed his shield into a spearman's face. Fenrir guards thrust spears into gaps. Olaf's recruits flowed around flanks, using numbers and brutal savagery. The circle buckled.

Gunnar hacked down a screaming recruit, parried Leif's thrust. Too many! Too close! He kicked another Talon away.

"VETERANS! TO ME! SERGEANT MADSON, LEFT FLANK! HOLD THEM!" His voice sliced through the gas remnants, screams, and panic. It was a lifeline.

Men reacted. Instincts forged in brutal Skarl raids kicked in. Soldiers clawed at streaming eyes, ignored burning throats, and stumbled towards their Marshal's command. Shields were snatched up. Spears leveled. Discipline began to reassert itself.

Leif Fenrir lunged with his shortsword, aiming for a gap in the reforming line. A veteran slammed his shield down, catching Leif's blade with a jarring CLANG. He rammed the shield forward, sending Leif stumbling back.

"CLOSE RANKS!" Gunnar stepped into the gap. His blunted longsword whipped out in a blinding arc. THWACK! A spiked club flew from a recruit's hand as the man yelped, clutching his wrist. "PUSH THEM BACK!"

The veterans obeyed. Shields overlapped. Feet dug into frozen slope. The chaotic retreat halted. The desperate melee solidified into two distinct forces: the ragged, aggressive Talons and the smaller but disciplined knot of veterans forming around Gunnar.

Forty-five of us started, Gunnar's mind raced. We took losses in the gas, but these aren't Garrick's soft knights. These are wolves. He parried a clumsy spear thrust, his riposte a brutal shield bash. They're bleeding and blinded, but they know how to bite back.

He risked a glance upward. Five figures on the cliff. They'd thrown shields and jars. They had nothing left. No more surprises, boy. Your tricks are spent.

"ADVANCE! DRIVE THEM DOWNHILL!"

The veteran crescent took a thunderous step forward. Shields slammed into the Talon line. Spears punched through gaps. Two recruits went down screaming. The Talon advance faltered.

On the cliff, Eirik watched the tide turn. Faster than I hoped. Gunnar rallying his veterans sent cold adrenaline through him. They're not broken. Each one is worth three of mine in open combat.

He saw Olaf trying to rally the left flank, but they hesitated against veteran ferocity. Leif held the center with Fenrir guards, but they were being pushed back by the disciplined shield wall.

Numbers don't mean everything. Eirik calculated ruthlessly. We have forty-one. They have thirty-five veterans still active? But their thirty-five are armored, disciplined, led by a legend. My forty-one are scared, tired, facing seasoned killers who just shook off a chemical attack.

Below, Gunnar saw hesitation in the Talon ranks. He slammed his shield forward, forcing another step uphill. "SEE?! THEY WEAKEN! CRUSH THEM! FOR STORMCROW!"

The veteran roar echoed with brutal confidence. Two more steps. The Talons gave ground, their formation buckling. One of Goran's recruits panicked, dropping his spear and scrambling backwards.

They need a shock, Eirik thought. Something impossible. Something that shatters Gunnar's confidence.

His gaze snapped to the battlefield. Gunnar was the epicenter of veteran resistance, driving his men forward. Break him, break them.

The solution ignited in his mind. He focused on his Storage Ring. He visualized the pile of gleaming Stormcrow officer's gear. Much heavier than shields.

"Bjorn! Helga! Goran! Thirteen!" Eirik snapped. "Forget shields. We're upgrading."

The climbers looked confused. "Upgrading, Lord?"

Eirik's hand reappeared holding a gleaming Stormcrow sallet helmet – polished steel with a razor-sharp visor. He tossed it to Bjorn. "Catch."

Bjorn caught it, eyes wide. "A helmet?"

Eirik was already pulling out more gear. A heavy scale chestplate. Another helmet. Thick vambraces. A kettle helm. The gear piled up on the snowy ledge.

"Targets?" Goran asked, hefting a helmet.

Eirik pointed down. "The center. Where Gunnar is pushing hardest. Don't just drop them. Throw them. Aim for mass, for helmets, for leaders."

He turned to Bjorn. "You see Gunnar? The big one roaring orders? Make him flinch."

Bjorn grinned ferally, gripping the sallet like a throwing stone. "Aye, Lord. With pleasure."

Below, the veterans gained momentum. Another step. Leif was forced back. Olaf's recruits wavered. Gunnar sensed victory. "ALMOST! ONE MORE PUSH!"

He drew breath to roar the final order.

FWEET! FWEET! FWEET!

Three sharp whistles sliced down from the cliff.

Gunnar's head snapped up. What now?! Shields again?

But the shapes falling weren't flat discs. They were bulky, gleaming objects tumbling through the air. Too small for logs… Helmets? Armor?

CRUNCH! THUD! CLANG! BONNGG!

The impacts were utterly different.

A heavy chestplate slammed onto a veteran's shield, crumpling it like parchment and driving the man to his knees with a sickening crack. He screamed, his arm bent at a hideous angle.

Helga's kettle helm struck another veteran square on his head. The BONGGGG resonated like a funeral bell. The man dropped unconscious.

A pair of vambraces spun wildly and smashed into the shield wall, tangling legs and sending two men sprawling.

But Bjorn's throw was art. He put his whole body into a vicious overhand cast, aiming directly for the Marshal.

Gunnar saw the glint of steel arcing towards him. Instinct screamed Dodge! But he was hemmed in by his own men. He raised his shield desperately.

The heavy helmet slammed onto his shield's upper rim with terrifying force. The impact was a hammer strike from the heavens. Pain exploded down his arm. His shield sagged violently, tearing his grip loose. He stumbled back, crashing into the men behind him.

For one horrifying second, the center of the veteran formation was exposed. The Marshal was staggering. The shield wall buckled.

"NOW!" Eirik roared from above.

Leif Fenrir, seeing the opening, acted with desperate courage. He didn't shout. He charged. Lowering his shoulder, he slammed into the gap where Gunnar had stood. "FENRIR! WITH ME!"

The Fenrir guards surged forward with a ragged cry. Olaf saw the ripple and bellowed, "PUSH! ALL OF YOU! PUSH OR DIE!" His recruits threw themselves forward with renewed savagery.

The veteran formation, stunned by the impossible rain of armor, momentarily leaderless, and hit with a ferocious counter-charge, finally fractured.

It wasn't a rout. Not yet. But the unbreakable discipline shattered. The line became pockets of furious resistance rather than a solid wall.

Gunnar shoved himself upright, ignoring the fire in his shoulder. Disaster! Regain control! He saw Sergeant Madson rallying five veterans. "MADSON! FORM ON ME!"

The battle dissolved into brutal free-for-all across the slope. Pure attrition now. Man against man, fury against discipline, desperation against experience.

Eirik watched, jaw clenched. The throwing had given them a critical opening, but it hadn't broken them. Gunnar was still fighting, still rallying pockets. They're regrouping. We need to end this. Now.

His eyes locked onto Gunnar.

Cut the head off the snake, Eirik thought. But how? Gunnar's the best fighter here.

His gaze swept the chaotic slope. Distraction. Leverage. The environment. His climbing skill, agility, his ring – they were tools.

"Hold position!" Eirik commanded his climbers. "Cover me if anyone tries to scale up."

He moved along the cliff edge laterally, seeking the best approach above Gunnar's position. He found it – a point where the slope was steepest, scattered with ice-coated boulders. Gunnar was fighting near these boulders, using them to anchor his flank.

Perfect.

Eirik focused. The icy rock face became a ladder only he could see clearly. He jammed his chisel into a fissure and swung over the edge.

He descended with controlled recklessness, fueled by desperation and boosted agility. Boots scraped ice. Fingers locked onto holds for the briefest instant. He moved like a shadow down the steep face, using boulders as cover.

[CLIMBING EXPERIENCE +2]

[MANA FRAGMENT +2]

He landed lightly behind a massive boulder, ten feet above where Gunnar was battling. The Marshal was focused entirely on the threat in front, deflecting spear thrusts, roaring orders. The wind masked Eirik's descent.

One chance. He focused again. The perfect distraction. He visualized a heavy vambrace materializing in his hand, and sent it directly in front of Gunnar.

FWOOSH!

The gleaming armor tumbled down the slope, clattering towards Gunnar's feet.

Gunnar's reflexes were lightning-fast. He saw the sudden motion, the flash of steel falling from nowhere. He flinched back, shield snapping down defensively.

It was the opening Eirik needed.

He exploded from behind the boulder, launching himself sideways along the steep slope. He used momentum and boosted Agility to run across the near-vertical face for three impossible strides. He planted his boot on a rock outcrop and pushed off, leaping into the air.

Gunnar, sensing movement behind him too late, started to turn. His eyes widened as he saw Eirik Stormcrow airborne, descending like an avenging hawk, with a wooden sword raised high.

Eirik channeled every ounce of Strength into the downward blow.

The wooden sword slammed down onto the back of Gunnar's raised shield arm, just above the vambrace.

CRACK!

The shield strap snapped. Gunnar's arm went instantly numb. The heavy oak shield tore free, tumbling down the slope.

Eirik landed hard beside Gunnar, immediately spinning to face the Marshal, sword held ready. Gunnar stumbled sideways. He stared at Eirik with shock and furious disbelief.

Around them, the fighting stuttered. Veterans and Talons froze, witnessing the impossible. Their Marshal… disarmed?

Eirik didn't hesitate. He leveled the chisel, pointing the blunt tip at Gunnar's chest. His voice cut through the wind.

"Yield, Marshal Gunnar." He gestured towards the slope where isolated veterans were being surrounded. "It's over."

Gunnar stood rigid. Pain lanced up his arm, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation. He'd been outthought, outfought, outmaneuvered. Tricked by gas, logs, shields, and now by impossible movement and a damned bastard.

He looked into Eirik Stormcrow's cold, unwavering eyes. He saw no mercy, only ruthless finality. He looked around at his veterans, bleeding, surrounded. Still fighting, but hope was gone as they saw their Marshal defeated.

Gunnar's shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, meeting Eirik's gaze. His voice was stripped of command.

"Yield."

Chapter Twenty-Three (TIBK)

Eirik turned north, towards the rise. Sunlight glinted off polished helms and heavy oak shields. 

Gunnar's veterans hadn't moved an inch. 

They were stationed on a low, rocky rise. The rise wasn't a mountain, but it was strategically perfect. Fifteen feet high, its slope slick with frozen scree. Behind it, the ground rose more steeply towards the true foothills of the Icefang Peaks, a natural fortress wall.

To Gunnar's left flank, dense woods bordered a frozen stream. To his right, open ground fell away towards the wider Frostmire clearing. His fifty men formed an unbroken shield wall facing the direction Eirik had emerged from the forest, and were guarding the only viable approach—a steepened slope.

Hold the high ground. Anchor the flank against impassable terrain. Eirik's tactical mind dissected Gunnar’s tactics. It was simple yet brutal. Gunnar had basically eliminated all of his options for him, leaving him with one—charging into Gunnar’s disciplined warriors uphill. 

And it'd be suicide. For Eirik. 

"Lord Eirik!" Olaf materialized beside him. "Reporting!"

Eirik gave him a nod.

Olaf was breathing hard, wiping blood from his face. "We got all of them. Horses, armor, good weapons."

"Our numbers?"

Olaf's grin faded. "Forty-one Talons still standing. Nine of us were too hurt to fight. Mostly Leif's lads got caught when Garrick's knights smashed the center."

Forty-one tired men against fifty disciplined killers holding perfect defensive position. The math was brutal. Worse, Gunnar had seen everything. The traps, gas bombs, flanking maneuvers. All his tricks were exposed.

Gunnar wouldn't be lured into the trees. He wouldn't charge. He'd just sit there and let Eirik break himself against it.

Leif pushed off the tree, swaying. "So, Lord Eirik. We broke the peacock. Now what?"

Ignoring Leif's venom, Eirik scanned the rise again. The slope was steep, rocky, dotted with scrub. To the west, land fell sharply into thick woods—the chokepoint Gunnar was guarding.

To the east of Gunnar's rise, the terrain climbed even steeper, culminating in cliffs of dark, jagged rock dusted with snow. A sheer barrier.

A memory sliced through his assessment. Basil II. The Battle of Kleidion. The Byzantine Emperor facing a formidable fortress on steep hills. Direct assault was impossible, so Basil had sent soldiers on an impossible night march—scaling treacherous cliffs, emerging behind the defenders at dawn, striking from the rear while his main force attacked below.

Could it work? His gaze fixed on the cliffs above Gunnar's position. It wasn't a sheer cliff, but steep enough. Icy rock faces mixed with snow-choked gullies and jagged outcrops. A brutal climb.

But he had prepared for this. 

"Olaf, Leif. With me. Now."

He strode towards larger boulders offering cover and vantage. They crouched.

"Look," Eirik pointed towards Gunnar's hill. "The Marshal isn't an idiot. He saw Garrick fall for every trick. He won't come down. Charging him head-on is feeding men into a grinder."

"Then what?" Leif demanded. "Surrender?"

"No. We crack the rock. From behind." He shifted his finger upwards, tracing the line to the dark cliffs. "There."

Olaf squinted. "The slopes? M'lord, those are ice-glazed. No one climbs that without ropes from the top."

"They're climbable. For me. I get up. I secure ropes. I pull up a small team. We get behind them."

Leif stared, disbelief warring with horrified hope. "You're insane! Scaling that? Alone? In daylight? They'll see you!"

"They won't. Not if we make sure they're looking down here. Not up there." He gestured towards the forest below Gunnar's position. "Gunnar expects an ambush in the trees. He saw us do it to Garrick twice. We let him think that's exactly what we're doing."

Olaf rubbed his chin. "Make a big show of moving men into the woods below him. Rustling bushes, flashing steel, maybe dropping visible bait where scouts might find it. Make 'em think we're setting the same trap."

"Exactly. Gunnar'll think he's outsmarted us. He'll hold firm, confident, eyes locked on the forest... while you spider-crawl up the mountain."

"We need to sell the deception," Eirik continued. "It has to look real. Like our only hope is drawing him into the woods. You, Olaf, lead that show. Leif, you're key. Rally your Fenrir men for a desperate forest stand. Bleak but predictable."

Leif swallowed hard. "He won't fall for it. He's too smart."

"He's smart and experienced. But he's also cautious and confident. He saw a tactic work twice. He'll expect the third try." Eirik looked at Olaf. "Hold his attention down here. Skirmish safely. Taunt. Make it look like classic ambush prep."

"I need climbers. Strong, agile, steady nerves. Who?"

"Bjorn," Olaf said immediately. "Recruit Twenty-Two. Used to scrambling cliffs stealing eagle eggs. And Twenty-Nine. Helga—she could climb a greased pole in a snowstorm."

"Two more?"

"Goran. And… Thirteen! He could climb."

Eirik looked at Leif, who still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 

"Get them. Fast. Bring ropes. Sturdy and long lengths. We move now."

As Olaf hurried off, Eirik turned to Leif. "Your job is vital. Make it real. Your despair, defiance, focus on the forest ambush as the only way. Gunnar needs to believe it."

Within minutes, the camp became a flurry of noisy chaos. Olaf bellowed orders, herding thirty Talons – a mix of his recruits and some Fenrir guards – back towards the forest edge.

"RIGHT! YOU LAZY SODS! MOVE THAT LOG! BIGGER ONE! THEY'LL SEE IT FROM THEIR PRETTY HILL!" Olaf roared, pointing at a hefty fallen pine trunk near the treeline. 

Men scrambled, grunting as they heaved at it.

"NO, YOU IDIOT, FORTY-SEVEN! THE OTHER WAY! MAKE IT POINT AT THE BLOODY CLEARING! TRAP THEIR FLANK! THINK!"

"OI! WHERE'S THAT BARREL OF PISS-VINEGAR?!" another recruit yelled, loud enough to carry. "CHECK THE BACK TREES!"

"TRIGGER LINES HERE! RUN 'EM DEEP! DON'T WANT THE OLD PUSSY SEEING 'EM TILL IT'S TOO LATE!" someone else shouted from deeper within the shadows.

It was loud. It was clumsy. It looked exactly like a rabble trying desperately to set up hasty forest traps under pressure. Logs were dragged with much grunting and shouting. Arguments broke out about positioning. Men tripped over ropes. 

It was all for one audience member: Marshal Gunnar.

While the forest theater played out, Eirik was alone with a pile of the shields and spears his men confiscated from Garrick’s force and had them piled together. He had told everyone to leave him, and made sure nobody was near him.

He focused. Store. 

One shield vanished from the pile. 

Store. Another. 

Store. Store. Store. Store. All shields and spears gone. 

Store. Store. Store. Store. Store. Store. The helmets and armor followed.

———

Marshal Gunnar sat atop his warhorse on a snow-dusted rise near the northern edge of the Frostmire clearing. Not the highest point – Baron Cedric's viewing platform claimed that – but it offered clear sightlines to the tree line fifty paces away where Eirik's rabble had vanished, and across to where Garrick's force had massed for its doomed charge.

More importantly, it anchored the left flank of his veteran block.

Gunnar's mind mapped the terrain. Frostmire clearing at center. Dense Blackroot Forest east. Thinner woods bordering a frozen stream west. The rise gave his fifty veterans elevation advantage and anchored them against the western woods. Anyone flanking through those trees would be channeled into a narrow gap between the rise and stream bank.

An attacker would have to come head-on, across open ground, into his shield wall.

He'd expected Eirik's force to break immediately before Garrick's charge. Then his disciplined block would advance and mop up the scattered remnants. Easy. Clean.

Behind him, his fifty men remained motionless. Their shields formed an unbroken wall of oak and iron, locked tight, overlapping. These were men who knew how to wait. Victory often came not to the first attacker, but to the one who watched and struck when the enemy was off-balance.

Minutes crawled by. Only the wind sighing through ancient pines and distant murmur from the noble spectators broke the silence.

A scout materialized beside his horse. "Marshal," he rasped urgently.

Gunnar didn't turn. "Status?"

"Eirik used tricks. Gas, traps. Garrick's men were beaten like pigs in a pen. The bastard's rabble swarmed them. Garrick yielded."

Gunnar finally turned. "Yielded? Already? Confirmed?"

The scout nodded. "Aye, Marshal. They used log traps to take out two knights at the charge front. Then jars, Lord. Clay jars."

"Jars?"

"Yes. Jars. It released a thick, yellow-white cloud. Like the worst fog mixed with vinegar and pepper spray. Horses went mad. Knights who breathed it went blind, choking, useless. Some fell right out of their saddles."

Gunnar’s lips thinned. Vinegar? Pepper? Garrick’s knights had lost to this?

His scout continued. "They're preparing something in the trees, Marshal. Loud noises. Hammering. Shouts about logs and jars. They dropped… looks like an empty sling and some tools near the edge."

Gunnar’s second-in-command, a grizzled sergeant named Madsen, spat onto the snow. "Pathetic. Think they're fooling us, Marshal?"

Gunnar remained still as the rock beneath him. "They're desperate, Madsen. They beat the spoiled whelp through trickery and numbers. They think the same will work on us. They're setting an ambush in the trees. They want us to leave this hill and chase them into their traps."

Madsen chuckled. "That gas’s nasty stuff. But here?" He gestured at the clear, open slope before them and the solid rock at their back. "Wind blowing towards them, not us. If they charge that shield wall uphill, they'd break before they got halfway."

"Exactly," Gunnar murmured. He saw a recruit near the forest edge stumble and drop his end of a log, earning a cuff from Olaf. The shouting about vinegar barrels intensified.

"Their commander knows it. That's why the noise. Trying to bluff us into moving." 

He turned to address his line. " The Bastard thinks he can pull the same trick twice! He's scurrying into the woods to set his petty snares!" A low chuckle ran through the ranks. "But we are not Lord Garrick's pretty fools! We hold the high ground. We hold the pass. They want a fight? They come to us!"

He slammed his fist against his shield. "HOLD!"

A chorus of guttural "AYE, MARSHAL!" answered him.

———

Eirik halted his team behind a cluster of massive, frost-rimed boulders.

"See the cliffs above Gunnar's hill? That's our target." He traced an invisible path with his finger through the dense woods. "We loop wide. North, then east, then back south behind the cliffs. Approach from the blind side. Follow my steps exactly. No talking."

They moved deeper into the Blackroot, the canopy thickening. They wove through dense thickets of thorny holly that snagged cloaks and tore skin. They crossed the frozen stream, testing each step carefully, the ice groaning ominously underfoot.

After thirty minutes of painstaking progress, Eirik raised his fist again. They crouched low in the shadow of a towering granite outcrop, the dark, jagged face of the cliffs rising directly before them. This side was steep, shaded, and layered with treacherous verglas.

"This is it," Eirik pointed upwards. "That ledge, thirty feet up. Then that chimney crack leading to the summit plateau."

The climbers followed his gaze. Helga sucked in a breath.

"We wait here. Stay silent," Eirik commanded. "Olaf needs to make his move. Gunnar needs to be looking the other way."

The minutes stretched. Did Olaf time it right? If Gunnar glances this way, even once… we're exposed.

Then it came.

A sudden crescendo of noise erupted from the forest below Gunnar's position – shouts, the crash of wood on wood, the unmistakable clang of steel meeting steel. Olaf's voice carried a raw edge of command and aggression.

He looked sharply at his climbers. Their heads were all turned towards the noise.

"That's the signal." Eirik stated. "I go first. When I secure the rope, I'll drop it."

He pulled the familiar iron chisel from his belt. He looked up the forbidding ice-glazed rock face. This is where his climbing grind earns its keep.

Taking a deep breath of the frigid air, Eirik stepped forward and jammed the blunt tip of the chisel into a thin crack at waist height. He twisted, wedging it solid. The metal shrieked faintly against the rock.

His enhanced spatial awareness flared. The route unfolded in his mind's eye – a sequence of cracks, tiny ledges, and icy bulges.

He hauled himself up on the chisel, his boosted grip strength locking onto the cold iron. His left foot found a crystal knob, barely a bump. His right boot pressed flat against the icy bulge, relying on the friction control granted by his skill.

He moved fluidly, pulling the chisel free with a practiced twist as he shifted his weight upwards.

[CLIMBING EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT +1]

Focus. Ignore the cold. That ledge is ten feet away.

He slammed the chisel tip into a crack, twisted it sideways. It bit solidly. He hauled himself up violently, his free hand shooting out, fingers scrabbling for the lip of the ledge. They caught. He kicked wildly, boots finding momentary purchase. He heaved, muscles screaming, and hauled his torso onto the narrow shelf of rock.

[CLIMBING EXPERIENCE +1] [MANA FRAGMENT +1]

He risked a quick glance down. His climbers were tiny figures huddled at the base, faces upturned. The sounds of his men were still loud and chaotic. He looked up. The route got tougher.

The next section was a deep, shadowed fissure in the cliff face – a 'chimney', maybe three feet wide, choked with ice and loose scree. The walls leaned inwards slightly.

He pressed his back firmly against the cold rock, braced his boots against the opposite side. He pushed upwards, shuffling his back and feet in a laborious caterpillar motion. His hands scrabbled for cracks and ledges on either wall.

He paused, pulled the chisel, and carefully tapped at an icy overhang. Shards rained down harmlessly. He cleared a handhold. Up he went again.

Loose rock! Right handhold crumbling!

His fingers scrabbled as a chunk of stone gave way. His heart lurched. Instantly, his left hand clamped onto a protruding edge, his core muscles locking tight, arresting the slip. Pebbles clattered down the chimney wall.

Too close. Focus. Test every hold twice.

[CLIMBING EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT +1]

Ten feet. Twenty. Thirty. The chimney widened slightly near the top. Daylight beckoned. He could see the edge of the summit plateau – a flat expanse of wind-scoured rock and snow, mercifully empty.

Final push.

He braced his feet firmly, pushed his back hard against the wall, and reached high overhead. His fingers found a deep, solid crack. He pulled the chisel one last time, jamming it deep horizontally. He hauled himself up and over the lip with a final grunt, rolling onto the snowy summit plateau.

[CLIMBING EXPERIENCE +3]

[MANA FRAGMENT +3]

He was exposed. Instinct screamed at him to get low. He scrambled behind the nearest large boulder, scanning the plateau. Empty. Just snow, rock, and howling wind. The ridge crest separating him from Gunnar's position was maybe thirty paces away.

Perfect. They won't hear a thing over the wind and the battle below.

Time for the ropes. He focused inward, retrieving the first coil from his Storage Ring. He moved quickly to the chimney edge, staying low. He looped one end around the jammed chisel handle twice, tying it off securely. He let the rest spill down the dark crack towards his waiting climbers.

Three sharp tugs on the rope – safe, climb!

He moved back, retrieved the second coil, and anchored it to another solid rock protrusion. Two ropes were faster than one.

He crouched behind the boulder again, scanning the ridge crest, listening to the distant clamor of Olaf's diversion. Come on, Bjorn. Move!

Below, Bjorn grabbed the first rope the instant it went taut. He tested it fiercely, then grinned at Helga. "Go!" He jammed his boot into the chimney wall and started hauling himself upwards, hand over hand. Helga took the second rope.

They ascended rapidly.

Goran watched them go, then looked at Thirteen. "You ready?" he whispered. Thirteen just nodded, his earlier nerves channeled into intense focus.

Bjorn appeared over the lip first, rolling onto the snow beside Eirik, breathing hard but grinning fiercely. Helga was seconds behind. "Get low. Behind the rocks. Secure the ropes for the others."

Goran came next, grunting with effort, followed closely by a panting Thirteen. Both collapsed onto the snow behind the boulder shelter.

"Frost's teeth," Goran gasped. "Thought my heart would burst."

"Quiet," Eirik hissed. "Listen."

The wind howled, but it was enough. From just over the ridge crest came the sounds of men – the clank of armor shifting, low murmur of voices, the stomp of boots on cold ground. Gunnar's veterans. Fifty professional killers. Less than fifty paces away, separated only by a jagged spine of rock, utterly unaware of the vipers now coiled at their backs.

Now, he had the high ground.

Chapter Twenty-Two (TIBK)

Kael's hip burned as he pushed through the dense undergrowth. Each step sent a fresh jolt of pain. Dirty bastard. Like gutter scum.

Fury simmered beneath the icy professionalism that had kept him alive through a dozen border skirmishes. Around him, the remnants of Garrick's force moved with grim silence. Twenty-five men, their polished gear now scraped and stained. 

"Scouts ahead," Kael commanded, his voice tight but controlled. "Two pairs. Wide spread. Check the flanks, look for ropes, disturbed ground, jars hidden in bushes. Anything." He pointed two grizzled footmen towards the denser thickets on either side of the wider game trail they now followed. 

He wouldn't be funneled again.

The scouts melted into the shadows. Kael scanned the towering pines, the snow-laden branches. Silence. Oppressive, watchful silence. Eirik's rabble had vanished after the last ambush, leaving only trampled snow and groans of their "dead" behind.

He wants me to think he's running scared, luring me deeper into his domain.

Kael's mind replayed the last minutes. Eirik's unnatural speed during their brief duel. He planned this. All of it. He knew the terrain, he knew Garrick's impatience, and he used it. Respect warred with disgust. Fighting without honor was beneath a knight, but Kael couldn't deny the bastard's effectiveness. He's dangerous. More dangerous than Garrick or his mother ever imagined.

Garrick spurred Silvermane closer, almost knocking a footman aside. "What are we waiting for, Kael? They're running! We need to run them down before they disappear!" 

Kael kept his gaze fixed on the forest ahead. "They aren't running, Lord Garrick. They're repositioning. Setting another trap. Charging blind is what they want."

"Another trap?" Garrick scoffed, gesturing at the open woods around them. "Here? Look at it! No bottlenecks, no boulders for logs! Where would he hide his jars? Up the trees?" His laugh was harsh. "They broke after you charged them! They're finished! That bastard knows he can't face us man-to-man!"

He faced me well enough, Kael thought grimly, the phantom pain in his hip throbbing in agreement. But Garrick had a point, superficially. This section of forest was more open. Wider spacing between trees, less thick underbrush. Ideal for maneuver… and for an actual fight.

Is that it? Is he banking on his numbers now?

The scouts returned moments later. "Sir Kael," one reported, breath misting in the cold air. "Found signs to the left. Broken branches, footprints heading deeper, towards that rocky ridge. Looks like a whole group went that way in a hurry. Dropped this." He held up a dented Fenrir helmet.

The other scout nodded. "Right flank's quieter, sir. Fewer tracks. But found this near a clump of holly." He produced a crude sling, the kind used to carry those accursed jars. It was empty, but the implication was clear.

Kael took the helmet, turning it over. Fenrir make. Likely one of Leif's men. The dropped gear screamed 'hasty retreat'. Too obvious. Trying to draw us towards that ridge. He looked at the sling. Or maybe towards the holly thicket? Split our force?

"See?!" Garrick hissed triumphantly. "They are running! Scattering like rats! Left flank, Kael! To the ridge! We cut them off!" He started to turn Silvermane.

"Hold!" Kael barked, the command sharp enough to freeze even Garrick. He pointed at the sling. "One empty sling on the right. Obvious footprints and dropped gear on the left. It's bait. Both are bait."

He met Garrick's furious gaze. "He wants us to chase down one of these trails. Into another prepared killing ground. Probably has spearmen hidden in the rocks above the ridge, or more clouds waiting in that thicket."

Garrick's face contorted. "So what?! We just stand here? Let him dictate the pace? He's a bastard leading thieves!"

"No," Kael said. "We change the game. He wants us in his traps? We deny him. We push straight through the center, through this more open ground." Kael’s voice dropped to a low growl. "If he has men here, we force the fight here, in the open woods where his tricks are useless. Where our armor and skill win. No surprises."

He saw confidence flicker in the eyes of some footmen. Kael raised his voice slightly. "We move as skirmishers – pairs, covering each other! Bren, take point! Garrick, stay behind the front line!"

Kael's plan relied on speed and aggression to overwhelm any ambush before it could be sprung. The bastard knew dirty tricks, but he wouldn’t anticipate this level of adaptation. He pointed his sword straight down the widest path through the trees, towards the distant glimmer of open frostmire beyond the thinning forest edge. "ADVANCE! FAST AND SHARP! FOR STORMCROW!"

Eirik crouched behind a screen of snow-laden fern. He heard the muffled clank of armor, the harsh breathing, the crunch of boots on frozen ground growing steadily closer. He turned his head slightly, meeting Leif's gaze. 

"Can you do it? Can you draw Garrick out? Make him reckless? Make him see you?"

Leif bared his teeth. It wasn't a smile. "Give me a sword I can hold left-handed. And get me close. I'll make everyone see me."

Eirik nodded curtly. He drew a sturdy shortsword from his belt and handed it to Leif. The young noble hefted it clumsily but determination hardened his grip.

"Olaf," Eirik commanded without raising his voice. "Signal the flanks: Hold position until my shout. Center rank: Look scared, look like you're bracing for a slaughter. When they commit, hold the line. Just for a moment."

Olaf grunted, a fierce light in his eyes. He muttered commands down the line. Shields shuffled nervously. Men hunched lower. The facade of desperate defense snapped into place.

Eirik focused inward for a split second, visualizing the Storage Ring on his finger. He pictured one of Fisk's volatile clay bombs – the Cloud Bomb. It materialized instantly in his free hand, cool and heavy. Insurance. He slipped it inside his cloak, within easy reach.

The sounds were unmistakable now. Through the last screen of trees, Eirik saw flashes of blue and silver, the glint of polished scale. Kael's vanguard – Sergeant Bren and three others – emerged cautiously into the small clearing just before the final tree line opened onto the vast expanse of the Frostmire.

Bren's eyes swept the shadowed tree line where Eirik's force lurked. He saw the ragged shield wall, the spears held with shaking hands, the fear etched on dirty faces. He saw the numbers.

Bren barked a sharp laugh. 

"Found 'em! Cowering in the tree! Looks like they finally ran out of holes to hide in!" He raised his shield, signaling back to the main force pushing through the woods behind him. "FORM UP! LINE HERE!"

Kael emerged beside Bren, his eyes narrowed, instantly suspicious. He scanned the tree line, the ranks of mismatched shields and spears. 

Why aren't they deeper in the woods? Why hold the very edge?

He looked left and right, into the thicker woods just inside the tree line. Where are his reserves? His flankers? He saw nothing but shadow and snow-laden branches. Is this another trap?

Garrick pushed through the forming Stormcrow line, Silvermane snorting. He saw the pitiful formation and sneered. "FINALLY!" he yelled, his voice ringing with vindictive triumph. "Ready for your beating, bastard? Done hiding behind trees and jars?"

His gaze swept the line, hunting for Eirik. Then he froze. His eyes locked onto a figure standing slightly apart from the main Talon line, near Eirik.

Leif Fenrir. Pale as death, clutching a shortsword awkwardly in his left hand, his right arm bound uselessly. But his eyes… His eyes burned with pure, unadulterated hatred.

Garrick's face flushed crimson. 

"FENRIR!" he roared, spittle flying. "You sniveling traitor! Hiding behind the bastard who broke your arm?!"

Leif took a shaky step forward, putting himself slightly ahead of the Talon line. His voice, though strained, cut through the cold air. "Say that to my face, Stormcrow! Without your knights holding your hand! Or are you too cowardly to fight your own battles? Just like you were too cowardly to duel Eirik yourself?"

The insult struck Garrick like a blow. "COWARD?! I'LL GUT YOU WHERE YOU STAND, CRIPPLE!"

He wrenched Silvermane's reins, preparing to charge straight at Leif. The Stormcrow line tensed, ready to follow their heir's impulsive rage.

"GARRICK! HOLD!" Kael's roar was a command forged in desperation. He saw the trap unfolding. Leif was bait. Perfect bait for Garrick's temper. Charging straight at a seemingly isolated target screamed 'ambush'. "IT'S A TRICK! HOLD THE LINE!"

But Garrick was beyond reason. Leif's contempt, Eirik's defiance, the humiliation of the ambushes – it was too much. Kael's warning was an insult. "THAT CRIPPLE IS MINE!"

Garrick screamed, digging his spurs into Silvermane. The big courser lunged forward, straight towards Leif. Several young knights, caught up in the heir's fury, surged forward with him.

The Stormcrow line, disciplined moments before, fractured. Kael's heart sank. Fool boy! He had no choice. "ADVANCE! SHIELD WALL! PROTECT THE HEIR!"

The order was a concession to disaster. His beautiful, controlled skirmish advance disintegrated into a ragged charge focused on Garrick's impulsive trajectory, straight towards Eirik's waiting center.

"OLAF! NOW! CENTER HOLD!" Eirik bellowed. His voice carried command. He raised his practice sword high and brought it slashing down in a signal the hidden units couldn't miss.

Chaos erupted.

Garrick and his knot of knights slammed into the Talon center shield wall just as Olaf roared "BRACE!" The impact was brutal. Wood splintered. Men grunted and staggered. Talons went down, but others pushed back, spears thrusting awkwardly at the knights' armored mounts and legs. Leif scrambled back into the relative safety of the line, still clutching his shortsword.

But before Kael could try to organize the press, two sharp whistles split the din – 

Screee! Screee!

From the thicker woods to the left and right of the charging Stormcrows, the hammer groups exploded out of concealment. Ten men from each side, a howling tide of scarred faces, spiked clubs, and rusty axes. They hit the flanks and rear of Garrick’s force like a pair of avalanches.

"FLANKS! FLANKS!" Bren screamed, trying to turn his shield. Too late. A spiked club slammed into his side, cracking leather and ribs. He went down with a cry.

Panic, the kind that only comes from being suddenly attacked from the sides and behind by screaming maniacs while already engaged to the front, ripped through Garrick’s men. Their charge stalled instantly, collapsing into a confused, vicious melee.

Knights on foot found themselves swarmed. Footmen tried to form small knots of defense but were overwhelmed by sheer numbers and ferocity. The Talons and Fenrir guards in the center, heartened by the flank attacks, pushed forward with renewed savagery.

Kael hacked down a Talon trying to get under his shield. "FORM CIRCLE! BACK TO BACK!" He bellowed, desperately trying to rally the shrinking pocket of Stormcrows. But the chaos was too great. His hip screamed in protest as he pivoted to block a blow aimed at Garrick, who was frantically trying to control Silvermane as the horse reared amidst the press.

Eirik moved through the edge of the chaos, his eyes scanning. 

It ends. Now.

His hand dipped into his cloak and closed around the cool clay of the Cloud Bomb. He focused, visualizing the space right in the thickest knot of struggling Stormcrows, slightly behind Kael and Garrick.

Store. The bomb vanished from his hand. Instantly, he visualized its reappearance – not in his hand, but arcing through the air from the mental position he'd fixed, landing exactly where he aimed, behind the Stormcrow commanders.

It happened almost simultaneously. One moment, Kael was deflecting a spear thrust. The next, a clay jar materialized out of thin air, tumbling end over end before smashing onto the frozen ground just behind him and Garrick.

Kael's head snapped around. His eyes widened in utter disbelief. What in the frozen hells?!

HISSSSSSS-SHHHH-CRACK!

The dense, choking yellow-white cloud exploded upwards, instantly engulfing Kael, Garrick, Silvermane, and half a dozen nearby Stormcrows. Men screamed, coughing violently, clawing at their faces. Horses reared wildly, eyes streaming. Visibility dropped to zero in a heartbeat within the expanding plume.

The unexpected, impossible attack from within their own shrinking circle shattered the last vestiges of Stormcrow resistance. Talons pressed the attack, shouting, kicking, and disarming the blinded, choking men.

"CAPTURE GARRICK!" Eirik's voice roared above the din. "DISARM THEM! THEY'RE DONE!"

Olaf's recruits didn't need telling twice. They surged into the dissipating cloud, ignoring the stinging air. Garrick, blinded and choking, was dragged bodily from Silvermane, who bolted into the forest in panic.

Kael, stumbling, swinging his sword wildly at phantoms in the fog, felt his blade wrenched from his grip and a dozen hands shove him hard to the ground. He landed heavily on his injured hip, the agony white-hot, stealing his breath.

Within moments, it was over. The last Stormcrows, disoriented and overwhelmed, dropped their weapons or were forced down. The chaotic melee stilled into pockets of harsh coughing and the groans of injured men. Talons stood panting, covered in mud and blood, weapons pointed at their prone enemies.

Eirik walked forward, stepping over a groaning Stormcrow footman. He stopped before where Garrick knelt in the churned snow, held firmly by two burly Talons, his fine blue-and-silver armor smeared with mud and vomit, his face contorted with rage and humiliation.

Kael lay nearby, gritting his teeth against the pain in his hip, his fierce eyes locked on Eirik with a look of utter, defeated incredulity.

The bastard met Kael's gaze, his expression unreadable. Then he looked at Garrick. "Yield," Eirik stated, his voice flat and final, carrying across the sudden quiet of the battlefield. "Your forces are neutralized. Your command is broken. Yield, Lord Garrick. Or do you need another demonstration?"

Garrick opened his mouth, perhaps to curse, perhaps to refuse. But the pressure of the Talons' hands on his shoulders, the sight of Kael pinned, the stinging remnants of the impossible gas in his throat… the fight drained out of him, replaced by a trembling, impotent fury.

He stared at the ground, unable to meet Eirik's cold eyes or the hundreds he knew were watching from the ridge. The word was a choked whisper, barely audible.

"Yield."

Weapons thudded onto snow. Shields dropped. Hands went up.

"Secure them! Disarm completely! Olaf! Take your men, gather the horses!" Eirik commanded.

Olaf grinned. "Aye, Lord Eirik! Gather the prizes, lads!" His recruits surged forward with renewed energy, stripping swords from hands, unbuckling expensive armor, pulling shields from snow. Others ran after the panicked, riderless coursers.

Kael closed his eyes, a wave of crushing defeat washing over him. It wasn't just the battle lost. It was the way it was lost. 

He spat blood onto the snow. 

Chapter Twenty-One (TIBK)

Kael’s certainty was magnetic. Footmen staggered towards the sound of Kael's shield, their polished leathers smeared with mud and chemical residue. Shields clanged together as they formed a rough crescent facing the forest edge. Spears lowered over shield rims.

Good, Kael thought, counting swiftly. About thirty footmen, mostly intact. Six knights still capable… 

He saw the terror in their eyes, the humiliation. They needed a leader, not a spoiled boy. He spared a glance at Garrick, who was fuming atop Silvermane, yelling incoherent threats.

"Lord Garrick!" Kael barked. "Hold the center! They won't break a Stormcrow shield wall!" He turned back to the forming wall. "SERGEANT BREN! Flanks anchored! Close up! Brace for spears!"

The veterans responded to Kael's drill-ground tone. The shield wall solidified, a dense hedgehog of wood and metal facing the silent trees. Panicked coughing subsided, replaced by harsh breathing and clinking armor.

They're regrouping fast, Eirik noted from behind a thick oak beyond the first chokepoint. Kael. Should've known. He's the real commander there.

He glanced back at his own force filtering through the trees behind the secondary chokepoint. Olaf had his recruits ready, eyes alert behind cloth masks. Leif leaned against a tree, face pale, cradling his injured arm. The Fenrir guards looked grim but determined.

Phase one worked better than expected. Knocked their cavalry charge out cold. But we only "killed" maybe a dozen, mostly knights. They've still got nearly forty fighting men forming up. Kael won't charge blindly again. Time to bait trap number two.

"Olaf," Eirik said quietly. "Second point. Make it look messy." He turned to the young noble. "Leif! You're visible bait. Look vulnerable. Angry. Get Garrick's attention."

Leif's pale eyes flashed with resentment but also understanding. 

Eirik slipped behind another tree, moving silently toward a position overlooking the planned engagement zone. The path narrowed sharply between boulders and thorny brush. Jens's men were hidden in the undergrowth, ropes taut around heavy logs suspended above.

Back at the shield wall, Garrick's rage crystallized into a burning need for vengeance. He saw Leif Fenrir stagger into view down the path, clutching his arm, glaring back at the Stormcrow lines. Behind him, Eirik's Talons milled about in apparent confusion. One recruit dropped his shield; another tripped over a root.

Look at them! Fleeing like scared rabbits!

Garrick's humiliation curdled into savage triumph. One hit and they break! Leif's hurt! That bastard Eirik's exposed!

"THEY BREAK!" Garrick screamed, pointing his sword. "SEE?! AFTER THEM! FORM THE RANKS! ADVANCE!"

He kicked Silvermane forward.

"MY LORD! HOLD!" Kael's roar stopped him short. The veteran stepped in front of Silvermane, visor open, eyes blazing. "It's too open! They want you to charge!"

"WANT?!" Garrick sputtered. "They're RUNNING, Kael! Look at them! Leif's right there! That bastard is there!" He pointed again, trembling with impatience. "They've shot their bolt with their jars and logs! NOW is the time!"

Kael held his ground, studying the terrain ahead. Narrow point. High ground left and right. Perfect for another swinging log, another cloud, or a spear volley from cover.

"Lord Garrick," he said, forcing calm into his voice. "They are luring you. That 'disorder' is staged. Look – no real panic, just noise. Send scouts. Flank them through the thickets."

"FLANK THEM?! There's no TIME!" Garrick gestured wildly toward the fleeing figures. "They're getting away! While you talk, they regroup!" He glared at Kael, suspicion darkening his features. "Or are you afraid to fight my battles? Perhaps you think the bastard deserves a chance?"

The insult struck Kael. His jaw clenched. He saw eager, bloodthirsty looks on the faces of Garrick's younger knights and footmen. They wanted payback. To defy the heir openly now? Impossible.

"Fine," Kael ground out. "ADVANCE! SHIELD WALL FORWARD! CAUTIOUSLY! Eyes on the treetops! Eyes on the flanks! Garrick, stay behind the wall. Lead from the rear."

Garrick bristled but the lure of pursuit was too strong. He nodded curtly. "Just crush them!"

THUD! THUD! THUD!

The Stormcrow shield wall began its advance. Kael positioned himself at the left front corner, shield high, eyes scanning the dense woods and thick canopy. The formation moved with deliberate slowness, a crawling fortress inching toward the boulders where Eirik's men seemed to be frantically retreating.

Leif stumbled again, deliberately, glancing back with fear and anger aimed directly at Garrick.

Come on… come on… Eirik thought from his concealed position on a low ridge. Bite on the hook, Kael. But bite carefully.

He saw the disciplined advance, the wary eyes scanning. The shield wall reached the narrowest point between the boulders and thicket. Leif and the last visible recruits scrambled around the bend, disappearing from view. It looked like complete rout.

Garrick couldn't contain himself. "NOW! AFTER THEM! BREAK FORMATION! RUN THEM DOWN!"

"NO! HOLD THE WALL!" Kael roared, recognizing the danger. But the sight of the "fleeing" enemy, combined with Garrick's order and pent-up frustration, broke discipline. Younger footmen and knights surged forward, squeezing through the gap. The tight shield wall bulged, then fragmented at the bottleneck.

A harsh whistle split the air – Screee! Screee! Screee!

From hidden positions in the thicket and behind boulders, men counted: One… two… three… four… five… PULL!

WHOOSH! CRUNCH!

Two heavy logs swung down on ropes. One slammed horizontally into the cluster of Stormcrows, crushing shields and sending men flying. The other came at their legs. The sound of breaking shinbones echoed.

HISSSSSSS-SHHHH-CRACK! CRACK!

Two cloud bombs exploded simultaneously. Twin plumes of choking yellow-white gas erupted, engulfing the front ranks and swirling back into the fragmenting shield wall.

Chaos erupted again, compounded by physical trauma. Men screamed – real agony now. Shields dropped. Formation dissolved. Knights stumbled blindly into their own men.

"SHIELDS UP! COVER FACES! PUSH THROUGH!" Kael bellowed, shoving his visor down. "TO ME! FORM ON ME!" He slammed his sword against his shield, trying to recreate the rallying point. But the logs and gas created a lethal funnel.

"NOW, OLAF! SPEARS!" Eirik commanded from above.

From cover, Olaf's recruits leaned out. "VOLLEY! THROW!"

A concentrated hail of blunted practice spears arced into the mass of disoriented Stormcrows. Thuds, cries of pain, and sharp cracks of wood on armor filled the air. More men went down, declared "dead."

Kael snarled, deflecting a spear with his shield. His veteran instincts screamed. Ambush confirmed. Bottleneck is death. He needed space.

"LEFT FLANK!" Kael roared, spotting a less dense patch of thicket. "BREN! BREAK LEFT! PUSH THROUGH THE BRUSH!"

Kael became the spearhead. He lowered his shoulder behind his shield and charged diagonally into the thorny thicket. Bren and others slammed into the bushes beside him, shields battering a path through. Thorns scraped armor, branches whipped faces, but they pushed forward with desperate strength.

Garrick saw Kael leading a breakout. Panic warred with rage. "KAEL! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!" He spurred Silvermane forward, trying to follow through the churning mass of his own men. A spearman stumbled into Silvermane's path. The horse reared, screaming.

Eirik saw Kael's maneuver. Damn. He's adaptable. Breaking out sideways. He signaled Olaf with a sharp downward chop.

Olaf blew the recall whistle. "TALONS! FALL BACK! NOW!" The recruits and Fenrir guards melted back swiftly, abandoning the second chokepoint, dragging more "dead" Stormcrows. They vanished deeper into the woods.

Kael burst from the thicket onto clearer ground off the main path. Sergeant Bren and eight footmen stumbled out behind him, coughing, bleeding from thorns, but alive and combat-ready. He looked back. The bottleneck was utter carnage. At least another dozen men were down – tangled near the logs, blinded and gagging, or lying where spears had struck.

Half our force was gone. In two ambushes. Kael's blood ran cold. This isn't luck. This is calculated savagery.

His gaze swept the forest. He saw movement ahead – the briefest flash of dark leather disappearing behind a massive pine.

There! Retreating!

"BREN! With me!" Kael pointed his sword toward the fleeing figure. "The rest! Hold this ground! Find Lord Garrick!" He charged toward the pine, shield ready, Bren close behind. He vaulted roots and ducked branches, driven by veteran fury.

He's coming. Eirik knew it the moment Kael locked onto his position. The veteran moved with terrifying speed despite his armor, cutting through undergrowth like a winter wolf. Eirik dropped from his perch, landing lightly thanks to his boosted Agility. He didn't run. He turned to face the threat, heavy practice sword in high guard.

Kael slammed through the last bushes, spotting Eirik alone in a small clearing. No shield. No apparent support. Just the bastard and his sword. Rage surged.

"EIRIK!" Kael bellowed. He didn't break stride. He lowered his shield and charged the last ten paces, his longsword snapping out in a vicious horizontal slash aimed at Eirik's neck.

Eirik saw the blow coming. His agility upgrade gave him a crucial microsecond. He didn't try to parry the massive force head-on. Instead, he pivoted sharply into the charge, ducking under the sweeping blade. His own sword hammered down onto Kael's vambrace with a jarring THWACK!

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +5] 

[MANA FRAGMENT +5]

The impact jolted Kael's arm, spoiling his follow-through. Surprise flickered in the knight's eyes. Faster than he was! Much faster! Kael recovered instantly, slamming his shield boss toward Eirik's face.

Eirik jerked back, the metal boss whistling past his nose. He spun away, putting distance between them.

Kael pressed relentlessly. Shield forward, sword probing – thrusts to the face, low cuts to the legs. Eirik danced back, parrying, deflecting, using trees as cover. His movements were fluid, defensive. Kael's strength made his blows terrifyingly heavy. He couldn't trade blows.

He's used to fighting knights, Eirik analyzed, dodging another thrust. Big swings, solid blocks. Close for the shield bash. 

Kael feinted high then swept low at Eirik's ankles. Eirik leapt back, avoiding it. He saw controlled fury in Kael's eyes, absolute focus. Past Kael, he glimpsed Bren holding the clearing's edge, and Garrick emerging from the thicket with more footmen.

Can't let them join in. Need to end this duel. Fast.

He backed toward a massive, gnarled oak, its roots forming a treacherous mound. Kael followed, relentless. Eirik stepped onto the roots, testing his footing.

Kael saw the unstable ground. Trying to trip me? Predictable. He advanced more cautiously.

Eirik saw the hesitation. He committed to a desperate gamble. He lunged, not at Kael, but past him – a feint toward Bren. Kael shifted his shield slightly, momentarily opening his center.

Eirik's real target wasn't Kael. It was the ground.

With a grunt, Eirik slammed his sword's pommel down onto a thick, exposed root near Kael's left foot. The wood splintered. Simultaneously, he kicked hard at loose soil beside it.

Leverage.

The treacherous mound gave way beneath Kael's weight. The knight's armored boot slipped violently on the shifting ground.

"Wha—?!" Kael windmilled his arms, shield flailing. His eyes met Eirik's cold gaze for an instant.

Eirik didn't hesitate. He channeled his strength into a savage upward cut, aimed at the vulnerable juncture at Kael's hip and thigh.

CRACK!

The thick wood connected solidly. Kael roared in pain from the impact and brutal wrenching of his compromised footing. His leg buckled. He crashed sideways into the oak trunk, sword flying, shield pinned beneath him.

Bren shouted and charged forward. Garrick screamed, "GET HIM! KILL THE BASTARD!"

But Eirik was already moving. He used the tree trunk as cover, dodging Bren's thrust, and darted back toward where his men waited.

"KAEL!" Garrick rushed to the fallen knight's side, genuine alarm mixing with fury. "Are you—?"

Kael pushed himself up, face pale, jaw clenched against pain radiating from his hip. He batted Garrick's hand away. "I'm… functional," he gasped. He looked toward the forest where Eirik had vanished. Cold, lethal respect burned in his eyes. "He fights… like a cornered ice-cat. No honor. Pure survival."

He grabbed his fallen sword, using it to lever himself upright. He spat blood. 

He turned his fierce gaze on Garrick and Bren. "Forget the formations. Forget the tactics he expects. We go through the forest. " He grimaced, adjusting his weight. "He has no more tricks he can spring on a scattered advance. Only open battle remains. And in open battle, Eirik," he muttered toward the empty trees, "will drown."

Eirik reached the third chokepoint, a natural defile where rocky slope met frozen stream. Olaf and the Talons were waiting, tense. Leif leaned against a rock, injured arm held close, face drawn.

"He got away?" Olaf asked, seeing Eirik alone.

"Not unscathed," Eirik panted, fighting the adrenaline crash. He quickly relayed Kael's injury. "But he's smart. And he just learned not to play my game."

He looked at his force. They looked tired but fierce. They'd bloodied Garrick badly. But they'd lost their element of surprise. Kael wouldn't be baited into another prepared kill zone. The numbers favored them – maybe twenty-five Garrick’s men to his forty-five, but those twenty-five were much better skill-wise and equipment-wise, and now led by a furious, smart veteran who would not be easily baited again by guerrilla tactics.

He saw the clay jars slung on his throwers' backs. About ten left. His mind raced. No more funnels. No more predictable traps. They'll flank, probe, surround. We need to draw them together. Force the decisive clash on our terms. But how?

His gaze fell on Leif Fenrir, clutching his useless arm, his hatred radiating like heat. 

A plan began to form.

"Kael won't come at us head-on again," Eirik announced. "He learned his lesson."

He saw confusion flicker across the faces. 

"So we give him what he expects," Eirik continued, a hard edge entering his voice. "We keep looking like we're scared. Trying to avoid a fight because we know we'll lose it in the open."

Olaf frowned. "But… m'lord? We outnumber them now. Why hide?"

Exactly the question Kael will be asking himself.

"Because Kael expects the timid rabbit, Olaf. They lost men to our dirty traps and tricks, but not on an open field. He expects us to cling to the forest shadows, hoping for another lucky ambush. He wants to force us into the open, where his armored knights and disciplined footmen can grind us to paste. That's the image we paint." 

Olaf's weathered face split into a fierce grin. "So we're not hiding. They will think that they are seeing through our baits all and try to corner us in an open field. But that is exactly what we wanted, because…"

"Because we won’t be standing still to receive it," Eirik helped Olaf finish the thought. "We’re going to surround them."

He gestured towards a section ahead, where the dense pines gave way to a flatter, more open area – still dotted with trees and large boulders, but wide enough for maneuver. It was at the far edge of Frostmire, near one of Jens's boundary stones.

He pointed at two clusters of recruits, numbering about ten each. "You two groups. Break off left and right, behind the main retreat path. Stay hidden. Get into position here and here." He used his boot to scuff rough marks in the forest floor, indicating points flanking the clearing.

"Questions?" Eirik scanned them. There were nervous glances, but no objections. "Good. MOVE!"

Chapter Twenty (TIBK)

Lord Cedric Stormcrow sat atop his warhorse, elevated on a snow-dusted rise overlooking the Frostmire clearing. Beside him, Lady Ingrid watched. Baron Cedric's personal guard formed an armored semicircle behind them.

Below, separated by trampled snow, stood the three forces.

To the left, fifty men radiated grim competence. They were the storm-washed rocks of Stormkeep's defense. Well-maintained ringmail over padded gambesons, polished kettle helms glinting dully. Their heavy oak shields formed a near-impenetrable wall, overlapping seamlessly.

They stood utterly still, breathing vapor in perfect unison. Gunnar sat before them on his horse, gaze sweeping the clearing, already assessing approaches and kill zones.

To the right, Garrick's force shimmered with ostentatious wealth. Fifty men, but less an army, more a display of House Stormcrow's extravagance.

Half were mounted on glossy coursers draped in deep blue livery. Gleaming scale armor, each plate meticulously polished. Visored sallets, expensive and imposing. Even their blunted practice weapons looked like parade ornaments, etched with silver filigree.

The footmen wore thick quilted jacks reinforced with hardened leather plates, polished to a shine. They looked comfortable, confident, and utterly spoiled. Garrick sat tall at their head, resplendent in blue and silver armor, face alight with arrogant anticipation. He kept casting sideways glances at Cedric, hungry for approval, then smirking towards Eirik's position.

In the center, looking pitifully outclassed, stood Eirik's fifty.

They looked pathetic. Fifty scarecrows plucked from different, equally miserable fields. Their gear was mismatched patchwork - boiled leather jerkins, patched woolens, dented rusty helms from Fenrir's depleted armory. Spears uneven, shields mismatched sizes and shapes.

Half looked like hardened criminals - scarred, feral eyes darting with predatory alertness. The other half were Fenrir guards, rigid discipline warring with humiliation etched on their faces. Leif Fenrir stood among them, looking like he'd swallowed poison.

But the most ridiculous sight? Men clutching large clay jars in crude rope slings or held awkwardly at their sides. They looked like farmers heading to market, not warriors.

Garrick snickered openly. Murmurs of derision rippled through the onlookers. "Jars?" someone muttered loudly. "Does the bastard plan to pickle Gunnar's veterans?"

Cedric stared, expression unreadable. What madness is this? Did the boy waste Fenrir coin on pottery?

"Commander Gunnar! Commander Garrick! Commander Eirik! Attend!" Cedric's voice boomed across the frosty stillness.

Eirik walked forward, flanked by Olaf and Leif. Garrick swaggered up with two knights. Gunnar moved alone, impassive.

Cedric's gaze swept over them, lingering on Eirik's ragged force and the bizarre jars. "The rules are simple. Wooden weapons, blunted steel only. No live blades. No Mana. Captures count as kills. Victory by rendering the opposing force incapable of organized resistance or forcing commander surrender."

His cold eyes settled on Eirik. "The battlefield is Frostmire clearing and surrounding Blackroot Forest to the marked boundary stones. Begin when the horn sounds."

He paused. "Remember, this is a trial of skill and strategy. Excessive brutality towards helpless opponents reflects poorly upon your command." His gaze flicked pointedly at Garrick, who looked momentarily chastened.

“Lord Father!” Eirik bowed slightly. “A humble request regarding the trial’s start. If I may?”

Cedric paused, one hand already raised to wave them off. “Speak.”

“Real battles,” Eirik began, “aren’t fought by armies magically appearing nose-to-nose in an open field. Scouts find ground. Commanders position their men. Ambushes are set, not sprung instantly.”

He gestured towards the vast clearing and the dark treeline of Blackroot Forest beyond. “To test true readiness, shouldn’t we simulate that? Grant each force a brief period – say, the time it takes the sun to move a hand’s width – to choose their starting ground after hearing the battlefield limits? Let Commander Gunnar deploy his veterans where he sees fit. Let Commander Garrick place his knights for maximum charge. And let me… attempt to find ground where my rabble has a sliver of a chance.”

He met Cedric’s gaze squarely. “Otherwise, this becomes a simple slaughter in the clearing, not a trial of leadership or tactics. Surely you wish to see if I understand positioning as well as fighting?”

Garrick snorted derisively. “Afraid of an honest fight, brother? Need time to hide your pots in the bushes?”

Cedric studied Eirik. The bastard has a point. A straightforward clash favors strength. Gunnar would crush him instantly here. This way… I get to see if there’s actual cunning behind his jar-throwing. He saw Marshal Gunnar give a slow nod of agreement. Real commanders did deploy.

“Very well,” Cedric conceded. “A sliver of dawn’s edge, then. Upon the horn, commanders will have the time it takes for the sun to crawl the width of one mailed finger above the horizon to move their forces to their chosen starting positions within the marked boundaries. Then, the true horn sounds, and the trial begins. Understood?” His gaze swept over Eirik, Gunnar, and Garrick. “Use the time wisely… or waste it. The outcome will demonstrate which.”

“Understood, Lord Father,” Eirik acknowledged, relief hidden behind a mask of calm. Perfect. Time to get into the trees.

Cedric raised a gauntleted hand. "To starting positions of your choice! May the Frost judge the worthy!"

“Move!” Eirik didn’t hesitate. “Talons! To the trees! Double time!” His ragtag force surged towards the Blackroot forest, abandoning the exposed clearing where Gunnar’s iron veterans stood motionless and Garrick’s knights milled in confusion.

Eirik kept his pace steady as he led his men the final yards towards the Blackroot forest. He glanced back. Gunnar hadn’t moved – the Marshal stood calmly within his veteran square. Garrick was forming a wedge aimed straight at the forest. At the tree line, ancient pines swallowed the morning light and any view of his men. The air grew colder, quieter, thick with pine resin and decaying needles. 

Within heartbeats, Eirik and his men disappeared entirely from sight.

———

Garrick Stormcrow surveyed the Frostmire clearing from atop Silvermane. The beast pranced, sensing its rider's excitement. Garrick adjusted his perfectly polished sallet, blue enamel gleaming under weak winter sun.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

He shifted his gaze to the rabble huddled at the forest's edge. Eirik's "company." Almost embarrassing. Fifty scums dressed in garbage. And what in the Frost's frozen nipples was the bastard thinking? Pickle jars? Did he raid the kitchens?

I spent days currying favor, calling in debts, begging Mother… for this? A pang of regret, quickly crushed by contempt. He's not worth the polish on my boot, let alone this army.

His force was a masterpiece.

Twenty-five mounted knights formed the core. Not garrison louts - knights from Lady Ingrid's personal retinue. Veterans of border patrols, men who'd earned their spurs. Their scale armor was articulated for maximum movement, polished to blind. Their mounts were pureblood coursers, bred for war, draped in livery worth more than Eirik's entire force.

Behind them stood twenty-five footmen. Handpicked household guards from Stormkeep itself, sworn to the Stormcrow heir. They wore expertly crafted quilted jacks over hardened leather plates. Their shields freshly painted, blunted weapons held with disciplined ease.

This isn't a fight. It's an execution.

He pictured Cedric's face when his golden son shattered both his bastard brother and the supposedly invincible Marshal Gunnar. The glory will be mine.

He positioned his men carefully. Gunnar was the real threat - fifty iron veterans positioned center-right, about five hundred paces away. They looked like an immovable rock formation, shields locked, spears bristling. Utterly professional.

They'll wait. Gunnar always waits. He'll let Eirik and I tangle first, then crush the winner. Garrick's lip curled. Fine. I'll deal with the vermin first.

His mounted knights formed a wedge aimed at where Eirik's rabble had vanished. The forest edge was barely fifty paces - perfect charge distance. His infantry positioned directly behind, ready to exploit the chaos.

Once the knights smash through and scatter them like chaff, the footmen mop up. Quick. Clean. Glorious.

He'd leave ten footmen facing Gunnar's direction, purely ceremonial. Gunnar won't move until he sees how the wind blows. By then, I'll have finished the bastard and be wheeling around, fresh and ready.

He glanced toward the viewing rise. His father sat impassive as a glacier. Lady Ingrid radiating calm assurance. Garrick gave a subtle, confident nod. Watch me, Father. Watch your true son.

He looked back at the ominous tree line. Silence. No movement. No scouts. Nothing.

Hiding like rats. His amusement faded, replaced by hot impatience and contempt. Come on, you bastard. Come out before I get bored and burn the forest down around you.

Nearby, Kael cleared his throat. The lead knight's visor was up, revealing a face carved from seasoned oak. "My Lord, the forest terrain is dense. A frontal charge could be messy. The trees funnel movement. Perhaps a dismounted advance—"

"Nonsense, Kael!" Garrick cut him off, voice loud enough for his knights to hear. "Messy? For whom? Them?" He jabbed toward the forest. "Look at them! Scrap leather and pots! My knights in full plate? Coursers bred for battle? They'll break before we make contact!"

He pounded his armored thigh. "The trees won't protect them - they'll trap them! Speed! Shock! That's how you break vermin!"

Kael’s jaw tightened, but he nodded curtly. "As you command, Lord Garrick." He lowered his visor with a decisive clang.

Old war-dog. Too cautious. Garrick saw hesitation as weakness. This was his moment to prove decisive aggression.

His eyes flickered toward Gunnar's position. The Marshal sat motionless, gaze sweeping the entire clearing with cold, professional detachment. Planning his boring, predictable defense. Let him plan. While he's calculating, I'll be winning.

Garrick shifted impatiently in his saddle. The cold bit through his layers. Anticipation was a physical ache. He scanned his lines - knights ready, lances upright, blue-and-silver pennants fluttering. Horses stamped and snorted, sensing tension.

He thought of the stakes. Leif Fenrir, chained to Eirik's sinking ship. If Garrick won, Leif became his. A valuable hostage, proof of dominance. The thousand talons pledged to Eirik? Gone. House Fenrir would be utterly his mother's creature.

And Father will have no choice but to stop this madness with that bastard.

A ripple went through the viewing platforms. Cedric raised his gauntleted hand high. Hush fell over Frostmire. Garrick could hear his saddle creak, a horse's nervous snort, a distant crow's caw.

The Baron's arm swept down.

A deep blast echoed across the clearing - the signal horn.

Now!

Garrick drew his blunted longsword, steel flashing. He raised it high, channeling arrogant certainty into his voice.

"STORMCRROOOWS! FOR GLORY! FOR VICTORY! CHAAAAAARGE!"

He slammed spurs into Silvermane's flanks. The courser surged forward, instantly finding stride. Garrick leaned low, sword pointed toward the dark forest maw.

The earth shook. Twenty-four knights echoed his cry, a terrifying roar of metal and momentum. Lances snapped down, becoming a deadly hedge of steel-tipped wood. Thunder of fifty heavy hooves filled the world, a physical wave rolling ahead of the charging wedge.

Snow kicked up in sparkling plumes. Pennants streamed like blue fire.

"FORWARD, FOOTMEN! FOLLOW THE KNIGHTS! TAKE THEM ALL!"

Fifty paces… Forty… Thirty… He saw first figures between thick trunks - Eirik's ragged line. They looked tiny against the armored avalanche bearing down.

Garrick grinned savagely behind his visor. This is it! Crush them! Break them! Show Father! Show EVERYONE!

He urged Silvermane faster. Victory was a heartbeat away.

Fifty paces. Forty. So close! The thunder of his knights drowned all thought except victory. Scatter them! Ride them down! He saw the ragged shapes ahead—a thin line of mismatched shields and spears braced between two massive pines. A natural choke point. Fools! They funnel themselves!

Thirty paces. He gripped his sword, picking his target—a bulky thug near the center, face twisted in fear. Twenty-five paces. Almost… NOW!

Thwoomph!

The sound came from his right flank. A blur of motion—a thick log, longer than a man, swung horizontally across the trail at chest-height. It materialized from the undergrowth like a giant's club.

CRUNCH!

It struck Sir Edric's courser in the shoulder. The animal screamed, front legs buckling. Sir Edric catapulted forward, his blue armor flashing absurdly. The log's momentum continued, smashing into the knight behind Edric, sending beast and rider stumbling into the pines. Chaos erupted on the left flank.

Eirik! Garrick's brain screamed. What trickery—?

But he was committed. Silvermane surged forward regardless. Ten paces. They're breaking! He saw panic in the defenders' eyes, shields wavering. NOW!

Hissssssssssss-SHHHHH-CRACK!

A clay jar exploded against a tree branch overhead. From the shattered fragments billowed a dense, yellow-white cloud. It expanded with unnatural speed, sinking rapidly into the packed mass of knights.

Frost! Garrick clamped his visor shut. Not all his knights were as fast.

The cloud engulfed the vanguard's center and left flank.

Instantly, hell broke loose.

Horses screamed—high-pitched, panicked shrieks of terror. Coursers reared wildly, utterly blinded. Knights who hadn't secured their visors clutched at their faces, retching, collapsing from their saddles. Violent coughs replaced war cries. Men dropped weapons to claw at streaming eyes and burning throats.

Garrick felt his eyes sting through his visor slit. He tasted acrid vinegar and something fiercely peppery. Silvermane bucked wildly, almost unseating him. His perfect charge disintegrated in a vortex of blind confusion. Knights stumbled into trees, horses bolted into the forest, dragging screaming riders.

"SHIELDS! ADVANCE! SPEARS DOWN!"

Eirik's voice cut through the chaos. Garrick's blood froze.

Whoosh! Thump!

A volley of practice spears scythed into the milling confusion. They struck armored backs, flanks of horses, exposed legs of knights. More chaos, more stumbling bodies.

Garrick wrenched Silvermane sideways, out of the cloud. He saw Kael nearby, trying to rally coughing, stumbling knights. His magnificent charge was a choking ruin.

"PUSH THEM! NOW!" Eirik snapped.

From the shield line, figures erupted. Olaf Stenson's recruits, eyes protected by crude cloth strips, lunged forward with brutal efficiency. They ignored armored knights, targeting stunned footmen caught behind the cavalry disaster.

Garrick saw a burly recruit—Number Forty-Two—swinging a spiked club. He smashed a downed knight's knee joint with a sickening crunch. Nearby, others used spears to saw at stirrup leathers, toppling armored men. They worked in pairs—gutter fighting elevated to brutal tactics.

"Leif! With me!" Eirik commanded.

Garrick spotted his bastard brother moving with grim purpose, flanked by Fenrir veterans. They targeted his unhorsed footmen trying to form a shield wall. Leif parried a thrust and slammed his practice blade into a footman's temple. The man dropped.

Garrick felt panicked fury. His beautiful plan! Ruined by jars and logs and peasant tricks!

"KAEL!" he bellowed, wrestling Silvermane. "REFORM! FOOTMEN! TO ME!"

Through the thinning haze, he saw Kael—a rock amidst the disaster. The grizzled knight had shoved up his visor despite the stinging air. "STORMCROWS! SHIELD WALL! RALLY ON THE HEIR!" He slammed sword against shield boss. CLANG-CLANG-CLANG.

Yes! Not all was lost. His footmen were scattered, but some veterans stumbled towards the sound, trying to raise shields. If they could form a knot on clearer ground, they could anchor a defense.

"Rally here! Knights! Fall back to the shield wall!"

"Olaf!" Eirik snapped. "Fall back! Call them off! Now!"

Olaf put fingers to lips and blew a sharp whistle—the recall signal. "Back to the line! Talons, BACK!"

The recruits obeyed, melting back towards the chokepoint. They dragged "captured" knights—men with broken limbs or blinded eyes, declared dead by the rules.

Garrick saw them pulling back. Relief washed over him. Cowards!

"SEE?! They FEAR US! FORM THE WALL!" His remaining footmen coalesced around Kael. Shields slammed together, spears lowered. A bristling defensive formation took shape.

Chapter Nineteen (TIBK)

The world was painted in shades of deep charcoal and icy blue. True dawn was still a threatening smudge on the horizon, fighting to bleed through the dense canopy of Blackroot Forest. Frost crackled underfoot, the only sound breaking the profound, watchful silence. 

Eirik’d chosen this final outcrop deliberately. It wasn’t high, perhaps thirty feet, but it was sheer on one face, slick with verglas, offering the kind of technical challenge that pushed his meager agility to its absolute screaming limit. Below, pacing like a caged bear, Harkin watched. The old man’s usual stoicism was fractured by deep lines of worry etched around his eyes. He clutched a coil of rope he’d begged Eirik to use.

[Tutorial Quest #6 (out of 7): Skills Mastery ]

[Quest Type: Learning]

[Objective: Getting at least 1 skill to C- rating (1/1) and 3 other Skills to D rating. (2/3)]

One more, Eirik thought. Swordsmanship clawed to C-, Alchemy boosted to D with the crystal, Riding ground out on that damned bone-rattling horse. Just one more D-rank skill. 

Eirik pulled an iron chisel from his belt. 

Thank the smith. He’d gone to a quiet blacksmith in a Fenrir village days before. He needed something to help him climb safely but couldn't lug around obvious mountaineering gear. The solution? A custom chisel. He’d sketched it roughly: forearm length, thicker and heavier than a stonemason's, with a blunted tip for wedging, not cutting. Made from tough wrought iron, its simple leather-wrapped grip was designed for hard, repeated blows. The smith, loyal and discreet, asked no questions, forging it alongside mundane farm tools. It looked like a rugged digging tool, not out of place among mining supplies. Just another tool, Eirik had thought, but this one might save my life. He carefully positioned the tip against a small crack just above his head...

He jammed the chisel's blunt end into a thin crack above his head, twisting it to wedge it tight. Instant handhold. 

His boots scraped against the minuscule ledges and crystal-studded cracks he’d already chiseled out. His fingers, already raw and numb, dug into icy crevices and the secure notch he’d created. Every muscle burned, protesting the unnatural angles, the slow, deliberate shifting of weight. His mind was laser-focused on the feedback loop of muscle, rock, chisel, and balance. Test the chisel's bite. Shift the weight slowly. Trust the toe-hold, just for a second… The chisel held firm.

[CLIMBING EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT +1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT CLIMBING LEVEL: 981/1000 (F → D)]

He looked up, breathing hard. The summit wasn't far now, maybe six feet of near-vertical, ice-glazed rock. He scanned the face, looking for flaws in the armor of stone. That vertical crack looks promising... deep enough to wedge the chisel sideways. And that knob above it... good for a final pull if I can get high enough. He reached up with the chisel, probing the crack. Deep and narrow... perfect. He worked the chisel tip in deep, then slammed it sideways with a sharp thwack of his palm, driving it into a secure jam. Won't hold my whole weight forever, but long enough for the move.

He sucked in a lungful of freezing air, forcing calm. This is it. This chisel-wedge was the key. Left foot high on a tiny lip he’d chipped earlier. Right foot smearing on slick stone. Left hand wrapped tightly around the cold iron of the chisel, knuckles scraping raw. Pull! He hauled hard on the chisel, muscles screaming in protest, using its solid grip to lift himself. His right hand shot up, fingers straining for the knob. Contact! He hooked his fingers over it, a precarious grip. 

Now! He exploded upwards, driving with his legs, releasing the chisel and hauling with his arms, a desperate lunge fueled by sheer will. His chest scraped against the rock. He kicked wildly, boots finding purchase on the slope. He heaved, scrambling, kicking, until he sprawled, gasping, onto the small, snow-dusted summit. 

Made it.

[CLIMBING EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT +1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT CLIMBING LEVEL: 982/1000 (F → D)]

He lay still for a moment, lungs burning, the cold stone a relief against his overheated skin. He could hear Harkin’s ragged sigh of relief below. This was insanity, grinding a climbing skill hours before a battle that could decide his fate. But the system rewarded only doing. And he needed that last D-rank now. He carefully leaned over the edge, spotting the chisel still wedged securely below. Good. Still there. I'll grab it on the way down.

Eirik sat down and decided to take a moment to reflect. 

His mind’s eye flashed to the shadowed trails, the marked chokepoints. Jens, bless his meticulous, terrified soul, had done his job. Seven locations. Hidden logs, thick as a man’s thigh, ropes threaded through pulleys anchored to sturdy pines chest-high, trigger lines snaking back to concealed positions. Camouflaged under moss, leaves, and fresh snow.

Jens had tested the ropes and pulleys twice over, Harkin had confirmed their solidity. The trigger men – two per trap – knew the signal (three sharp whistles), knew to count to five after hearing it, then pull and run. Their names were numbers now too, drilled relentlessly yesterday afternoon. Jens swore they understood.

With a thought, his mind shifted to Fisk’s masterpieces. Lined neatly near one wall were fifteen clay jars, each stoppered tightly with wax and cloth. They looked deceptively innocuous. Inside each: Fisk’s volatile cocktail – Sunspice dust, powdered Old Scarlet, Frostwort, suspended in cheap spirits. And sealed within, separate until impact, vinegar and powdered Shalechalk.

Cloud Bombs. Fisk had delivered last night, sweating and wide-eyed, pocketing his remaining talons with trembling hands. “Bespoke devastation, Lord Stormcrow! Handle ’em like newborn babes wrapped in frostfire! Break ’em early, and… well, you saw my shop. Imagine that, but everywhere.” Harkin had taken one look and stored them immediately elsewhere. He’d assigned the throwing to the steadiest hands among Olaf’s recruits – men used to hurling rocks or knives in brawls. Five designated throwers, each carrying three jars retrieved from the ring just before deployment. The rest of the Talons knew to cover their faces and move when they saw the jars fly.

D-Day.

The thought was exciting as it was anxiety-inducing. Eirik closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to focus inward. Exhaustion was a dull ache in his bones. But beneath the weariness, a cold fire burned. Everything converged on this single point. 

Time for the final inventory.

He stood, shaking out his trembling limbs. The summit offered a breathtaking panorama of the forest waking. The Frostmire clearing lay like a silver-gray disc below. First, get the chisel back. He carefully descended the top few feet, retrieving the iron tool from its crack with a solid tug and securing it back on his belt. 

He spent the next twenty minutes descending and re-ascending the less treacherous parts of the outcrop, finding slightly different routes. He used the chisel sparingly now, just to test potential new holds or create small steps on truly slick sections, pushing the limits of his balance and grip without relying solely on the tool. His hands became bloody, his muscles trembled, but he pushed on. [CLIMBING EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT +1]

...

[CLIMBING EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT +1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT CLIMBING LEVEL: 999/1000 (F → D)]

[CLIMBING EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT +1]

[CLIMBING LEVEL UP: F → D]

[D-RANK CLIMBING UNLOCKED]

[You gain increased stability and speed on vertical surfaces, reduced stamina drain during ascents/descents, enhanced grip strength.]

[Tutorial Quest #6 (out of 7): Skills Mastery ]

[Quest Type: Learning]

[Objective: Getting at least 1 skill to C- rating (1/1) and 3 other Skills to D rating. (3/3)]

[QUEST COMPLETE!]

[Reward Claimed: 4,000 Mana Fragments]

[Reward Claimed: Skill Upgrade Crystal (Silver)]

[Skill Upgrade Crystal (Silver): Upgrade any skill of choice to C-minus tier. Only usable for D-tier skills.]

[Reward Claimed: Storage Ring (Upgradable)]

[Storage Ring: Equipped. Accessible extradimensional storage space. Current Capacity: 10x10x10 ft (1000 cubic ft).]

[Visualization Required for Item Storage/Retrieval. Cannot store living matter.]

Storage? Eirik’s eyes widened slightly. This… this is invaluable. He focused on the plain, unadorned silver band that had appeared on the ring finger of his right hand. It felt cold, inert. He concentrated, visualizing the Fenrir longsword in its sheath lying by the tree he had placed before he made his ascent. He stepped over and held it. Store.

The sword vanished from his hands. Instantly, a mental image bloomed in his mind – a featureless grey cube, 10x10x10 feet. Floating serenely in its center was his longsword in its sheath. Retrieve. The sword snapped back onto his hands. The process was instantaneous, requiring only focused thought.

Incredible. He experimented swiftly, storing and retrieving a small throwing knife from his boot, a waterskin, then the knife again. Perfect. He drew his climbing chisel. Store this too. It vanished into the grey space. Retrieve. It snapped back into his hand. Excellent. No more worrying about losing it. Vital tools, Fisk’s bombs… all hidden but instantly ready. The tactical possibilities exploded.

“M’lord?” Harkin grunted. “You… alright?”

“Prepare the sleigh. We leave in five minutes.”

Harkin’s grunt of acknowledgment was muffled by distance but unmistakably relieved. Eirik turned his attention back to the system. He couldn’t afford to wait. The upgrades needed to happen now. He visualized the interface, focusing on the stash of mana fragments he’d been saving up.

[MANA FRAGMENTS: ]

[2,000 (Tutorial Quest #4 Reward)]

[+2,000 (Swordsmanship - From Grinding)]

[+1,000 (Riding - From Grinding)]

[+1,000 (Alchemy - From Crystal )]

[+1,000 (Climbing - From Grinding)]

[+4,000 (Quest #6 Completion Reward)]

[ = 11,000 in Total ]

Eleven thousand fragments. A hoard. More than he’d ever possessed. His gaze snapped to the path ahead:

[UPGRADE TO SNOW RANK 3: COST 4,000 MANA FRAGMENTS]

[UPGRADE TO SNOW RANK 4: COST 6,000 MANA FRAGMENTS]

Perfect. 4,000 + 6,000 = 10,000. He’d have 1,000 left. Enough for emergencies, perhaps a stat point later. But the Realm upgrades were paramount. Rank 4 meant more Mana, more slots, a higher stat cap. Power to survive the wargame, power to command.

Eirik closed his eyes, taking a centering breath. His battered hands clenched. He focused inward, past the physical exhaustion, to the core of his being. 

[UPGRADE TO SNOW RANK 3: COST 4,000 MANA FRAGMENTS]

[CONFIRM UPGRADE? YES/NO]

Yes. He mentally slammed the command.

Power detonated within him.

It wasn't like the gentle warmth of claiming rewards. This was ice and fire, a shockwave tearing through his meridians. Frostbite agony erupted in his bones, instantly followed by a searing wave that felt like molten lead coursing through his veins. His muscles locked. His jaw clenched so hard he feared his teeth would shatter. The world dissolved into white noise and blinding inner light. He felt… stretched. Forged. Like crude ore plunged into the heart of a glacier and tempered by lightning.

He dropped to one knee, gasping, fighting not to scream. Cold sweat erupted across his skin, freezing instantly in the dawn air. He commanded himself, riding the tempest. 

As abruptly as it began, the intensity receded, leaving a profound, bone-deep chill and a terrifying sense of expansion. Panting, he blinked sweat from his eyes. New system messages burned in his vision.

[UPGRADE SUCCESSFUL! REALM: SNOW RANK 3]

[MANA CAP INCREASED: 10 → 15]

[SECOND MANA SLOT UNLOCKED!]

[REWARD: +5 FREE STAT POINTS]

Fifteen mana! A second slot! The surge in potential was exhilarating. But he wasn't done. 

[UPGRADE TO SNOW RANK 4: COST 6,000 MANA FRAGMENTS]

[CONFIRM UPGRADE? YES/NO]

No hesitation. Yes.

This time, the power was different. Less violent rupture, more relentless pressure. The bone-deep chill intensified, becoming the absolute cold of the void between stars. It squeezed his essence, compacting it, forcing denser, more potent energy into the pathways forged moments before. His breath crystallized in the air before him. Frost crackled on his eyelashes, his hair. His very blood felt sluggish, thickening with power. It was agony not of tearing, but of being compressed into something infinitely harder, colder. A glacier forming inside his soul.

The pressure built until he thought his skull would implode. Then, with a silent, cosmic snap, it released.

[UPGRADE SUCCESSFUL! REALM: SNOW RANK 4]

[MANA CAP INCREASED: 15 → 20]

[REWARD: +5 FREE STAT POINTS]

[NOTE: NEXT UPGRADE TO SNOW RANK 5 COST 8,000 MANA FRAGMENTS]

Eirik clenched his fists, feeling the dense, coiled power. Rank 4. I feel… formidable. He pulled up his core stats.

[STRENGTH: 18]

[ENDURANCE: 7]

[AGILITY: 8]

[INTELLECT: 12]

[CHARM: 6]

[MANA: 20/20]

Ten points. His mind raced, analyzing the wargame ahead. Strength is high enough for now. Intellect and Charm are secondary to survival in the next few days. Endurance… that’s my crippling weakness. I tire too fast. One solid blow and I could crumple. He recalled Garrick’s armored thugs, Gunnar’s relentless veterans. Agility… 8 won’t cut it against seasoned fighters. I need speed. Reaction time. The ability to dodge, to reposition fast, to exploit openings.

The answer was clear. Agility first. Make myself harder to hit, faster to react. Endurance second. Survive the slog. He allocated the points swiftly.

[ALLOCATING STAT POINTS…]

[AGILITY: 8 → 15 (7 Points Used)]

[ENDURANCE: 7 → 10 (3 Points Used)]

The change was instantaneous and profound. As the points flowed into Agility, the world seemed to slow down fractionally. His perception of movement sharpened. The slight sway of a distant branch, the potential trajectory of a falling icicle – he processed it all faster. His body felt lighter, more responsive. When he shifted his weight, it was fluid, effortless. The stiffness from the climb vanished, replaced by a coiled readiness. The three points into Endurance brought a deep, grounding warmth. The bone-deep chill lessened. His breathing steadied, the raw burn in his lungs replaced by a deeper, more sustainable rhythm. He felt resilient, like he could march for hours, take a hit and keep going. 

He pulled up his full status screen:

[NAME: EIRIK STORMCROW]

[REALM: SNOW (RANK 4 of 5)]

[STATS]

[STRENGTH: 18]

[ENDURANCE: 10]

[AGILITY: 15] 

[INTELLECT: 12]

[CHARM: 6]

[MANA: 20/20]

[FREE STAT POINTS: 0]

[MANA FRAGMENTS: 1,000]

[SKILLS]

[SWORDSMANSHIP: (C-)]

[ALCHEMY: (D)] 

[CLIMBING: (D)] 

[RIDING: (D)] 

[ARMOR PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)] 

[CLIMBING: (D)]

[OTHERS (F)]

[ABILITIES]

[SLOT ONE: IDENTIFY (EQUIPPED)]

[SLOT TWO: EMPTY]

Eirik’s mind flashed yesterday. He needed his Talons on that cliff. Or another cliff, depending on what the situation would call for. He'd chosen his best six climbers, but getting them all up by themselves would be impossible. That’s why the C- Climbing skill would be a game-changer now. He could get some ropes stored in his ring, and be the first person to climb up any cliff, then drop the rope and pull. His upgraded strength and endurance would come in handy. 

Climbing it is. 

He visualized the Silver Crystal activating, targeting the D-rank Climbing skill. The crystal vanished in a brief, silver shimmer in his mind's eye.

[SKILL UPGRADE CRYSTAL (SILVER) USED!]

[CLIMBING EXPERIENCE + 2000]

[MANA FRAGMENT + 2000]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT CLIMBING LEVEL: 2,000/2,000 (D → C-)]

[CLIMBING LEVEL UP: D → C-]

[C-MINUS RANK CLIMBING UNLOCKED]

[You gain significantly enhanced grip strength and friction control, allowing ascents/descents on near-vertical or icy surfaces with minimal handholds. Increased speed and drastically reduced stamina drain. Enhanced spatial awareness for route planning.]

The sleigh ride back towards the Talons' camp was silent. He tested the Storage Ring constantly, storing his cloak, then his gloves, then a rock on his pocket. The bombs… I’ll need to distribute some, but I can carry the majority unseen. His gaze scanned the darkening woods. This had to work.

———

He found Isolde Fenrir among the camp’s nervous bustle near the sleighs.

"Lady Isolde. A word." He led her aside. "You know the city's shadow markets. The betting pits."

Isolde paled. Betting? Now? "Eirik, this is madness! If Cedric finds out—"

"He won't." Eirik’s stare was ice. "Take every spare Fenrir coin. Every jewel you can safely sell. Bet it all. On me. To win outright."

Isolde clutched her shawl, mind racing. Bet everything? On this ragged band? Yet... the cold certainty in his eyes. She swallowed hard. "The odds... they'll be monstrous. If you lose..."

"I won't lose." He cut her off.

Chapter Eighteen (TIBK)

The Blackroot Forest swallowed sound. Winter sun filtered weakly through ancient pines, casting skeletal shadows across the snow-dusted logging trail. It was eerily silent.

Within the small clearing designated as the Talons' training ground — little more than trampled snow and a fire pit ringed with frost-heaved stones — two groups stood facing each other like rival wolf packs.

To the left, arranged with rigid discipline, stood the twenty-five warriors House Fenrir had scraped together. They wore patched leather armor over thick woolens, faces grim beneath worn helmets. Spears held upright, shields resting against legs. They looked like men braced for a siege, not training. Their eyes held suspicion and resentment directed at Eirik, and at their own humiliated Lord, Leif Fenrir, who stood stiffly apart, avoiding eye contact.

To the right, slouching and radiating feral energy, were Olaf Stenson's recruits. Twenty-five men from frozen gutters and shadowed alleys, with scarred faces, missing teeth, and hard eyes that missed nothing. Threadbare clothing as armor, chipped axes and rusted daggers as weapons. Olaf stood at their front, arms crossed, eyeing the noble guards.

Eirik raised a hand. The murmuring died instantly. He projected his voice, cold and clear.

"Look around you!"

Every eye snapped to him.

"You see House Fenrir guards." He gestured toward the rigid block. "You see street fighters." He pointed at Olaf's group. "You see nobility. You see gutter trash."

A ripple of discomfort ran through both groups. The Fenrir guards stood taller, some offended. The street fighters hunched slightly. Leif's jaw tightened.

Eirik's voice hardened. "You see wrong. From this breath onward, forget what you were. Forget your houses. Forget your alleys. Forget your titles and your debts."

He let the words hang.

"Right here, right now, there are no lords, no guards, no thieves, no bastards. There is only one thing."

He paused, scanning faces. He saw suspicion in Olaf's eyes, fear in Yorick's, grim acceptance in a few, bewilderment in most.

"Talon Recruits."

The words landed like stones in a frozen pond. Murmurs started, instantly silenced by the declaration's strangeness. No title? No distinctions?

"Yorick!" Eirik barked.

The scribe stepped forward with a leather sack and sharpened charcoal stick. He moved toward the Fenrir guards with deliberate slowness.

"Strip your insignia," Eirik commanded. "Now."

Confused glances were exchanged. A senior guardsman, grey at the temples, his face scarred, cleared his throat. "Lord Eirik, our house livery—"

"—is a relic," Eirik cut him off. "It means nothing here. It marks you as separate. Division is death in the company we build. Remove it. Or leave. The Ice Mines always need strong backs."

Eirik's message was clear: if he could imprison Steward Bryn, ruin the House's heir, and make Lady Isolde abide by his wishes in days, he could crush any of them like a bug.

The guardsman's face tightened, but after a tense second, he unpinned the small Fenrir wolf brooch from his jerkin. Others followed, reluctantly peeling off identifying patches. Olaf's men watched with stunned disbelief. Seeing proud nobles shed their symbols was unsettling.

"Yorick!" Eirik called. "Numbers. One through fifty. Assign them randomly."

The process was awkward and tense. Fenrir men approached with stiff dignity, accepting numbered strips with barely concealed disdain, tying them around their arms like brands of shame. Street fighters were rougher, snatching the cloth, some tying it around biceps, others wrists, one knotting it around his head like a sweat band. Olaf barked at him to "look bloody serious." Leif received strip 'Twenty-Five'. He stared at the number, face pale, the linen absurdly clean against his worn tunic.

Silence followed. The twenty-five Fenrir guards stood stiffly. Their eyes held not fear, but smoldering fury barely contained by discipline and the reality of their hostage situation. They were veterans, used to respect based on lineage and loyalty. Being reduced to "Number Seventeen" by the bastard who'd broken their heir felt like deliberate humiliation.

Olaf's recruits shuffled, scratched, spat into the snow. Some leered at the stiff-backed Fenrir men, enjoying their discomfort. Others looked bored. Their numbered strips were tied haphazardly. They see this as temporary, Eirik assessed. A way to get coin, steal gear, and vanish when it suits them.

"Now," Eirik said as Yorick scurried back. "You are numbers. Not names, not houses, not histories. You see the man beside you? He's just another number. Your brother? Just a number. Your lord?" His gaze locked onto Leif, who flinched. "Just Number Twenty-Five. Understood?"

A ragged chorus of "Aye," "Yeah," and reluctant grumbles answered him. Far from united.

"Good. First lesson. Formation. You are a shield wall. Or you are dead meat."

He gestured toward the trampled center. "Fenrir numbers One to Twelve, front rank! Olaf numbers Thirteen to Twenty-Four, second rank! Numbers Twenty-Five through Thirty-Seven, third rank! Thirty-Eight to Fifty, fourth! Move! Now!"

Chaos erupted. Guards moved with discipline, finding spots quickly, spears lowering into a rough line. Olaf's men stumbled, jostled, and argued.

"Oi! I was Thirteen, you rat! That's my spot!"

"Push me again, Forty-Two, see what happens!"

"Where the Frost is rank four?"

Eirik watched impassively. He let the chaos build, highlighting the gulf between groups. Fenrir guards tightened their formation. Street fighters grew louder, more fractious.

"Silence!" Eirik's roar cut through the din.

The bickering stopped. Fifty pairs of eyes snapped to him. He pointed at the most vocal brawler – a burly man with a broken nose and 'Forty-Two' tied around his wrist. "You. Step forward."

The man swaggered forward, cocky grin twisting his scarred lips. He looked amused, not intimidated. "Yeah, boss? Whatcha need?"

"You complained about your spot?"

"Just sayin' this lot," he jerked a thumb at the disciplined Fenrir front rank, "ain't movin' fast enough for us proper fighters." He chuckled, looking back for support. A few nervous titters answered.

"So, you believe yourself faster? More effective?"

"Course I am, boss!" Forty-Two boasted, slapping his club against his palm. "We all are! Ain't no stiff-backed parade-ground twats gonna win a brawl!" The insult was deliberate, aimed to provoke. Eirik saw muscles tense in the front rank, jaws clenching.

"Then show me," Eirik pointed to a cleared space in the trampled snow. "Attack me."

Forty-Two's grin faltered. "What? You?"

"You claim speed. Skill. Show me. Now."

Unease flickered across Forty-Two's face. He glanced back at Olaf, who stood impassive, arms crossed. Olaf won't interfere. This is between me and the bastard. Then aggression surged. A chance to knock the arrogant lordling on his arse in front of everyone.

"Alright, boss," Forty-Two growled, swagger returning. "If that's how you want it." He hefted his heavy wooden club, a crude but brutal bone-breaker. He took bouncing steps forward, loosening his shoulders. "Don't say I didn't warn ya!"

He lunged. Not elegant, but explosively fast for his bulk, fueled by street-fighter instinct. A vicious horizontal swing aimed at Eirik's ribs.

Eirik didn't draw his sword. He pivoted sharply, leaning back just enough. The heavy club whistled past his chest, missing by a finger's breadth. The missed swing threw Forty-Two slightly off balance.

Eirik didn't retreat. He stepped in, closing distance before Forty-Two could reset. His right hand shot out – not as a fist, but stiff-fingered, targeting the soft nerve cluster below Forty-Two's ribcage where his swinging motion had exposed it.

Thwack!

The impact wasn't loud, but precise. It hit the phrenic nerve junction. Forty-Two's breath exploded out in a strangled gasp. Not just pain, but instant, paralyzing shock to his diaphragm. His eyes bulged. Forward momentum died. He staggered, gagging soundlessly, clutching his side.

Eirik kept moving. As Forty-Two doubled over, gasping for air that wouldn't come, Eirik's left leg swept up in a low, devastating arc. His boot caught Forty-Two behind the left knee – the common peroneal nerve strike. A sickening crack that wasn't bone, but nerve compression against bone.

Forty-Two's leg buckled like wet paper. He collapsed face-first into packed snow with a heavy thud, club tumbling from nerveless fingers. He lay writhing soundlessly, choking, one leg useless, agony locking his body. He couldn't scream; he couldn't even breathe properly. His eyes rolled back, showing whites.

Snowflakes seemed frozen in air. Fifty men stared, utterly stunned.

Five seconds. The entire confrontation had taken less than five seconds. No weapon drawn. Just two brutal, precisely targeted strikes. The loudest thug in Olaf's pack lay broken and wheezing like a landed fish.

Eirik looked down at twitching Forty-Two. His gaze lifted, sweeping slowly over Olaf's recruits. Every trace of smirking bravado was gone. Replaced by shock, disbelief, and chilling realization.

He turned to the Fenrir guards. Their rigid postures hadn't changed, but smoldering fury had cooled slightly, replaced by assessment. Cold calculation. They were warriors. They recognized technique, even brutal technique. This wasn't noble fencing; it was battlefield expediency. Efficient, ruthless. It resonated with something beneath their resentment.

Eirik crouched beside Forty-Two. The man flinched, trying to curl away. "Nerve strikes," he stated calmly, loud enough for all to hear. "In a real fight, while you're gasping like a beached cod, your opponent drives a dagger into your eye. Or caves your skull." He stood. "Get up, Forty-Two."

Forty-Two tried. He pushed up on his elbows, whimpering as his diaphragm spasmed. His left leg refused to cooperate. He collapsed back, shaking.

"Up!" Eirik commanded.

Forty-Two scrambled, panic lending strength. He managed hands and knees, then staggered upright, swaying violently. He stood on one leg, the other dangling, face contorted with pain and humiliation. Tears and snot mingled on his chin.

"You're alive," Eirik said, devoid of sympathy, "because I chose mercy. Challenge me again, and I won't choose the same."

He stepped away from trembling Forty-Two, positioning himself before the assembled, divided ranks.

"Look at him," Eirik commanded. "That's what division gets you. That's what clinging to what you were gets you." His gaze swept over Fenrir guards, lingering on removed badges and lingering resentment. "You. Fenrir men. You see disgrace. Your heir humbled, your Steward locked in ice, your House hanging by a thread held by a bastard." He saw flinches, tightened jaws. "You cling to past glories? There are none left. You think House Fenrir's name means anything in this clearing? It means targets. Targets for Gunnar's veterans. Targets for Garrick's ambition. Your noble blood won't stop a blunted spear in the Blackroot. It just makes your fall sweeter for them."

He pivoted toward Olaf's pack. "And you," his voice sharpened, dripping contempt. "Scraped from gutters and the Frost Pit. You see easy coin? A chance to nick shiny gear and vanish into snow?" He saw confirmation in shifty eyes, poorly hidden smirks. "You think survival means skulking? Think again. Out there," he jerked his chin toward shadowed forest, "against drilled killers? Your gutter tricks will get you slaughtered like rats in a granary. You fight alone, you die alone, and your bones will bleach forgotten while your precious stolen coins buy someone else's warmth."

The air crackled with tension, shame, anger, and dawning fear. Now, the pivot.

"Forget what you were," Eirik commanded, voice dropping lower but carrying just as far. "Forget the Guard. Forget the gutter. You are Talon Recruits now. You stand together, or you fall separately into the dark." He pointed at discarded Fenrir brooches lying in snow like fallen leaves. "That past is gone. Here, now, you fight for something new. Something you all lost."

He looked at Fenrir guards. "You fight for redemption. Not just for your House, but for yourselves. A chance to restore honor not with empty titles, but with deeds hard as northern iron. A chance to earn the respect stripped from you." He saw a subtle shift. Eyes lost a fraction of fury, replaced by a flicker of possibility. Honor is a potent lure for the fallen noble.

His gaze shifted to street fighters. "And you? You fight for a life. Not this hand-to-mouth, skulking-in-shadows existence. A real life. Purpose. A place where your cunning, your grit matters. A chance to shed the stink of the gutter and stand tall, paid in silver, not scraps." He saw hard eyes narrow thoughtfully. A way out.

He took a deliberate step forward, drawing himself up.

"You fight for the birth of something new. Something that will become legendary. The Stormcrow's Talons." He infused the name with weight, with promise. "A mercenary company forged in ice and blood. Your names will be sung, not whispered in shame. You will carve your legends together."

"That legend," Eirik announced, voice ringing with sharp authority, "starts with victory. Victory in the wargame. And for that victory?" He let anticipation build. "Five hundred talons. Split equally after the wargame. Five. Hundred. Talons."

A collective gasp ripped through the ranks. Olaf's men forgot everything. Eyes widened, jaws dropped. Five hundred talons? That meant ten talons each! A fortune they'd scramble to get in more than a year. Even Fenrir guards blinked. For guardsmen used to modest wages, ten talons was deeply tempting for a few days' work. Forty-Two, still leaning on a comrade, forgot his agony, gaze locked on Eirik with desperate avarice. Money talks louder than philosophy, especially in the snow.

"And why," Eirik challenged, "should you believe I can deliver this? Why believe in victory against Stormkeep's best?" He slowly, deliberately, drew the Fenrir longsword. Frost-steel glinted dully, the snarling wolf pommel a stark symbol.

"Look at this blade," Eirik commanded, holding it aloft. "Days ago, the man who owned this," he nodded toward Leif, "tried to kill me. I was an illegitimized bastard. Kicked around by everyone. Worth less than mud on their boots." He let the memory hang. "Look at me now."

He met their eyes one by one. "Legitimized. Baron Cedric's acknowledged son. Holder of this," he tapped the Fenrir blade. "With House Fenrir itself bound to me, pledging resources, their heir at my side." Undeniable proof of his ruthless ascent.

"I took everything they threw at me," Eirik continued with cold conviction. "The contempt. The plots. The steel. And I broke them. Because I fight smarter. I fight dirtier. I fight to win." He slammed the sword point-first into frozen ground beside him, steel biting deep with a sharp crunch. It stood there, quivering.

He stepped closer to the rigid ranks, gaze sweeping over numbers on their arms.

"You are Recruits. Numbers now. But after we win?" He paused. "After we shatter them in the Blackroot, you become Talons. Brothers-in-arms. Shareholders in a company that will make kings and lords take notice. You will have coin in your purse, steel at your side, and a name that commands respect." He looked at Fenrir guards. "Redemption." He looked at gutter fighters. "A new life." He looked at Leif, whose face was pale with hate and dawning, terrified comprehension. "And the honor of restoring your House."

"I will win." The absolute certainty in Eirik's voice brooked no argument. "Gunnar relies on discipline. Garrick relies on arrogance and talons. I rely on this," he tapped his temple. "On cunning. On traps they won't see coming. On forcing them to fight on our terms, in our ground. And on you."

He let his gaze rest on them. The silence stretched with the weight of his words.

"Formation!" Eirik snapped, shattering the quiet. "Ranks! Front to back! Shields up! Spears level!"

This time, the chaos was less. Fenrir guards snapped into position with ingrained speed. Olaf's recruits, still buzzing from shock, hunger, and lingering fear of becoming the next Forty-Two, stumbled but moved faster. Eyes darted toward the sword in the ground, toward Eirik's impassive face, then toward their comrades.

"Olaf!" Eirik called. The scarred man stepped forward. "You know these men. You brought them. Pick two. Your fastest. Your quietest. Bring them to me." He turned to the Fenrir ranks. "Senior Guardsman!" The grey-templed man who'd objected about livery stepped forward, face rigid. "Your name?"

"Goran, Lord Eirik," the man replied, the title grudging but there. Progress.

"Goran. Pick two of yours."

While Olaf and Goran selected their men, Eirik's mind raced. Only a matter of time until Gunnar's scouts infested this forest. Jens was laying the teeth – the log traps. Fisk was brewing the cloud bombs. Now he needed the eyes and the signal.

Olaf returned with two wiry men and Goran presented two veterans. "Fourteen, Nineteen, Eight, Eleven," Eirik addressed them. "You are now Scouts. Learn this forest better than you know your own scars." He pointed toward deeper woods. "Gunnar will send scouts. Find their likely paths. Watch for their markers. Learn their routines. But do not engage. See, remember, return. Understood?"

"Aye, Lord Eirik," chorused the recruits.

"Signal," Eirik continued. He raised his hand to his mouth and produced three sharp, piercing whistles, mimicking a snow-finch common in the pines. "That means 'Enemy Sighted'. Clear?"

Nods all around.

"Good." He turned back to the main group. "The rest of you? You learn to hold a line. To move as one. To trust the man beside you, even if yesterday he stole your bread or arrested your cousin. Right now, that man is just a number. His number holds the line, your life depends on it. His number breaks, you die." He gestured. "Form shield wall. Fenrir front. Olaf's men behind. Close order! Lock shields!"

It was clumsy. Fenrir men knew the drill, but resented bracing against the backs of men they despised. Olaf's recruits fumbled with unfamiliar shields, pushing awkwardly. Grunts and muttered curses filled the air. Eirik prowled the line.

"Tighter! Number Twenty, your shield gap could drive a cart through! Forty-Five, stop leaning, you're making Thirty-Six stumble! Think this is a game? Think Gunnar's veterans will tap you politely?" He kicked the leg of Thirty-three who was half-heartedly pushing his shield. The man stumbled, cursing. "They will hammer you into pulp! Five hundred talons turns into a funeral pyre if you don't lock SHIELDS!"

Chapter Seventeen (TIBK)

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 918/2000]

Thwack!

Eirik Stormcrow brought the Fenrir longsword down in a brutal overhead chop, impacting the thick, scarred practice dummy with enough force to send wood chips flying. His breath came in ragged gasps, pluming white in the frigid air of the empty Stormkeep training yard. Dawn was just a pale smear on the eastern horizon. 

Thwack!

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +1] 

[MANA FRAGMENT + 1]

He adjusted his grip on the leather-bound hilt, ignoring the raw sting developing in his palms. Sweat soaked his tunic despite the biting cold, plastering it to his back. He felt the burn in his shoulders, his biceps, his core. Every muscle screamed for rest. He ignored them.

Thwack!

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +1] 

[MANA FRAGMENT + 1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 920/2000]

Too slow. Eirik gritted his teeth. The number barely inched upwards. He needed 1080 more points. Each swing earned him one measly point. At this rate… He calculated grimly. Even swinging non-stop, accounting for fatigue and slowing him down, it would take hours more today, and repeated effort tomorrow. And he only had three days left before the wargame rehearsals started eating all his time.

His mind flashed back to the quest notification burned into his consciousness:

[Tutorial Quest #6 (out of 7): Skills Mastery]

[Quest Type: Learning]

[Objective: Getting at least 1 skill to C- rating (0/1) and 3 other Skills to D rating. (1/3)]

Swordsmanship was D rank. Getting it to C- was the obvious priority. It was his primary weapon, the skill that gave him victory against Leif. Raising it would give him another critical edge against Marshal Gunnar’s veterans and Garrick’s spite. 

The other D-ranks… that was the problem. Which ones? The system had said “getting 3 other skills to D rating,” so he naturally assumed that swordship, once if became a C- skill, would not count as one of the D-skills required to finish the quest. He’d need skills that he could realistically grind in the next six days, and skills that wouldn’t just be useless fluff. 

Thwack!

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +1] 

[MANA FRAGMENT + 1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 921/2000]

He switched to a lateral slash, aiming for the dummy’s neck. The Frost-steel blade hummed faintly, leaving a trail of cold mist.

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +1] 

[MANA FRAGMENT + 1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 922/2000]

A familiar heavy tread crunched on the frosted gravel path circling the training yard. Eirik didn’t pause his swing. 

Thwack!

[PROGRESS: 922/2000]

Harkin stopped at the edge of the yard, watching Eirik’s relentless assault on the dummy. 

“Lord Eirik,” he called out, “You need to see the alchemist.”

Eirik finished his current swing, driving the blade deep into the dummy’s torso. He paused, leaning on the pommel, sucking in great lungfuls of cold air. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the frozen ground. “You found one? Good. Bring him to the storehouse later.” 

“Won’t come, m’lord,” Harkin stated flatly. “Found him alright. Name’s Fisk. Runs a… shop… down in the Rat Warrens, near the old tannery pits.” Harkin’s nose wrinkled slightly. “Smells worse than a Skral latrine down there. Anywhy, the man’s… eccentric. Doesn’t leave his hole. Says his ‘art’ requires his unique environment.” Harkin’s tone made it clear what he thought of Fisk’s ‘art’ and environment. “He said, and I quote, ‘If the young lordling wants my genius, he can brave the fumes himself.” 

Eirik straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. 

“And his skill? Trustworthy?”

Harkin shrugged massive shoulders. “Yes, Lord. His shop was a disaster. Jars everywhere, weird stains, things bubbling that shouldn’t bubble. But… he knew his terms. Knew about purifications, reactions, specific salts I’d only heard veterans mention for cleaning wounds or rust. Said he supplies ‘discreet services’ to certain less-scrupulous merchants. He’s actually good and just… odd.”

“Alright, Harkin,” he said, sheathing the Fenrir sword. “Point me to the Rat warrens. I’ll brave the fumes.”

———

Guided by Harkin’s terse directions — “Past the third stinking tannery pit, turn left at the alley choked with frozen vomit, look for the sign with a cracked green flask” — Eirik found himself before a structure that seemed moments from collapse. It was wedged precariously between a rotting fishmonger’s stall and a boarded-up well. The promised sign hung askew, the green flask painted on it indeed cracked and faded. A narrow, grimy staircase descended into darkness beside the building, reeking even more intensely of sulfur, vinegar, and something metallic.

He descended the steps, the worn wood groaning ominously under his boots. 

The stench intensified dramatically at the bottom. Eirik forced himself not to gag. It was a single, low-ceiling room, packed impossibly full. Every available surface — shelves sagging under their burden, rickety tables, the packed-earth floor — was covered in glass jars, ceramic pots, clay amphorae, and bundles of desiccated plants. Colored liquids bubbled gently over small braziers; powders spilled like variegated snowdrifts; strange, unrecognizable objects folate in murky fluids. The air hung thick with vapor and dust motes dancing in the single shaft of light struggling through a filthy high window. 

At the center of this chaotic menagerie, perched on a wobbly stool behind a counter made from an old door, sat a man who instantly reminded Eirik of a particularly anxious ferret. Thin, wiry, perhaps in his late forties, with restless, darting eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. He had a receding hairline compensated for by bushy sideburns and wore stained leather gloves and a heavy, once-white apron smeared with a rainbow of chemical stains. He was meticulously grinding something green and pungent in a mortar, humming tunelessly under his breath. 

Eirik cleared his throat softly.

Fisk’s head snapped up. His eyes, sharp despite the setting, instantly locked onto Eirik, sweeping him from boots to slightly wind-tousled hair. 

“Afternoon, friend!” Fisk chirped, setting down his pestle with a surprising deft motion. His voice was surprisingly smooth, almost oily, yet oddly compelling. It held a practiced cheerfulness, like a merchant welcoming a valued — and potentially profitable — patron. “What can Fisk’s Fine Philtres and Practical Potions do for you on this frosty morn? Need a salve for saddle sores? A little something to keep the missus warm at night? Or perhaps…” his eyes narrowed slightly, “...something with a bit more… bite?”

Eirik took a deliberate step further into the cluttered space, careful not to knock anything over. He kept his posture non-threatening but alert. “Fisk, I presume? Heard you’re the man to see for discreet solutions.”

“Discretion is my middle name, friend! Though, strictly speaking, it’s Bartholomew. But who needs that mouthful, right? Fisk is fine. What sort of discreet solution might a…” Fis’s gaze flickered again to Eirik’s worn boots and functional cloak, “... gentleman of action require? Let me guess. Trouble with creditors? Needs a little nudge? Maybe something to make negotiations go smoother?” 

Eirik shook his head. “Not persuasion. Defense. Non-lethal defense.” 

Fisk raised a bushy eyebrow. “Non-lethal? Interesting. Most folks come down here looking for the opposite. Or ways to make the lethal easier.” He chuckled. “Self-preservation is a noble pursuit, friend. Very noble. Tell Uncle Fisk more. Situation? Environment? Numbers? Are we talking about tavern brawl? Guard duty gone sour? Or something… messier?” He rubbed his gloved fingers together slowly. “The price, you understand, scales with the complexity. And the discretion.” 

“Hypothetically,” Eirik began, “Say a man found himself outnumbered in a confined space. Say that man needed to create an opportunity to escape or gain the upper hand without drawing steel or breaking bones. Something that burns… incapacitates… creates panic.” He mimicked a spray with his hand. “Like… a cloud. A sudden cloud of agony.”

Fisk’s eyes lit up. “A cloud of agony! I like the phrasing! Very evocative. Non-lethal, incapacitating, panic-inducing… Hypothetically.” He tapped a stained fingertip on the countertop. “Hypothetically speaking… you’re describing something akin to the irritant qualities of certain plants… but amplified. Dramatically amplified.”

He swiveled on his stool, surprisingly agile in the cramped space, and reached for a shelf laden with dried roots and shriveled berries. He plucked a small, shriveled red fruit that looked like a tiny, angry pepper. “Meet Old Scarlet,” Fisk said, holding it up. “Grows wild in the southern foothills after summer storms. Nasty little beggar. Rub it near your eyes, and you’ll weep for a week. Eat it?” He set it down, then picked up a small vial containing a fine, pale yellow powder. “Sunspice Dust. Derived from a specific lichen scraped off north-facing rocks at dawn. Causes violent sneezing, choking fits if inhaled.”

Eiriked nodded, projecting keen interest. “Hypothetically… could you combine irritants? Make something… portable? Something that could be deployed quickly? A spray? A grenade that bursts into a cloud?”

“A cloud!” Fisk exclaimed. “A burst cloud! That’s ambition, friend! I like ambition!” He sprang up, buzzing with manic energy. “Hypothetically? Yes! Possible! Very possible! But challenging! He started pacing his tiny available floor space, dodging precariously stacked jars. “The irritants need suspension… a medium to carry them as a fine mist… something that doesn’t degrade them… and a delivery system! Pressure! It needs pressure!” He spun back to Eirik. “Think of a wineskin! But instead of wine, it holds… let’s call it… Gasp! Or… Choke? Needs a catchy name, branding is important! But inside, a carefully balanced suspension — Sunspice, finely ground Old Scarlet, perhaps a touch of powered Frostwort root for a lingering chill sensation… suspended in a mild alcohol solution to preserve and aid dispersal…”

He grabbed a cracked flask and a funnel, gesturing wildly. “Sealed tight! Very tight! Then…” He mimed attaching a tube and a nozzle made from a hollow reed or bone. “A secondary chamber! Sealed! Containing… vinegar! And powered Shalechalk! Common stuff. But mix them…” He mimed combining the two. “Reaction! Fizz! Pressure builds! Open the valve…” He pointed the imaginary nozzle at Eirik and hissed, “Psssssssssh! Cloud of agony! Right in the face! Hypothetically!”

“Hypothetically,” Eirik said, feeling a surge of triumph. “That sounds precisely like what a man in that… situation… might need. How effective? How long-lasting?”

Fisk’s manic energy shifted into salesman mode. He leaned back on his stool, steepling his stained fingers. “Effectiveness? Oh, friends, it’ll drop a charging bull-hog! Eyes swell shut instantly, blinding! Burning sensation like frostbite on fire! Choking, gagging, involuntary weeping! Breathing feels like swallowing shards of ice! Disorientation! Panic! Utter incapacitation for…” he tilted his head, calculating, “...minimal exposure? Five, ten minutes of pure misery. Heavier dose? Up to an hour of impaired vision and discomfort. Absolutely non-lethal, though they might wish they were dead!” He grinned. “Disappears relatively quickly, especially in open air. Minimal trace. Discreet!” 

“How fast could such a thing be produced? And what would… such a specialized solution… hypothetically cost? Per unit?”

Fisk’s eyes glittered. “Production speed depends on quantities, friend! And the quality of components! Old Scarlet is finicky! Needs careful drying and precise grinding! Sunspice dust is labor-intensive! The suspension medium needs pure spirits! Pressure vessels need sturdy leather bladders and tight seals! Specialized nozzles! Craftsmanship!” He shook his head, sighing theatrically. “It’s not a simple tincture. This is bespoke alchemy! Hypothetically, of course.” 

He leaned forward again. “For a small batch? Say… ten units? For a discerning client… hypothetically facing imminent… hypothetical trouble? Considering the urgency, the specialized nature… let’s call it… five talons per unit. A modest investment for assured escape and tactical superiority!”

“Five talons,” Eirik repeated flatly, letting a note of skepticism bleed into his tone. He slowly, deliberately, pulled his cloak aside, revealing the ornate pommel of the Fenrir longsword. “That seems… steep, Fisk. Hypothetically, a man needing such a tool might only have two talons per unit.” 

A momentary flicker of unease crossed Fisk’s face before the salesman snapped back into place. “Two?! Noble friend, you wound me! This is art! Dangerously volatile art! The components alone—”

“—Are sourced locally,” Eirik cut in smoothly. “Sunspice Lichen grows on rocks north of here. Frostwort is a weed in frozen marshes. Shalechalk and vinegar are cheap as dirt. The alcohol? Probably sourced from whatever cheap grog doesn’t poison you.” He took a half-step closer. “The real cost is your skill, Fisk. Your brilliant, discreet skill. And your time. I respect that. Hypothetically.” 

Fisk paled slightly beneath the grime. “Two… per unit… is… unprecedented hardship.”

“Unprecedented hardship often leads to unprecedented solutions, Fisk,” Eirik stated, “You spoke of pressure. Precise grinding. Delivery systems. Components are cheap. The real cost, as I see it, is in the time and specialized assembly of those pressure bladders. That’s your ‘bespoke alchemy’.”He took a slow step back. “So, hypothetically… what if we simplified the delivery?”

Fisk’s brow furrowed. “Simplified? How? The pressure is key for the cloud, noble friend! Without force, you just have… nasty soup. Useful for pouring doorsteps, perhaps, not for blinding an angry warrior!”

“Fifty angry warriors,” Eirik corrected. “Let’s expand the hypothetical. Instead of one man needing to escape, what if a small force needed to break a large formation? Create panic not in one face, but across dozens? What if… instead of precise spray hitting a few…” He mimed a throwing motion. “... you had something that could be lobbed into their midst?”

Fisk blinked. “Lobbed? Like… a rock?”

“Like a jar,” Eirik clarified. “A sturdy clay jar. Sealed tight. Filled not just with your ‘Gasp’ suspension, but perhaps… thickened? With something sticky? Tar? Tree resin? Something to make it cling, to spread the effect? And inside, alongside the irritants… the vinegar and Shalechalk powder? Sealed together?”

Understanding dawned slowly on Fisk’s face, followed by dawning horror and then… reluctant admiration.

“Oh… oh, you’re a nasty one, aren’t you, friend?” A shaky grin spread across his thin lips. “A bursting jar! Impact breaks the clay, releases the suspension and the reactants together! Instant mixing! Instant pressure build-up! Not a directed spray, but a… a cloud bomb! Less precise, oh yes, far messier… but the area! The sheer chaos!”

Chaos. Precisely the weapon I need against disciplined ranks from Gunnar’s side. Eirik felt the idea taking shape. “Exactly. A sudden, expanding sphere of misery right where the enemy is thickest. Blinding, choking agony erupting in the center of their line. How effective would that be, hypothetically?”

Fisk drummed his stained fingers on the countertop.
“Hypothetically? More dispersed than the direct spray. Someone right where it bursts? They’d get the worst — blinding, choking, maybe even burns if the reaction is hot enough. Someone a few paces away? Eyes watering, sneezing, disoriented, panicking. Formation shattered instantly. Takes longer to dissipate too, especially if you add sticky stuff. Troops trampling each other to get away from the burning fog… hypothetically.” He looked at Eirik with new, wary respect. “But… mass production? Clay jars? We’re not talking ten units anymore, noble friend. You need dozens. Hundreds?”

“Let’s start with feasibility,” Eirik countered. “You mentioned the pressure system for the bladders was the costly, time-consuming part. For a throwable jar… the pressure builds inside when the reactants mix upon breaking. No need for leather bladders, complex valves, or nozzles. Just a sturdy container, the irritant mixture, and the reactants sealed separately within it until impact. Correct?”

Fisk nodded slowly. “Simpler construction, yes. No delicate pressure vessels to craft. Just… a good thick jar. The seal is crucial, though. Needs to hold until it breaks on target. If it leaks or ruptures early…” He shuddered dramatically. “Not good for the thrower.”

“Ingredients? Can you get these in bulk in a short amount of time? Realistically?”

Fisk scratched his chin. “Hmm. Can find enough if I send my… associates… scurrying.” He looked up, a calculating gleam returning to his eyes. “The bottleneck, hypothetically… would be preparing and filling. Grinding the irritants fine enough. Mixing the suspension safely — getting that wrong makes very bad vapors. Filling the jars: needs care to keep reactants separate until sealed. One jar exploding in your face is… career-ending.”
“How many jars could your operation produce in five days? And what would the cost per jar be, considering the bulk ingredients and the… occupational hazard?”

Fisk puffed out his cheeks. “Five days… cautiously? With just me? Two, maybe three. Pushing it. But…” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I know a few fellows. Down on their luck. Experienced with… volatile substances. Discreet. If coin flowed freely for hazard pay… perhaps ten, fifteen jars? If we worked through the nights? Frostbite risk, you know. Fingers get clumsy in the cold.”

Fifteen jars. Eirik evaluated rapidly. That’d be more than enough to throw on the enemy forces. 

“Now, cost per jar?”

Fisk’s eyes flickered. “Well now, friend! Considering the bulk discounts on raw materials… but the labor! Specialized labor! The risk! The secrecy surcharge! Quality control! Hypothetically… perhaps… ten talons per jar?” 

“Ten talons… for a simple clay jar filled with weeds and common powders,” Eirik mused. “We both know this number is bullshit. Why not cut the foreplay, and talk about real prices. If I like the number you offer me next, I might just give you a good deposit today and let your little production line start humming. Or, now that I am somewhat versed on both the ingredients and the manufacturing process of this hypothetical operation, I could just walk to another store, and spend less than half of what you just requested. So, tell me now. The real cost.”

Fisk flinched at the threat. His gaze dropped to Eirik’s tapping finger, and then darted nervously to the sword pommel again. He licked his lips. 

“Six talons per jar for fifteen jars. Final offer, hypothetically.” He held up a finger. “But! Deposit! Half up front! Non-refundable! To procure materials and secure… enthusiastic labor. Forty-five talons.” He said it quickly, as if ripping off a bandage. 

“Agreed. Forty-five today. The remainder in six days. Fisk. Do not disappoint. My hypothetical situation is… time-sensitive.” 

Eirik watched Fisk’s eyes widen, glued to a pouch of silver Harkin produced from under his garments. The alchemist scooped the coins up with surprising speed, dropping them into a heavy iron lockbox hidden beneath the counter with a loud clunk. 

“Discretion, speed, and potency, friend! Fisk’s Fine Philtres delivers! You won’t regret it!”

I’d better not, Eirik thought grimly, turning towards the reeking stairs. He emerged into the marginally fresher air of the alley, blinking in the weak daylight. 

———

Thwack!

He swung the Fenrir longsword in a controlled arc at a snow-laden bush marker he’d set up. It was awkward, unbalanced. A horse jolted beneath him, and the sword point missed the target by a handspan. His legs squeezed instinctively, sending a fresh ache through his thighs. Riding was hard. Especially trying to fight. 

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT + 1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 1,085/2,000 (D → C-)]

[RIDING EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT + 1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT RIDING LEVEL: 47/1000 (F → D)]

Feels like my spine’s rattling loose, Eirik thought, forcing himself upright again. His better yet still low agility meant that coordination on this bloody moving platform wasn’t going to be pleasant for a long time. Yet he needed this dual-tasking, for it allows him to progress two skills at the same time. 

He urged the horse into a cautious trot. The world lurched. He concentrated on the rhythm: Down, up, down, up. He adjusted his grip on the reins in his left hand, feeling the pull. Like steering a boat through rapids blindfolded. 

Thwack!

This time, the blade struck the bush squarely, shearing off snow and a few brittle twigs. A smoother connection. He felt the gelding respond subtly to the shift in his posture.

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +1]

[RIDING EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT + 2]

Better. Now, faster. 

He pushed the gelding into a canter. The increase in speed was terrifying and exhilarating. Wind tore at him. He leaned forward, knees gripping hard, trying to become one with the animal’s motion. His heart hammered against his ribs.

Tomorrow. Recruitment. 

His thoughts slammed into the obstacle harder than any bush. He slowed the horse to a walk again, breathing heavily. The quiet stretch of road felt suddenly claustrophobic. Gunnar gets fifty hardened garrison veterans. Men who’ve fought Skral raiders, drilled for years. Garrick… he’ll pick fifty household guards. Probably pampered, but armored, disciplined, loyal to the golden son. 

And me?

He pictured the storehouse. Twenty-five Fenrir guards were coming. Isolde would send them. Loyal? To House Fenrir, maybe. To him? Eirik Stormcrow, the bastard who just broke their heir and took their sword? Unlikely. They’d obey orders… technically. Half-hearted obedience loses battles.
Then there were Olaf’s recruits. Gutter trash. Branded men. Thieves and brawlers who survived the Frost Pit. Desperate? Yes. Skilled? Maybe, in dirty, back-alley ways. Reliable? Not a chance. They’ll see a young noble playing mercenary. An opportunity to maybe steal something valuable and vanish. Unity?  

Discipline? Loyalty to a commander they just met? Forget it. 

So, fifty men. He nudged the horse back towards Stormkeep. Half forced, half criminal. All potentially looking for a chance to betray me, steal from me, or just melt away when things get tough. Traps and trickery like the log barriers and Fisk’s bombs are vital, but gimmicks alone won’t win the wargame. If his own forces crumble at the first real clash, if they panic, if they don’t hold the line when the pressure hits… then all his clever plans are just elaborate suicide. 

He needed them to fight for him. But how? With what? 

The gelding’s rhythmic hoofbeats on the frozen earth became a dull drumbeat. The cold air bit deeper. He needs something radical. Something to bind them… fast. He felt a familiar surge of frustration — the need for an impossible solution. How do you turn prisoners and pirates into elite warriors in a week? You don’t. But… 

A memory surfaced. Dredged from history texts read in his previous life in Blackridge, seemingly useless information that now flared with urgent relevance. 

Shaka.

The name landed in his mind like a hammer blow. Shaka Zulu. Early 19th century South Africa. He took a collection of fragmented tribes, broken men, and forged them into the most fearsome fighting force the region had ever seen. In months. He revolutionized warfare. How?

Eirik reined the horse to a complete halt near the Stormkeep gatehouse. He closed his eyes, shutting out the grey walls and the cold, forcing the dusty knowledge to the forefront.  

Chapter Sixteen (TIBK)

The headquarters Lady Isolde Fenrir had provided was a disused grain storehouse on the outskirts of Stormkeep’s lower town. Weak winter filtered through grimy high windows, illuminating swirling dust motes. Crates and burlap sacks formed makeshift furniture. A single brazier glowed feebly in the center, struggling against the pervasive chill. It was a reminder, deliberate or not, of House Fenrir’s diminished state.

Perfectly pathetic, Eirik thought, surveying the gloom. Leif Fenrir slumped on a crate near the far wall, the fight seemed to leach out of him. Beside him, Isolde stood rigidly. Her eyes, however, held a trapped-animal wariness whenever they flickered towards Eirik. 

“Lady Fenrir,” Eirik began. “Your son lives. As I promised. Now comes the difficult part.”

Isolde gripped her cloak. 

“Your tasks are twofold,” Eirik continued. “First, coin. House Fenrir pledged resources to establish this company. I need one thousand talons delivered to me, discreetly, within today. Not promises. Actual coin.” He saw the protest forming on her lips and silenced it with a look. “Find the coin. Sell plates, horses. We all know the stakes for this fight. And I will win. With your help.” 

Eirik watched her absorb the brutal reality. “Second, equipment. Fifty men need basic arms and armor. Spears. Stout clubs. Rust-free helms if possible, thick leather jerkins otherwise. Shields — wood and hide will suffice for now. Blunt practice blades for the wargame. I need it assembled, stored here, and ready for inspection in two days.”

Isolde’s eyes widened. “One thousand talons and equipment for fifty men? Today and within two days? Lord Eirik, that’s impossible! We are not Ravenscroft! Selling everything we own might raise a thousand talons… but then we’d have nothing left to equip even ten men, let alone fifty!” 

Eirik assessed her rapidly. He let a flicker of icy displeasure cross his face, enough to make Isolde flinch.

“Are you refusing your pledge, Lady Fenrir?” His voice was dangerously soft. “After swearing renewed devotion in the Great Hall? After I secured Leif’s life and a chance at Brynn’s freedom? You offered resources freely. Was that mere lip service?” He took a step closer. “Explain. Quickly. Why shouldn’t I walk straight back to Cedric and tell him House Fenrir’s loyalty crumbles at the first practical demand?”

“No, Lord Eirik!” she protested. “I refuse nothing! But… please, understand! If I sell everything today… yes, I could hand you a thousand talons and mountains of gear tomorrow.” She took a shaky step forward. “But House Fenrir would be utterly destitute. I would be destitute. And a destitute, powerless widow and her ruined house are useless to you. Especially… especially if you intend to venture north? Wouldn’t a functional, indebted vassal house, however diminished, serve you better in the long term?”

Eirik studied her, and Isolde continued.

“We will honor our pledge! But not everything at once! Please!”

Eirik considered it. She’s right about the logistics. Stormkeep’s markets are tight-fisted, especially in deep winter. Rushing would invite notice and price gouging. 

“Here are the amended terms, Lady Fenrir.” Eirik finally said. “One, you deliver three hundred talons to me today. Consider it a gesture of good faith and initial capital. The rest you will deliver to me after the wargame, win or lose.” He held up two fingers. “Two, you will provide me with ten warriors. Twenty-five of House Fenrir’s best. Loyal enough to follow orders in a fight. They will report to me here tomorrow morning.”

“Twenty-five warriors? Lord Eirik, House Fenrir… our forces are… diminished. Twenty-five men is more than all of our remaining household guards!”

“I didn’t ask for elite knights, Lady Fenrir,” Eirik countered flatly. “I ask for twenty capable warriors loyal to House Fenrir. And to be plain with you, I quickly grow tired of this pathetic little game of back-and-forth price haggling. I delivered — above and beyond — what I’d promised to you and House Fenrir, and now, you risk appearing to act treacherously and faithlessly by finding all sorts of reasons for not delivering on your end. Keep in mind your appeal to the ruin of your house only mattered to me if I deem your House has value, which I did, but now, you are making me reconsider it.” 

“I will see to it immediately, Lord Eirik.” Isolde took a deep, steadying breath.“But… twenty? Where will we find the rest thirty men willing to join… this?”

Eirik offered a cold smile. “Don’t concern yourself with it, Lady Fenrir. Focus on your tasks and leave the unsavory bits to me.” 

“It will be done, Lord Eirik.” The title still tasted like poison, but she forced it out. 

Eirik shifted his attention to the slumped figure. “Leif Fenrir.”

Leif’s head jerked up. “What?”

“Stand up.”
For a moment, Leif hesitated. Eirik simply stared him down. Push now, boy. Show me you’re still stupid enough to defy in private after crawling in the great hall. Slowly, like an old man, Leif pushed himself off the crate. 

Eirik focused inward. His mana reserves had replenished since this morning — five points nestled in his core. He visualized the [Identify] ability slotted into his first Mana Slot. A familiar icy tingle spread through him as he willed mana towards the ability, targeting Leif. Blue text materialized.

[CASTING: IDENTIFY]

[MANA: 5/5 → 4/5]

[TARGET: LEIF FENRIR]

[REALM: SNOW (RANK 3)]

[STATS: STR 11, END 13, AGI 17, INT 7, CHA 10; Mana: 7/15]

[SKILLS: LONGSWORD: (C); SHIELD: (D-); RIDING: (D); OTHERS (F)]

[TALENTS: FROST AFFINITY (PASSIVE): Enhanced resilience to cold; minor boost to Frost-aligned abilities.]

[ABILITIES: FROSTBITE EDGE]

17 Agility. Eirik noted. His sword skill is solid C rank. That tracks with his duel performance. Frost Affinity explains his decent endurance and why he favored that nasty little spell. INT 7… predictable. 

“Snow Realm Rank Three. A whole two ranks above me.” Eirik saw Leif stiffen at the assessment. “Right now, Leif Fenrir, you are useless to your house. Worse than useless. You are a liability.” 

“What do you want?” Leif’s fists clenched.

“I want the warrior potential buried under all this petulant garbage,” Eirik shot back, stepping closer. “Your task is simple: exist. Stand straight. Breathe. Try not to vomit at the sight of me. When the gear Lady Fenrir procures arrives, you will help inventory it. You will carry crates. You will clean rust off blades. You will obey Harkin or whoever I put in charge of you. You will not complain. You will not sulk. You will be a ghost until I tell you otherwise. Understood?”

Leif’s jaw worked. He looked like he wanted to spit. Finally, a barely audible grunt escaped him. 

“Understood.”

“Good.” Eirik turned away.

The heavy wooden door groaned open, letting in a blast of frigid air and weak daylight. Harkin straightened as two figures shuffled in behind him. One was Yorick, he looked paler than usual, clutching a heavy, worn leather satchel against his chest like a shield. His eyes darted nervously around the dismal storehouse, widening when they landed on Leif and Lady Fenrir.

The other man was Olaf Stenson. He’d clearly taken Eirik’s advice about not smelling like a troll pit. His shaggy brown hair was damp, roughly combed back, and he wore relatively clean, albeit threadbare, woolens. The scars on his arms and the hard glint in his eyes remained. He scanned the room, taking in the disgraced noble heir, the pale noblewoman, the imposing Harkin, and finally Eirik. 

“Lord Eirik,” Harkin announced formally. “Yorick, as requested. And Olaf Stenson. Found him asking for you at Stormkeep.” 

Eirik nodded. “Harkin. Well done.” He focused on the newcomers. “Yorick. Your satchel looks heavy. Did you bring what belongs to me?”

Yorick flinched as if struck. He clutched the satchel tighter. “M-my lord… the…the fee?”

“The fee,” Eirik said coldly, “was not getting dragged to the Ice Cells. The fee was your continued freedom. Do I need to renegotiate?”

Yorick’s face crumpled. With trembling hands, he lurched forward and placed the satchel heavily on a relatively clean crate near Eirik. “N-no, m’lord! Two hundred and seventy-three talons! Counted three times. It’s all there, every coin!”

Eirik didn’t touch the satchel. He turned to Olaf. “Stenson. Impressive punctuality. And you look… marginally less offensive.” He gestured around. “Welcome to the foundation of Stormcrow’s Talon. Glorious, isn’t it?”

Olaf’s gaze swept the dingy storehouse again, lingering on Leif’s slumped form and Isolde’s strained expression. “Glorious ain’t the word I’d use, Lord Stormcrow. But it’s a sight warmer than the Frost Pit.” He hefted the small pouch Isolde had tossed him yesterday. “And twenty talons buys more than gruel. What’s the catch? What’s the work?”

“Straight to the point,” Eirik approved. “Good.” He pointed at YOrick, who was shrinking back towards the wall. “That man is Yorick. He’s good with numbers. Or at least, he fears what happens when numbers go missing enough to be careful. Yorick, your new role is quartermaster and accountant. You will track every copper spent and every nail acquired for this company. You will report solely to me. Screw it up, and the Ice Cells will seem like a summer resort. Understood?”

Yorick bobbed his head frantically. “Yes, m’lord! Quartermaster! Accountant! Yes! Understood!”

“Olaf,” Eirik continued. “Your task requires less… precision and more… discretion. You survived the Pit. You know others who did. Men with skills. Men who have nothing to lose and everything to gain.” He met Olaf’s wary gaze. “Find them. The clever ones. The desperate ones. The ones who fought beasts or men and lived. Tell them there’s work. Dangerous work, but work that pays real silver. Work that offers a path out of the gutters and the gibbet. Recruitment starts now. Bring potential candidates here. I will vet them. Focus on finding three to start. Then Good ones. Scouts, hunters, brawlers, anyone who can move quietly or hit hard. Then use your three to recruit six more, the less good ones, then the six could recruit twelve more, and they needn’t be that good.”

Olaf digested this, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Recruiting gutter trash and branded men for a noble’s company? That’s… bold.”

“Find me men who can fight who crave the chance we’re offering.” Eirik stated flatly. “You get three silver talons for every recruit I accept. If I accept all of them, that’s seventy-five talons for you.”

The glint in Olaf’s eyes sharpened. “Aye. I know where to look. Give me two days.” 

“Good. Harkin,” Eirik turned to his most trusted ally. “Your task is more specialized. Find me an alchemist. A discreet one. Preferably one who understands battlefield applications. Smoke powders, blinding agents, anything that gives an advantage without technically breaking the ‘no mana’ rule of the wargame.” He gestured towards Yorick and the satchel. “Yorick will advance you funds. Be persuasive.” 

“I’ll find one.” Harkin’s lips twitched in a grim approximation of a smile.

Infantry, scouts, and chemical support starting to shape, Eirik thought, feeling the nascent structure of his force. But the foundation, the teeth of the trap… that needs setting now. His gaze snapped back to Harkin. 

“One more thing. Where is Jens?”

Harkin gestured towards the door. “Waiting outside, Lord Eirik. Didn’t want to crowd the place.”

“Good. Tell him we leave for the Blackroot Forest. Now.”

———

Within the sleigh, wrapped in thick furs, Eirik maintained an aloof silence. Jens drove at the reins. Eirik appreciated the stark beauty of the snow-covered landscape — jagged pines dusted white, frozen streams like shattered glass, the vast, pale dome of the winter sky. They left the sleigh near the edge of the logging trails. Snow crunched under their boots. The air bit with a clean, pine-scented cold, a stark relief after the storehouse’s rot. 

Blackroot Forest swallowed them. 

Ancient pines towered overhead, blocking most of the weak winter sun. What light filtered through danced weakly on a thick carpet of decaying needles and frost-heaved roots that threatened to trip unwary feet. A profound silence pressed in, broken only by the crunch of their boots and the occasional skitter of some unseen creature fleeing deeper into the gloom. 

“Jens, let’s look for killing grounds.”
Jens nodded, eyes wide. “Killing grounds, m’lord?”

“Places where numbers mean nothing,” Eirik explained, scanning the path ahead. “Narrow spots. Points where men are forced together, like sheep in a chute.” He pointed towards a section where massive pines crowded the trail, their trunks thicker than a man’s waist, forcing the path into a natural bottleneck barely wide enough for two men abreast. “Like that. Places where fifty men become fifty targets, not a formation.” 

Chokepoints, he thought. Where Gunnar’s disciplined veterans would be forced into a slow, clumped target. Where Garrick’s rash charge could be ambushed mid-stride. 

“Mark it,” Eirik ordered. “Find others. Stream crossing with only one good ford. Gaps between big rocks. Fallen logs blocking easy ways around. Any place that funnels men. Look for two things specifically at each spot…” He paused, ensuring Jens was tracking. “First, the narrowest part of the gap itself. Second…” He pointed ahead where two immense pines stood sentinel on either side of the trail, perhaps fifteen feet apart. “Pairs of strong trees like those. Healthy. No rot. Thick trunks. Branches about chest-high.”

Jens squinted at the trees. “Why chest-high, m’lord?”

“For leverage, Jens. For leverage and force.” Eirik stepped closer to one tree, thumping the thick, frost-rimed bark. “These will be our anchors. For each good chokepoint you find trees like this, you mark it. A small pile of stones, Jens. Nothing obvious. Just enough for us to find again. Understood?”
“Aye, m’lord! Chokepints! Tree pairs. Stone markers. Got it,” Jens confirmed, pulling out a small, worn notebook and a stub of charcoal. He sketched quickly, marking the location relative to a distinctive lightening-struck pine nearby. Eirik noted with approval. 

They walked deeper into the forest, Eirik pointing out potential traps. “Logging trails twist and turn,” Eirik murmured, more to himself than Jens. “Visibility is poor. Gunnar will rely on scouts, but scouts can be… distracted.” He filed that thought away. 

“Remember, Jens,” Eirik said aloud, pulling Jens from his note-taking. “Speed and secrecy are everything. Cedric gave us seven days, but Gunnar will have scouts watching this forest long before the wargame. We have maybe four days before his eyes are everywhere.”
Jens paled slightly. “Four days? To build… whatever you’re planning, m’lord?”

“To build the teeth of our defense,” Eirik corrected. “Tomorrow and the next day, you scout. Focus solely on finding those chokepoints with the tree pairs. Map them. Mark them subtly.” He gestured towards the dense undergrowth flanking the trail. “While you’re out here, keep an eye out for anything useful. Old logging camps. Mill sites. Even abandoned mine shafts. Places where men left things behind.”

“What kind of things, m’lord?”

“Heavy rope,” Eirik stated. “Thick as your thumb or bigger. The kind used for hauling timber. Pulleys. Any wheel-and-rope contraption. Especially pulleys.” He mimed the motion. “Anything that changes the direction of a pull. Iron stakes. Big nails. Anything we can drive deep into wood.” 

Jens nodded, scribbling furiously. “Rope. Pulleys. Iron spikes. Aye. Old camps near the north ridge might have some, near where they cut oak for the keep gates last year.”

“Good. Start there,” Eirik approved. “On the third day, you gather. Haul everything you find to a central hidden spot — a dry cave, a thicket deep off the trail. Somewhere there is no way to casually stumble.”

“And then?” Jens asked.

“Then,” Eirik said, stopping at another promising chokepoint — a rocky defile where the trail squeezed between two moss-covered boulders, with sturdy pines flanking the exit. “Then you build.”

He stepped into the defile, turning to face Jens. “For each chokepoint you marked, Jens, we build one thing: A barrier.”

Jens frowned. “Like a wall, m’lord?”

“Not quite. A moving wall.” Eirik pointed to the trees flanking the exit. “Imagine a heavy log. As long as you are tall. Thick as your leg. We drill or carve holes in both ends.” He mimed the action. “Thread thick rope through the holes. Tie knots so it’s secure. Test it — that rope must hold the log’s weight swinging.”
Understanding dawned on Jen’s face. “Swinging? Like… a battering ram?”

“A barrier ram,” Eirik corrected. “Hidden. On the side of the trail, in the bushes.” He pointed to a patch of dense undergrowth near one anchor tree. “Now, the anchor trees.” He walked to one thick pine. “We drive an iron spike deep into this tree, here.” 

He indicated a spot chest-high. “Same on the opposite tree. Then, we attach pulleys to those spikes.” He mimed hooking a pulley onto a spike. “We run our rope through those pulleys.” His hands traced an invisible line through the air, from one pulley, across the trail, to the hidden log. “The rope attached to the log runs through these pulleys, changing direction.”

Jens’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “So… pulling on the rope here…” He gestured towards the anchor tree beside him. 

“... would pull the log across the trail,” Eirik finished. “Exactly. But we don’t want to stand here pulling when enemies come. So…” He looked around, spotted a thick tangle of brush about twenty feet away, slightly uphill and off the main trail. “We run a separate rope. A long one. From the pulley mechanism here, back to a hidden spot there. We tie it with a special knot — a slipknot or a quick-release. That’s the trigger rope.”  

He walked over to the brush pile, crouching. “Here. Hidden. We mark this spot with stones, too, just for our men. We train two men per trap. Their job is simple: Hide here. Wait. When the enemy force starts moving through the chokepoint, they pull this rope hard when I give the signal.”
Jens scrambled to join him, picturing it. “The log swings across the trail? At chest height?” 

“Yes,” Eirik said. “It won’t kill with wooden weapons, but it will smash into three, maybe four men. Knock them down and create instant chaos. The log blocks the path. Anyone behind it piles up. They don’t know where it came from. They’re tangled. Disorganized. Perfect targets for an ambush.” Or forced into the path of Garrick’s reckless charge, he added silently. 

“Brilliant, m’lord!” Jens breathed, genuine awe replacing some of his fear. “Simple and uses the forest.”
“Exactly,” Eirik said. “Simplicity is key. Test every rope, Jens. Every knot. Every pulley. Twice. If a rope breaks, the trap fails, and men might die.” He locked eyes with Jens. “On the fifth day, camouflage. Cover all ropes with leaves, moss, and snow. Hide the pulleys behind branches. Make the hidden log look like natural debris. Scrape away any fresh tool marks.”

Jens nodded solemnly, understanding the weight.

“On the sixth day,” Eirik continued, “you train the trigger men. For each trap location, you assign two men. Show them exactly where their hiding spot is. Show them the trigger rope. Drill them on the signal.”

“The signal?” Jens asked.

“A bird call. Something common but distinct. Three sharp whistles. When they hear it, it means ‘enemies in the gap’. Then they count.” Eirik held up five fingers. “Not too fast, not too slow. A steady count to five. Then pull. Hard and fast. Then…” He made a sharp, shooing gesture. “...they run. Get away from the trigger spot immediately. Don’t linger to watch.” 

“Pull and run,” Jens repeated, committing it to memory. “Because the enemies will look for where it came from.”
“Smart,” Eirik acknowledged. “Their job ends with the pull. The chaos is our weapon. They must escape to fight another moment.”
He walked Jens back towards the trailhead, reinforcing the plan. “Remember, Jens, this isn’t about slaughter. It’s about stopping power. Confusion. One man tangled under a log can’t fight. Five men confused about where the attack came from are slower to react than five men charging. We break their formation. We break their momentum. That’s how we fight giants.”

Jens walked beside him, shoulders straighter now. “Aye, m’lord. I understand. I won’t let you down.”
Eirik stopped at the forest edge, looking back into the shadowed depths. We’re building more than traps, Jens. We’re building a reputation. We’re building the legend of Eirik Stormcrow right here in this mud and snow. 

“I know you won’t, Jens,” he said quietly. “Start scouting.”

Jens nodded and melted back into the trees, becoming just another shadow among the ancient pines. Eirik watched him go.

Chapter Fifteen (TIBK)

Eirik kept his head bowed, letting the silence stretch just long enough. 

Got you exactly where I want you to be.

The whole performance — demanding Leif’s death, being inflexible about justice, having Garrick and Ingrid fiercely opposing him — it was all calculated. He’d known from the moment he stepped into this hall how Cedric would react. The Baron loved nothing more than the sound of his own voice, loved playing the wise father lecturing his foolish children.

Give a man like Cedric the chance to feel superior, and he’ll take it every time.

“Father?” Eirik pressed, widening his eyes slightly in feigned uncertainty. “Why me? I am… newly elevated. Do I truly deserve the weight of passing judgment on a noble heir?” He lowered his gaze.

Cedric leaned forward slightly. “You are the one wronged, Eirik. By Stormkeep’s laws and by simple justice, the weight of his fate rests upon your shoulders. This is the proper way. Hesitation now serves no one. Speak your mind.” 

Eirik took a slow breath, as if gathering courage. He turned his head slowly, deliberately meeting Leif’s glare. He projected a look of sudden, uncomfortable realization. 

“Father,” Eirik began, “Upon reflection… seeing him now… hearing your words… perhaps Garrick touched upon a truth I was too blinded by anger to see.” He gestured subtly towards Garrick. “My sudden presence… a legitimized bastard thrust into the heart of nobility… it is jarring. I was too eager to prove myself worthy of your name. In my haste to establish my place, I failed to consider how my choices, my eagerness for victories, might provoke hostility… might feel like a direct challenge to houses long established.”

Garrick’s initial shock at being mentioned turned into stunned disbelief, then a slow dawning of outrage. 

Cedric’s expression didn’t visibly change, but Eirik could almost feel the man’s internal satisfaction.

“So,” Eirik pressed on, “I stand before you, Lord Father, not to demand Leif Fenrir’s death, but to request a different path. A path of atonement. For him… and perhaps, for myself.”

He let the silence magnify his next words. “I humbly request… no land. No titles beyond the name you bestowed. No holdings befitting a Stormcrow son.” He saw Garrick’s eyes narrow at the implication — Eirik wasn’t asking for a slice of his inheritance. “I know now that my youthful dream of venturing north alone was folly born of ignorance.”

Here comes the twist. Eirik straightened. “But my desire… my need… to live a warrior’s life, to carve my path away from the silken traps of court, remains undimmed. Therefore, I ask for this: Grant me leave, Lord Father, to join a mercenary company.” 

He turned deliberately towards Leif, locking eyes with the bewildered noble. “And I ask that Leif Fenrir stand beside me as my right-hand man.”

The stunned silence shattered. Gasps echoed. Gunnar inhaled sharply. 

Leif finally found his voice, “You… you want me… to fight beside you? After… after everything?”
Eirik didn’t flinch from Leif’s glare. 

“Exactly, Leif. Beside me. Not against me. Father,” he turned back to Cedric, his voice resonating with the fervor of a newly converted believer, “Your words about Stalwart Arn Fenrir stuck deep. A warrior forged in battle, loyal unto death. Why must animosity define us? Why can’t we channel it? We will fight together, bleed together. Learn to trust each other with our backs.”
He pointedly looked back at Leif. 

“Comfortable noble courts breed complacency and hot tempers, Leif. They do not breed warriors like your father. A mercenary company will teach us discipline and survival. You learned a harsh lesson today about acting rashly. Out there, rashness gets you and your comrades killed.” 

Leif was utterly at sea. Hatred warred with confusion, and beneath it, a terrifying spark of… possibility? He’s offering a way of execution, out of the mines… but at what cost? Serving the man I tried to kill? 

Cedric leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the armrest. 

Interesting, he thought, Very interesting. It neatly sidestepped the ugly execution, preserved Fenrir levies, and potentially bound the troublesome bastard and the volatile Fenrir heir into a loyal service… away from his court. Moreover, the redemption arc of it would become minstrel songs that surely would make him look benevolent and wise, capable of turning blood feuds into camaraderie. The appeal was potent… if Leif wouldn’t try murdering his son again. 

“What say you, Leif?” Cedric asked, his voice caring genuine curiosity.

Leif opened his mouth, shut it, looked desperately towards his mother. Isolde, seizing the moment Eirik had orchestrated, stepped forward and sank into a grateful curtsy.

“Lord Cedric,” Isolde’s voice was clear and strong, “Young Stormcrow’s words… they ring with unexpected wisdom.” She lifted her head, meeting Cedric’s gaze. “As Leif’s mother, I see this not just as mercy, but as a profound gift to House Fenrir. An opportunity to repay Stormkeep’s forbearance not with words, but with deeds. In recognition of this great clemency, House Fenrir pledges its resources to establish this Mercenary Company honoring Eirik Stormcrow. Let it stand as a testament to our renewed, prolonged devotion to the Stormcrow line.” 

Masterstroke, Isolde, Eirik thought, impressed despite himself. She’s playing her part flawlessly. 

The hall erupted in a fresh wave of murmurs. 

“WHAT?” Garrick couldn’t contain himself. “Father! This… viper,” he stabbed a finger at Eirik, “demanded Leif’s head just moments ago! Now he wants him as a shield-brother?” He turned to Isolde. “Have you also lost your mind? Or is this some twisted joke? You heard what he said about your son! He wanted nothing but Leif’s RUIN! And now all of a sudden you are just trusting him with men and coins? Father, this is madness! Utter madness!”

“Why the sudden hostility, brother? Weren’t you the one reminding father of Fenir’s value to the Northern defenses?” Eirik’s response was deceptively mild. “You and father helped me see the flaws in my former judgment, and so now I propose a new path that achieves both mercy and justice while doing service to our realm. A path that, dare I say, aligns exactly with your stated concerns for loyalty and stability?” 

Garrick spluttered, momentarily speechless as Cedric held up a hand, stopping any further exchanges. His gaze rested on Isolde. 

“The gesture is noted, Lady Fenrir,” Cedric said. “Your humility and loyalty in this dark hour do you credit. It comforts me greatly that such ugliness can find resolution that strengthens, rather than shatters.” His gaze shifted back to Eirik. “...this Mercenary Company notion. Eirik, you are young. Barely stepped into the Snow Realm. What experience do you have leading men? Real men. Your advancements surprised me pleasantly, but leading desperate cutthroats and sell-swords require much, much, much more. It requires proven skill. You are not ready for such a burden. I’d rather you and Leif learn from a try-and-true mercenary captain first.” 

Eirik met his gaze. 

“Lord father, I acknowledge this is unprecedented. But unprecedented conditions forge unprecedented men. Lady Fenrir’s proposal would make me walk your path. Lord father, you weren’t afforded comfort and pleasures when you rebuilt this barony. Yet it was precisely those challenges that turned you into such a great warrior today. Challenge hardens one true. I desire nothing less than walking the path you once treaded.”

Isolde saw the opening. “Then let his readiness be tested, Lord Baron! To allay your concerns and to honor the bond between our houses, let us put it to a trial.” She interjected smoothly. “What if… what if we stage a wargame?”
Cedric raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“You could appoint a seasoned commander,” Isolde gestured to Marshal Gunnar, “with a small force — perhaps a contingent of your garrison. Young Stormcrow could command another. A skirmish in a controlled environment. If Eirik demonstrates the tactical acumen to lead by winning… then House Fenrir’s pledge stands, and the company could move forward with your blessing.” She paused. “If he fails… then the funds shall instead be donated directly to bolster your personal retinue and Stormkeep’s defenses.”

“I accept the trial.” Eirik didn’t hesitate. “What do I have to lose, father? If I lost, I would be joining a mercenary company with Leif, with your blessing. But if I win, I would be leading one, and House Stormcrow’s name, your name, will be further boltered.” 

Cedric looked between Isolde and Eirik, then at Gunnar, who merely grunted. 

A slow, almost indulgent smile touched Cedric’s lips. The boy’s right. He has nothing to lose, while I have everything to gain. Not only would this mercifully solve the Leif’s situation without making him lose face, but also he would gain a hefty sum for the treasury, or, frost forbid, a new force directly led by his bastard son. 

But… 

Cedric steepled his fingers. A low rumble started in his chest, building into a dry chuckle that held no warmth. 

“Lady Fenrir. I appreciate the spirit of your suggestion. Truly. But let us be realistic.” He shifted his gaze fully onto Eirik. “You, boy? Commanding men against Marshal Gunnar? The man who held the Iron Pass against a Skral warband twice his number? Who broke the Frostman rebellion with nothing but grit and garrison troops?” He shook his head slowly. “It’s… quaint. Adorable, even. But you haven’t the foggiest notion of what you’re proposing. This is a recipe for humiliation. Yours. And by extension, mine.” 

Eirik kept his face carefully neutral. 

“Father. I understand your doubts. They are… grounded. Marshal Gunnar’s legend is well-earned. Compared to him, I am nothing.” He lifted his gaze. “But how does one cease to be a novice, Lord Father? Wasn’t the Marshal himself once tested? Didn’t you, my Lord, learn the weight of command not in lessons, but through fire and blood?”

Cedric’s brow furrowed as Eirik quickly softened the challenge with humility. 

“I do not presume to win, Father. I know I will be crushed. Utterly and decisively.” 

“Then why?” Cedric demanded. “Why subject yourself — and my garrison — to this farce? Why waste time?”

“Because I swear by the Frost, I will treat this mock battle as if it were my life!” Eirik pressed. “As if the fate of Stormkeep itself hung in the balance! I will pour every scrap of will I possess into it!” He locked eyes with Cedric again, radiating fervent sincerity. “I will lose, but I will fight for honor. The Honor of the name you gave me.”

Cedric’s eyes narrow fractionally as Eirik continued. 

“I will strive to learn, to push, to perhaps… remind the Marshal of what it felt like to face a desperate, cornered foe? Maybe force him to dig deep into his own bag of tricks? If I can do even that… if I can emerge with a shred of respect earned, not given… isn’t that worth the cost? Isn’t that better preparation than polishing boots in the garrison?”

Cedric’s expression shifted subtly. The amusement faded, replaced by a harder, more calculating look. He studied Eirik as if seeing him anew. The raw hunger for something beyond comfort, the willingness to embrace defeat for self-improvement… for the second day in a row, Eirik resonated with the younger warrior Cedric remembered himself being. 

“So eager for the taste of dirt, boy?” Cedric murmured. “So hungry to learn what it feels like to have your grand plans shattered like a cheap battery.” He leaned forward. “But understand this, Eirik Stormcrow. The lesson you will be learning won’t be tactical. There’s no learning in being beaten like a tied pig in the slaughter house. The real lesson you will be learning is that ambition without the strength and skill to back it is fatal. That cleverness on the training yard is one thing, controlling men, anticipating an enemy, bearing the weight of command under pressure… that is another entirely.” He lifted his gaze again. “I shall let Marshal Gunnar demonstrate that truth to you. Personally, Brutally, if necessary. Let him show you the depth of your ignorance. That would serve you better than simply denying you the chance. That would truly… temper you.” 

Eirik hid the surge of triumph behind grim acceptance. “Understood, Lord Father. I welcome the lesson.” 

“Very well. If you’re so desperate to learn, I shall grant your… request.” He emphasized the last word, making it clear this was indulgence, not endorsement.

“And I thank you for the opportunity.” Eirik bowed his head.

“Spare me the gratitude. Earn it on the field.” Cedric waved a dismissive hand and turned to the still-kneeling Leif. “Fenrir. This… scheme hinges on you serving at Stormcrow’s side. What say you? After trying to murder him yesterday, can you stomach taking his orders today? Can you restrain your impulses to disgrace your house further? ” 

Leif flinched as if struck. His eyes darted from Cedric’s gaze to Eirik’s impassive face. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His gaze flickered sideways, and found his mother’s eyes. Isolde Fenrir met her son’s panicked look. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. 

Leif swallowed hard. “I… I will serve… Lord Eirik.” The title tasted like ash. 

Cedric grunted, clearly unimpressed but willing to accept the submission. “See that you do, boy. Because what awaits you next time won’t be anything close to the level of mercy I’ve shown you today.”

Leif looked down at the stone floor, then forced his head up. “Understood, Lord Cedric.”

“So be it,” Cedric declared. “Marshal. You heard the proposal. Fifty men versus fifty. You pick your men from the garrison — veterans, solid fighters, no green boys.” 

“Aye, Lord Baron.” Gunnar straightened. “And the location?”

Cedric’s gaze drifted towards the narrow windows. “The Blackroot Forest. The old logging trails and the Frostmire clearing.” He looked at Eirik. “Seven days from now. That gives you time to muster your forces, boy.” A cruel glint entered Cedric’s eyes. “Standard rules. Wooden weapons blunted. No live steel. No use of mana. Captures count as kills. Win by rendering the opposing force incapable of fighting or forcing their commander’s surrender.” 

Cedric’s words hung in the frigid air in the great hall. 

“Good? Now. Go pre—”

Just as Cedric shifted, clearly about to dismiss them, Garrick Storm lunged forward.

“Lord Father!”

All eyes snapped to the golden son. 

“This wargame… it’s a brilliant trial, truly! But fifty against fifty? Orderly lines? That’s parade ground stuff, Father!” His voice took on a wheedling tone. “The real battle for mercenaries is never this polite! Raiders hitting from all sides, shifting alliances, treacheries! Let me command a third force!”

Of course. 

Eirik almost smiled. Garrick couldn't bear being sidelined. He craved attention, validation, and above all a chance to stomp on Eirik. 

“This does not concern you, boy!” Cedric’s voice crackled with impatience. “They have stakes to settle. You have none here. Stand down.” 

“Then I will make a stake, Father!” Garrick drew himself up. “I pledge funds! Further funds! One thousand talons! From my personal coffers to help establish my dear brother’s mercenary company… if he wins!”

“And if he loses?”

Garrick seized the opening. “Then Leif Fenrir is with me instead! I will make sure he does not live the life of a lowly sell-sword and find him a post befitting House Fenrir here at Stormkeep! My brother could take on the adventure he so desired all by himself!”

“Don’t think I’m a fool, Garrick.” Cedric leaned back. “If I let you in, you and Gunnar would simply crush Eirik between you like a nut in a vise. This ‘trial’ would become farce.” 

“I won’t, Father! I swear by the Frost!” Garrick’s face flushed crimson. “You’ll be watching! I will think only of my own victory!”

Cedric remained silent for a long moment. Finally, he turned to Eirik.

“Son. This… complicates your trial. Do you accept this… expansion?” His gaze flickered to Isolde and Leif. “Lady Fenrir? Leif? Does House Fenrir accept these altered stakes concerning its heir?”

Isolde’s eyes snapped to Eirik. 

Eirik met Cedric’s gaze squarely. He allowed a small nod. Garrick’s involvement is a complication, but not entirely unwelcome. It adds chaos, true. But chaos can be exploited. Gunnar will be ruthless. Garrick will be impulsive. Hence, his inclusion might just distract the Marshal, forcing him to split his focus. Besides, one thousand talons would significantly bolster the company’s starting funds… If I win. 

“My brother’s enthusiasm echoes my own desire for realism,” Eirik stated. “I see no reason to deny him the challenge.”

Garrick opened his mouth, ready to counter whatever came out of Eirik, only to find it agreeing with him in utter surprise. Isolde spoke in turn. “House Fenrir also accepts the amended terms.” After which Leif gave a jerky nod. 

“Lord Father,” Eirik stepped forward again. “Since my brother has so kindly increased the stakes with his pledge… and since Lord Leif Fenrir himself has agreed to stand beside me in this trial and beyond…” He gestured towards the chained noble. “...it seems only right that he, and House Fenrir, should also have something meaningful to gain if we prevail. They too deserve a reward for participating in this… resolution.”

Cedric’s eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued despite himself. “Speak plainly, boy.”
“House Fenrir asks for nothing, Father,” Eirik continued. “But seeing Leif here… remembering his mother’s grief… I recall a burden they carry.” He turned to Isolde, meeting her suddenly alert gaze. “Steward Brynn. Leif’s grandfather. Condemned to the Ice Mines for crimes committed against me.” He saw Isolde’s breath catch, her confusion warring with dawning comprehension.
EIrik turned to Cedric. “I humbly request this, Lord Father: If I win this wargame, securing Garrick’s generous funds for the company and proving myself worthy of command… you release Steward Brynn from the mines. Grant him clemency. Let an old man, whose family has just pledged renewed loyalty, see the sun again. 

Silence descended, heavier than before. Garrick looked furious, realizing Eirik had just tied Leif’s loyalty even tighter — freeing his grandfather depended entirely on Eirik’s victory and Leif helping him achieve it. Leif can’t sabotage Eirik without hurting his own family now. 

Leif stared at Eirik, the hatred momentarily eclipsed by utter disbelief. Release Grandfather? After he’d lost everything just to get Eirik to say it, and failed? Now he just handed this to him?

Cedric leaned back, steepling his fingers. His gaze shifted from Eirik’s carefully earnest face to Garrick’s obvious frustration. Clever bastard, Cedric thought. He positions it as mercy for House Fenrir, but it’s a masterstroke of control. Secures Leif’s cooperation for the wargame — the boy must fight loyally for Eirik to have any chance of freeing Brynn… and it subtly highlights Garrick’s offer as purely self-serving. All while appearing magnanimous. 

A low chuckle started in Cedric’s chest, building into a dry, appreciative rumble. “By the Frost, boy,” Cedric finally said. “You don’t lack for… audacity. Or political instinct.” He looked at Isolde. “Lady Fenrir? Does this… proposed clemency meet with your house’s approval?”

Isolde sank into a deep, trembling curtsy. “Lord Baron… such mercy… it would heal wounds generations deep. House Fenrir… I… accept with profound gratitude.” 

“Very well,” Cedric declared. “The stakes are amended. If Eirik Stormcrow’s force is victorious in the wargame, Steward Brynn is pardoned and released from the Ice Mines immediately.” He leveled a look at Leif. “A powerful incentive to fight well beside your new commander, wouldn’t you say, boy?”

Leif bowed his head, the chains clanking. “Yes, Lord Baron.” 

“Very well.” Cedrifc’s focus sharpened on Garrick. “Garrick Stormcrow. Since you insist on inserting yourself into your brother’s trial, so be it. You shall field a third force. Fifty men. Same rules.” He leaned forward. “And if you win… if you defeat both Marshal Gunnar’s veterans and Eirik’s… whatever he scrapes together… I shall personally fund the recruitment and outfitting of a personal retinue for you. Seasoned. Well-armed.” He looked closer into Garrick. “But heed me, boy. Disappoint me? Show me incompetence, cowardice, or worse, the petty collusion I suspect? Your privileges within these walls will shrink until you have room only to breathe. Am I understood?” 

Garrick’s eyes widened, blazing with avarice and the sheer, dizzying scale of the opportunity — and the threat. A personal retinue, funded by the Baron! Cedric’s gesture was clear: he hadn’t offered this to Eirik, but to him. Which means winning it would surely secure his status as heir, with a fearsome reputation that is sure to follow. 

Garrick slammed his fist to his chest in a sharp salute, forgetting that his sabotage against Eirik was completely dismantled and was used against him in his newfound excitement. “Understood, Father! Absolutely! I swear! I will not disappoint!” 

Cedric just waved a hand, dismissing them all. 

Chapter Fourteen (TIBK)

The great hall of Stormkeep felt different at dawn. 

Gone was the bustling warmth of petitioners and servants. Instead, a glacial quiet hung thick in the air, broken only by the sharp crackle of the central hearth-fire and the rhythmic clank of Leif Fenrir’s manacles as he shifted his weight. Pale winter light filtered through high, narrow windows, illuminating dust motes dancing over the polished stone floor. 

“This private session is convened to determine the fate of Leif Fenrir,” Cedric’s voice cut through the silence. “Speak your pieces. Be brief. Be factual.”

Here we go, Eirik felt a familiar sense of excitement. Time to play the butcher. 

He stepped forward without preamble, deliberately ignoring Leif and Isolde.

“Father. The facts were simple.” Eirik’s voice was calm, devoid of anger which made it all the more chilling. “Leif Fenrir engaged in a duel, under agreed rules. He lost. Fairly. Marshal Gunnar can attest to the legality of the contest and its outcome.”

Gunnar gave a nod.

“Instead of accepting defeat with the honor befitting his name,” Eirik continued, “he ambushed me as I claimed my lawful prize. He drew a concealed dagger.” He paused. “Worse. He channeled mana and invoked ‘Frostbite Edge’ A spell designed to shatter bone and freeze blood. Aimed at my head and shoulder.” Another pause. “This was not a moment of passionate folly. This was a premeditated attempt to murder a noble of Stormkeep. In your training yard, Lord Father.”

Cedric’s expression didn’t flicker, but the stillness around him deepened. 

“He committed treason against your law and your house,” Eirik concluded. “He spat on the sanctity of fair combat and the safety you personally guaranteed me upon my legitimization.” 

He looked away at Leif Fenrir, and back to Cedric Stormcrow. 

“Lord father, the logic is clear. There is only one penalty befitting such an act. Leif Fenrir must die. By the axe. Immediately.”

CRACK!

The gasp wasn’t just from Isolde. It escaped from Gunnar’s lips, too. Garrick’s eyes widened momentarily in shock before settling into a grim satisfaction. 

“Prepoterous!” Garrick surged forward. He jabbed a finger at Eirik. “He’s milking this! Look at him! Trying to destroy a whole house over a slip of judgment!” He turned to Cedric. “Father, Leif’s a hothead, yes! He acted foolishly, blinded by shame! But death? For defending his family’s honor after this one,” he spat the words at Eirik, “used underhanded gutter tricks to take their heirloom? It’s excessive! Weakens the barony! Shows our enemies we eat our own for minor slights!”

Cedric’s gaze slid slowly from Eirik to Garrick.

“Minor slights, Garrick? Attempted murder of your brother? With lethal magic? Before half the garrison? Define ‘minor’ for me.”

Garrick faltered, his bluster momentarily punctured. He looked at Ingrid. 

Ingrid’s hand came to rest lightly on Cedric’s shoulder. 

“My love. Garrick speaks coarsely, but his core point has merit. Fenrir’s levies guard the northern approaches. Their loyalty, however strained now, has been unwavering. Executing Leif publicly…” Her voice was laced with intimate concern. “The other vassals… The Ravenscrofts, the Frostmans will watch. They will note how we treat those who've been nothing but loyal.”

Cedric absorbed Ingrid’s whispered words. He turned his head slightly. 

“Marshal. You witnessed both the duel and the aftermath. Give me a clear account. Facts only.”

Gunnar straightened, his deep voice filled the hall. “Aye, Lord Baron. The duel proceeded by standard rules. Three hits or yield. Eirik scored the first hit with a solid body strike. Leif scored the the next two. The third exchange…” Gunnar paused as he recalled the shocking maneuver. “Leif attempted a low strike targeting the lead leg. Eirik deflected the feint upwards, then… seized Leif’s sword wrist bare-handed and subsequently landed a disabling strike to his weapon arm. Leif did not yield and chose to continue with his off-hand. Eirik scored the final hit. Match awarded to Eirik.” 

Gunnar’s voice remained flat. “Afterwards, as Eirik approached the forfeit sword, Leif broke free of guards attempting to assist him and drew a dagger while channeling mana. He lunged at Eirik while Eirik defended with dirt and gravel flung into Leif’s eyes, then struck Leif’s dagger arm with the pommel of the sheathed Fenrir blade, disarming him. At which point I restrained Fenrir.”  

He fell silent and let the facts hung in the air. 

Isolde let out a low, heart-wrenching sob. “My boy…” she whispered. “My poor, foolish boy…” 

Cedric’s gaze remained locked on Gunnar for a long moment. Then, slowly, he shifted to Leif. The young noble flinched as if struck, shrinking under the Baron’s icy scrutiny. Cedric’s eyes held no mercy, only a chilling assessment.

Perfect. Eirik thought. The facts are undeniable. Cedric now sees Leif not as a valuable noble heir, but as a liability who is forcing his hand with a politically dangerous position. Executing Leif would be perceived as way too harsh for other nobles under his rule. Sparing him would make him look weak for violating his own words on defending his newly legitimized son.

Time to twist the knife. 

“The facts, as Marshal Gunnar confirms, are indisputable,” Eirik stated, his voice regaining its steely edge. “Treachery. Attempted assassination. The use of lethal magic against a fellow noble. The penalty decreed by ancient law for such an act is death.” His tone was heavy and final. “House Fenrir’s loyalty, Lady Ingrid mentions? Where was that loyalty when their heir plotted murder against your blood? A house that raises such an heir is rotten at its core!” He turned his gaze fully on Cedric now, projecting absolute conviction. “Spare him, Lord Baron, and what message do you send? That the bonds fealty are weak? That the safety of your son is negotiable? That pragmatism, not facts, dictates justice? Stormkeep’s strength lies in its unyielding law! Execute him, father. Show the North the price of betrayal.” 

Isolde’s head snapped up. She crawled forward a step on her knees, her voice rising in a desperate wail.

“NO! PLEASE! Baron Cedric! Mercy! I beg you! He is my only child! The last of his line! He is young! He lost his mind!” Her hands clawed at the stone floor. “Strike me down! Exile me! Send me to the Ice Trench! But spare his life! Please! He’s broken! Look at him!” She gestured wildly at Leif, who had begun to weep silently, great shuddering sobs wracking his frame. “He is no threat! He is a broken shell! Let him live in disgrace! But do not take his life!”

The raw anguish was palpable. Garrick shifted uncomfortably. Ingrid’s face flickered with a hint of distaste, though whether for the display or the plea itself was unclear. Cedric watched Isolde impassively. 

Perfect, Eirik thought. Isolde’s performance is wrenching. Genuine enough to sell it, but carefully calibrated to avoid seeming manipulative. Now, let the others take their predictable turns. 

As if summoned by his thought, Garrick Stormcrow stepped forward again. 

“Father,” he began, “While the facts Marshal Gunnar presented are undeniable… execution feels… disproportionate. Leif acted wrongly, gravely so. But think of the consequences beyond this hall. Fenrir men fight alongside ours. To publicly execute their heir over what many common soldiers might see as… a heated, dishonorable reaction to losing a prized heirloom?” He shook his head, “Is the momentary satisfaction of strict justice worth potentially weakening our northern defenses when the Thaw brings the Skral raids?”

Ingrid glided forward next. 

“The harsh reality is that governing is often about choosing the lesser evil. Executing Leif upholds the law starkly, yes. But sparing him — under strict, humiliating conditions — might ultimately serve Stormkeep better. ” 

Even Marshal Gunnar shifted his weight. His voice held an unusual note of deliberation. “Lord Baron,” he rumbled. “I also advocate a… more lenient sentencing.” 

Cedric Stormcrow, Baron of Stormkeep, had remained eerily still throughout the pleas. His gaze had swept from Eirik’s cold pronouncement of death, to Garrick’s strained pragmatism, to Ingrid’s honeyed manipulation, to Gunnar, and finally rested on the weeping wreck that was Leif Fenrir. 

Then, slowly, deliberately, Cedric stood up.

Eirik met his gaze squarely, letting none of his internal satisfaction show. Here it comes. The crucial pivot. Play it humbled and submissive. 

“Eirik Stormcrow,” Cedric’s voice was low, but it carried effortlessly through the quiet hall. “Yesterday. In this very place. I gave you a name. A Stormcrow name. I named you my child. Swore the protection of this house upon you.”
“And today,” Cedric continued, “you stand before me wielding that new status like a blunt axe, demanding blood with a rigidity that chills me more than any northern wind. Justice? Aye, you speak of justice. Cold, hard, unwavering justice. But is that all a ruler carries in his quiver? Is that all you aspire to be?”

Eirik dipped his head slightly, a show of listening, absorbing.

“A ruler who sees only black and white, only transgression and punishment,” Cedric boomed, “that ruler builds a realm of fear, not loyalty. A realm where every mistake is potentially fatal, where no man dares to breathe wrong lest the axe fall. Tell me, Eirik Stormcrow, are you perfect?”

Cedric’s gaze pierced him. Eirik didn’t flinch, but he allowed a dawning realization on his face. He lowered his head further. “No, Lord Father,” he murmured. “I am not.”

“No!” Cedric thundered the agreement. “None of us are! Not I, not Marshal Gunnar, not even saints! We make errors of judgment. We act in anger, in pride, in fear. Does that mean all transgression are equal? Does that mean the only answer is the headsman’s block?” 

Eirik kept his gaze downcast, letting this chastisement wash over him. 

Cedric slammed his fist lightly on the arm of his chair. “Yesterday, you showed me resilience. Stubbornness formed in hardship into a blade that could cut through the fog of false accusation. I saw potential. Today?” He shook his head. “Today you showed me only the other side of that stubbornness — cruelty masquerading as righteousness. You wield the law like a child swings a heavy sword, heedless of the damage beyond the immediate strike. That is not strength, Eirik. That is folly. Dangerous folly.” 

“I… see, Father,” Eirik said, his voice tight with carefully modulated contrition. “Forgive my… haste. My anger clouded my judgment.” 

Garrick couldn’t suppress a tiny, triumphant smirk. Quickly disappeared as Cedric’s gaze swept away from Eirik and landed on him. 

“And you, Garrick. Your childish reflexive opposition to your brother needs to end. Now.”

Garrick flinched as if struck. “Father, I only sought—”

“Silence!” Cedric cut him off. “I know what you sought. You saw an opportunity to undermine Eirik, to champion the side opposing him simply because it opposed him. If Eirik declared the sky blue today, you’d argue for green! This wasn’t about the realm’s stability, Garrick, not truly. It was about your petty rivalry, your inability to accept that this hall now holds two of my sons!”
Garrick’s face flushed crimson as Cedric leaned forward.

“Your brother faced death yesterday from a damned assassin’s blade, and again today from magic in my own yard! And your first instinct? Not concern for his life, not fury at the violation of our laws, but ‘How can I use this against him?’ ‘How can I protect the interest aligned against him?’” Cedric’s disgust was palpable. “That is weakness, Garrick. A different kind than your brother’s harshness, but weakness nonetheless. Pettiness. It stops. Today. Or you will find your own privileges considerably curtailed. Am I understood?”

Garrick’s jaw worked, but no sound emerged. He managed a stiff, jerky bow. “Understood, Father.” Ingrid’s face was a mask now, carved from pale marble. Only the whitened knuckles of the hand resting on Cedric’s chair betrayed her fury at this public rebuke of her golden son.

Finally, Cedric’s relentless gaze settled on Leif Fenrir. The young noble had stopped weeping, frozen by the terrifying shift in the Baron’s attention. He looked like a rabbit facing a direwolf. 

“Leif,” Cedric began. “I knew your father. Stalwart Arn Fenrir. Fought beside him on the Frozen Plains when the Skral poured through the pass your family was sworn to guard. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me, his shield taking blows meant for mine. He died well. Died buying time for our retreat. He left behind a widow…” Cedric’s gaze flicked almost imperceptibly to the still-kneeling Isolde, “... and a boy. You.”

He let the memory hang heavy. “Your parents poured coin, time, hope into you. Trained you. Polished you. Hoping you’d be worthy of Arn’s legacy. Worthy of the Fenrir name. Worthy of Stormkeep.” Cedric’s voice hardened again, like frost forming on stone. 

Leif made a small, broken noise, tears streaming anew, from utter, soul-crushing shame.

“Instead? You proved yourself a spoiled, treacherous brat. A coward who couldn't stomach defeat. Who turned to murder rather than face dishonor. You spat on your father’s sacrifice. You spat on your mother’s devotion. You spat on the oaths of fealty your house swore to mine. Your life carries meaning, boy, meaning bestowed by blood and sacrifice. And today, you tried to throw it all away in a fit of childish rage.”

The truth of Cedric’s words, delivered with the weight of his father’s ghost, was a hammer blow. He slumped further, chains rattling, and wept. 

Cedric let him marinate in that feeling for a long moment. Then, he turned back to Eirik.

“This is not a formal trial, Eirik.” Cedric stated. “It is a private session of this house, convened to prevent this… ugliness… from escalating further than it already has.” 

Eirik stood perfectly still and nodded. 

“Settle this. Now. ” Cedric’s eyes bored into Eirik’s. “Recall what I have just said. Do not let me down again. Determine Leif Fenrir’s fate. But remember, the consequences — for Stormkeep, for House Fenrir, and for yourself.”

Chapter Thirteen (TIBK)

The thick stench hit Eirik before he even saw the Frost Pit — sweat, blood, cheap ale, and something he couldn’t quite name. Roaring, baying, chanting wall of sound emanated from the vast stone bowl sunk into the frozen ground near Stormkeep’s outer wall. Torches cast flickering shadows on the packed earth tiers where commoners and off-duty guards jostled for a better view. 

Eirik moved through the throng near the upper entrance reserved for minor nobles and visiting merchants. He slipped past a pair of bored-looking guards stationed at the entrance to the private galleries — a raised section overlooking the pit, shielded from the worst of the rabble by carved wooden screens and thick hangings. 

It offered a grim panorama. 

Below, the fighting pit was a rough oval of packed, blood-stained snow and ice. Heavy chains were bolted to the frozen walls at irregular intervals, remnants of past horrors. Across the arena, opposite the galleries, a thick iron portcullis was lowered. That was the beast gate. 

The galleries were surprisingly quiet compared to the roaring pit. A few minor functionaries huddled near braziers, their interest more in the warmth than the impending carnage. And then, he saw her.

Isolde Fenrir stood near the railing, her back rigidly straight. She was bundled in a heavy cloak of deep Fenrir blue. Even swathed in winter layers, the outline beneath the cloak hinted at curves that would have been striking under different circumstances. 

Eirik approached silently.

“Lady Fenrir,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

She didn’t turn immediately. When she did, pulling the hood back slightly, Eirik saw a face that matched the description — petite, almost delicate features, framed by dark hair pulled tightly back. But her eyes were chips of glacial ice, boring into him with a ferocity that momentarily surprised him. There was no grief there yet, only fury, humiliation, and a terrifying maternal protectiveness.

“You dragged me to this… charnel house, Stormcrow,” she hissed, “Speak quickly. Every moment my son spends in the Ice Cells is a moment I envision ripping your throat out.”

Eirik kept his expression impassive, leaning casually against the railing beside her, his gaze sweeping over the pit below, not meeting her furious stare.

“Your messenger was inadequate, Lady Fenrir. He offered pennies for the life of your heir and House Fenrir’s future. I won’t waste time pretending this is about apologies or blood money. Let’s discuss reality.”
He finally looked at her. “Leif’s future is ruined. Attempted murder of a noble with lethal magic, in front of Marshal Gunnar and half the garrison. My father Cedric will make an example. It reinforces his authority after having just legitimized me and sworn to protect me. And frankly,” Eirik paused, “He doesn’t care about tears. Especially the tears from a widow of a declining House that’s on the brink of total collapse.”

Isolde flinched, the hatred in her eyes flickering with raw panic she instantly suppressed. 

“You… you did this! You provoked him! You humiliated him!”
“I beat him,” Eirik corrected calmly. “Fairly. Under rules he demanded. He then chose to act like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum. That choice put him in the Ice Cells. Not me. His actions, Lady Fenrir.” 

Before she could retort, a thunderous roar shook the galleries, louder even than the crowd. Below, the iron portcullis groaned upwards with a terrifying screech of metal on stone.

The troll emerged. 

It wasn’t particularly tall, maybe eight feet, but densely muscled and thick-limbed, covered in shaggy, matted white fur crusted with ice. Its face consisted of beady black eyes, yellowed tusks, and snot-crusted nostrils. Frost seemed to cling to its very presence, misting the air around it. 

Three men, ragged and terrified, were shoved stumbling into the pit from a smaller side gate opposite the beast. They wore only thin tunics. One clutched a rusty short sword, another a crude wooden club studded with nails, the third nothing but a length of heavy chain.

“Time is short, Lady Fenrir.” Eirik remarked coldly. “Shall we continue?”
Isolde tore her horrified gaze from the unfolding brutality below, focusing back on Eirik with renewed venom. “What do you want, Stormcrow? My house is bleeding. We cannot pay five thousand talons and the Skyfrost Cloak! It would ruin us!” 

Below, the troll roared again, charging the man with the club. The man swung wildly, the club bouncing harmlessly off the troll’s thick shoulder. A massive, furred fist backhanded him. The sickening crack echoed even over the crowd’s roar as the man crumpled bonelessly, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. 

One down. Two to go. 

“I don’t want to ruin you. Eirik said. “I want to use you. More accurately, I want House Fenrir to be useful. To me.”

Her eyes narrowed in utter confusion. “Useful? What nonsense is this?” 

“Your son is currently worthless. A hot-headed fool who nearly got himself executed and dragged his house through the mud.”
“He is my son!” she spat.

“And unless we act, he’ll be a corpse swinging from the executioner’s gibbet by week’s end,” Eirik shot back ruthlessly. “Or broken beyond repair in the mines. Your choice. But I’m offering a third path.”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper forcing her to strain to hear him over the chaos.

“I will speak to Cedric. I will paint Leif’s actions as a tragic lapse in judgment fueled by youth, shame, and misplaced loyalty to his exiled grandfather. I will request leniency. Not just sparring his life, Lady Fenrir, but sparing him the mines. A commuted sentence. Something that leaves him whole.” 

Isolde stared at him, the hatred momentarily frozen by sheer, dumbfounded shock.

“You… you could do that? Why?”

“Because I need men who owe me everything,” Eirik stated flatly, “And women. Leif could become more than a spoiled brat. He has the Realm Rank, but he lacks discipline. Control. And purpose. I can give him that.”

“You must be joking!” The disbelief warred with a terrifying hope flickering in her eyes. Below, the remaining two prisoners were desperately trying to flank the troll. The man with the chain lashed out, wrapping it around the troll’s thick ankle. The beast stumbled. The man with the sword lunged, driving the rusty blade deep into the troll’s thigh. Dark, almost black blood spurted.

The troll roared in pain.

It looked down at the sword protruding from its leg… and yanked it out with a casual, horrifying strength. Black blood flowed freely for a moment… then slowed. The edges of the vicious wound visibly knitted together before their eyes, steaming rising as frost swiftly sealed the rent flesh. The wound didn’t vanish, but it became a deep scar in seconds. 

The audience gaped in horror as the prisoners’ hope shattered. The troll bellowed and snatched the chain-wielding man. With a sickening tear, it ripped the man’s arm off at the shoulder. Blood fountained. The man’s scream was lost in the crowd’s ecstatic roar. The troll flung the twitching limb aside and turned its baleful gaze on the last man, trembling near the wall, sword forgotten. 

“Which part of what I just said sounds like a joke to you, Lady Fenrir?” Eirik asked coldly, still looking at the pit where the last prisoner was desperately trying to climb the icy wall. The troll advanced with chilling deliberation. 

The raw brutality was breaking through Isolde’s noble reserve. 

“How?” she asked. “How could you transform him? He hates you!” 

“Because hatred can be focused,” Eirik countered. “Better he hates me productively than dies pointlessly. But it requires your cooperation. Complete, unwavering loyalty. To me. House Fenrir becomes an extension of my will.” He locked eyes with her. “This isn’t a negotiation of terms. This is an ultimatum. You are either fully, irrevocably, on board with my plans for Leif and for your house, trusting me implicitly to navigate this, or you are against me. You choose. Now. While there’s still something left to save.”

“Trust you?” she choked out. “You, who engineered this disaster? You expect me to hand my son and my house over to you on faith?”

“Not faith,” Eirik corrected. “Necessity. Look down!” He pointed.

The last prisoner had given up climbing. He stood, chest heaving, facing the troll. He looked at the discarded club nearby, the useless chain, the bloody sword… then past the troll, towards a large, overturned iron brazier near the wall, its coals spilled and glowing faintly amidst the bloody slush. 

“See that man?” Eirik said urgently. “He has no choice but to trust his instincts. To fight with everything, using his wits because he lacks strength. That’s your position. Can you do it? Can you trust your instincts that I am the only chance your son has? The only path that doesn’t end in his death or utter ruin?”

Below, the prisoner feinted towards the troll’s massive legs, drawing a clumsy swipe. As the troll lurched, he dove, not away, but towards the spilled coals. He snatched up a handful of glowing embers, ignoring the sear on his palm, and threw them directly into the troll’s face.

The troll shrieked — a new sound, high-pitched and full of agony. It stumbled back, clawing at its eyes where the embers sizzled against frost-resistant but not fireproof flesh. Smoke rose. The man didn’t hesitate. He scooped more embers, hurling them, forcing the troll back towards the blood-slicked wall. He grabbed the heavy chain the other prisoner had dropped. Using the troll’s momentary blindness and agony, he lashed the chain around its ankles again, tangling it.

The troll roared, thrashing, trying to free its legs. The man saw his chance. He snatched up the bloody short sword dropped earlier. Instead of stabbing, he ran towards one of the thick chains bolted to the wall. He slammed the sword’s pommel against the massive iron bolt holding the chain.

He’s loosening it? Eirik’s eyes narrowed, impressed despite himself. Clever.

Once. Twice. The bolt, rusted and stressed by countless fights, groaned. The troll, ripping its legs free of the chain, lunged at the man, blinded and enraged. The man threw himself sideways. The troll slammed headfirst into the wall, directly onto the loosened bolt. With a final, deafening CRACK, the bolt sheared. 

The end of the heavy chain, no longer anchored, whipped downwards like a colossal iron whip. It caught the stumbling troll across the back of its neck. The impact was horrifyingly loud. The troll’s head snapped back with brutal force. There was a sickening crunch of bone. The massive creature slumped to the bloodied snow, twitched once, and lay still. 

Silence. Then an eruption of noise from the crowd — cheers, gasps, boos at the beasts’ defeat. The lone prisoner stood amidst the carnage, panting, covered in blood and soot, holding the bent sword, staring at the dead troll. 

He’d won. Through terror, quick thinking, and using the environment against a superior foe. He’d survived. 

Eirik turned fully to Isolde Fenrir. 

“Like him,” Eirik said while pointing at the bloodied survivor now being roughly led away, “your son needs cunning. He needs direction. He needs someone ruthless enough to use him effectively. I am that person. This,” he gestured towards the pit, the dead troll, the fading roar, “is what stands on my way. Decide. Now. Will Leif Fenrir be broken on the wheel of his own stupidity, or will he become a weapon in my hand? Your loyalty, Lady Fenrir. All of it. Or nothing.”

Isolde Fenrir hadn’t moved. 

She’s cornered, Eirik thought. Time to crack that final layer of resistance.

Her voice, when it came, was barely audible over the departing crowd’s rumble. “Exlpain,” she demanded, still not looking at him. “What… what precisely would this ‘direction’ entail? What… what would you do tomorrow? Your plan? You cannot possibly think I’ll just trust your empty promises.”

“Lady Fenrir,” Eirik turned fully to face her. “Understanding the plan means crossing a line. Once spoken, you cannot unhear it. If you choose to hear it, then you must be fully onboard with it. If I detect a smudge of treachery tomorrow, I will make sure Baron Cedric crushes Leif and House Fenrir. Do you understand?”

Isolde’s breath hitched. The sheer intensity in Eirik’s gaze pinned her. It was a look she had never seen on that face before — not fear, not weakness, but ruthless certainty. It was terrifying.

Slowly, her head dipped in a fractional nod. 

“Lean closer,” Eirik ordered.

She flinched but obeyed, bending her head towards him, her hood created a small, private space between them. The scent of expensive oils on her hair warred with the arena’s stench. Eirik’s lips moved, directly into her ear. For a moment, the sheer physicality of the act sent an unexpected jolt through her. It was strangely… intimate. The thought was instantly crushed, drowned out by the sheer, shocking audacity of the words pouring into her ear. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating, as he spoke. Brief sentences painted a picture so bold, so politically treacherous, yet so possible. She saw maneuvers, alignments, subtle pressures applied. He spoke of her role — actions she must take, specific reactions she must display tomorrow.  

Eirik leaned back. 

“So,” Eirik said, his voice regaining its normal volume. “Much of this hinges on you, Lady Fenrir. You need to play your role perfectly for this to succeed. Can you do that?”

Isolde swallowed hard. The hatred hadn’t vanished, but it was now overlaid with a chilling respect and the terror of a cornered animal that finally sees the size of the predator. She nodded again. “I… understand.”

“Good,” Eirik stated. He paused, as if remembering something minor. “Oh. And the Skyfrost Cloak. Have it delivered to my quarters in Stormkeep. Tonight. Discreetly. If it doesn’t arrive, or if I hear even a whisper of its delivery… well. Consider the bargain void.”

Isolde stared at him. The man before her was a stranger. The hunched, avoidant shadow of Eirik Stormcrow, the bastard everyone kicked, was completely gone. In his place stood a man who radiated an unsettling clam, whose every word carried the weight of command. 

“It will be done.” 

Seeing her stare, Eirik offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Now, there’s one more piece of tonight’s puzzle.” He gestured towards the stairwell leading down towards the holding pens below the arena stands. 

“Follow me. Discreetly. Don’t draw attention.”

———

In a marginally cleaner side chamber, a large wooden tub sat steaming faintly in one corner. A shirtless figure stood in his back, scrubbing dark blood and grime off his arms and chest with rough rags and icy water from a bucket. He was powerfully built, muscles knotted across his back and shoulders, but covered in a tapestry of scars — whip marks, knife cuts, the pale lines of old burns. He turned as they entered.
“Olaf. Got some nobs want a word.” A guard stepped back, leaning against the doorframe, making it clear he found this visit tedious.

Eirik met Olaf’s gaze squarely, ignoring the guard. He focused, visualizing the [Identify] ability slotted into his first Mana Slot. A familiar, faint chill radiated from his core as he channeled mana towards it. Blue text flickered into existence overlaid on Olaf’s form. 

[CASTING: IDENTIFY]

[MANA: 1/5 → 0/5]

[TARGET: OLAF STENSON]

[REALM: SNOW (RANK 2)]

[STATS: STR 9, END 15, AGI 17, INT 13, CHA 5; Mana: 3/10]

[SKILLS: ARCHERY: (C-); SHORT BLADE: (D); TRACKING: (D); SURVIVAL: (E); OTHER (LOCKED)]

[TALENTS: SHARP EYES (PASSIVE): Enhanced visual acuity and distance judgment.]

[ABILITIES: FOCUSED SHOT (LOCKED – REQUIRES BOW); ]

[AFFLICTIONS: BRANDED (THIEF); CONDITION: EXHAUSTED, MINOR BRUISING]

The blue text superimposed over the scarred man confirmed Eirik’s gut feeling. Snow Rank Two. High Intelligence, surprisingly high Agility. This was probably a hunter or outrider — someone who relied on precision and brains over brute force. Archery at C-, and Sharp Eyes made him more than adequate for a marksman.
Olaf finished wiping his face, tossing the filthy rag aside. Water dripped from his shaggy brown hair. He didn’t bow.

“I saw the fight,” Eirik stated, “You used your head. Congratulations on your well earned freedom.”

“Did what I had to.”

“Indeed,” Eirik agreed. “And what do you plan to do now? Freedom’s a fine thing, but the world outside this pit won’t welcome a once condemned man.”
A flicker of something bleak crossed Olaf’s face. The reality of his situation was clearly dawning. 

He said nothing.

Eirik pressed the advantage. “But I could use a man like you.”
Olaf’s suspicion flared. “Who are you?”

Eirik pulled his hood back just enough to reveal his face clearly in the dim light of the chamber’s single torch. “Eirik Stormcrow. Third son of Baron Cedric.”

“Stormcrow? The Bastard?” Recognition surfaced in Olaf’s eyes. “Heard you were softer than a whore’s tits. What use could you have for the likes me?”

Eirik saw Isolde tense beside him, hidden by her hood.

“You’ve been confined too long, Olaf,” Eirik said, his voice hardening. “Go out. Ask around Stormkeep. Ask about the duel in the training yard this morning. Ask about what happened in Cedric’s court yesterday. Ask about the bastard who was legitimized. See if the word ‘spineless’ still applies.” 

Olaf stared back as Eirik. A spark of wary interest replaced the scorn. 

“Lady.” Eirik turned slightly towards Isolde. 

Understanding his cue, Isolde reached into the deep pocket of her cloak. She pulled out a small leather pouch, and tossed it towards Olaf. It landed with a heavy, metallic clink at his feet. 

“Clean yourself properly,” EIrik said, “Buy decent clothes. Eat a meal that isn’t gruel. Then, if you want a hundred times more silver than what’s in this bag… if you want to use that survival instinct for something more than just scraping by…” He let the offer sink in. “Report to my quarters in Stormkeep. After midday tomorrow. Tell the guards you have my personal invitation.” 

Olaf bent slowly, picked up the pouch, hefting its weight. At least twenty talons by the feel of it. The disbelief warred with the visceral appeal of silver and purpose. He looked from the pouch to Eirik’s face. The promise, the sheer audacity of it, was staggering. A hundred times more? Work for the Baron’s Bastard son, who suddenly seemed far more formidable than what he had previously heard? 

Eirik gave him no time to dwell. He pulled his hood back up, turning to leave as Isolde followed. 

“And try not to smell like a troll pit when you arrive.” 

Chapter Twelve (TIBK)

The thick oak door of Rurik’s old quarters groaned shut behind Eirik. The sudden warmth of the room, fueled by twin hearths, felt almost obscene after the raw fury and biting cold of the training yard. Eirik walked to the massive oak desk, placing the magnificent Fenrir longsword upon it with deliberate care. The silver wolf’s head pommel seemed to snarl at the room. 

He needed to clean up, assess the bruising Leif had inflicted, and—

“Milord?”

Eirik turned. Harkin stood just inside the doorway he must have used moments before Eirik entered. The old guard looked weary as he executed the soldier's salute. 

He’s probably not slept since yesterday. Eirik noted the dust on Harkin’s boots and cloak. 

“Report.”

Harkin swallowed. “Milord… Marta. We couldn’t find her.”
A cold stillness settled over Eirik. Bad news. Very bad news. 

“Details.”

“Jens and I, we searched everywhere she might hide, Milord. The old laundry, the empty grain silo near the outer wall, even checked with a couple of washerwomen she was known to chat with. Nothin’. Like she vanished into thin air.” Harkin’s voice was rough with frustration. “We even went discreet-like to the inn where her son sometimes ran errands. The innkeeper hadn’t seen either of ’em since yesterday mornin’.”

Eirik leaned against the desk. Fled successfully? Unlikely. A widow with a child, terrified, wouldn’t move that fast without leaving a trace. Garrick? The oaf was impulsive, direct. He’d likely send thugs to drag her back screaming, not orchestrate a clean disappearance. 

A cold dread pierced Eirik’s satisfaction. Ingrid. 

The implications were grim. Marta could be dead in a ditch already. Or worse, locked away somewhere Ingrid could… persuade her. Or use her son as leverage. This just became extremely messy. He had just humiliated her precious heir publicly and now held leverage over one of the vassal houses. She’ll be moving against me. Soon. 

Harkin cleared his throat hesitantly. “Milord… there’s… another matter.” He shifted uncomfortably. “While you were… at the yards… a messenger came. From House Fenrir. Lady Fenrir’s personal scribe. Been waiting near an hour now in the outer antechamber, demanding an audience.”

Eirik’s head snapped up.
“Is that so?” Here was one pressure point he could exploit immediately. Or maybe he could wait a while for more returns. 

 “Aye, Milord. Seems mighty agitated,” Harkin confirmed. “Brought a sealed scroll and everything. Keeps muttering about… expediency.”

Expediency. 

The desperation was palpable. Leif’s public disgrace and subsequent assault attempt had plunged House Fenrir from potential humiliation to outright disaster. Lady Fenrir wanted a deal. Fast. 

Eirik pushed off the desk and walked to the window overlooking the snow-dusted courtyard. Guards patrolled like tiny figures in the deepening twilight. He let the silence stretch, savoring it. 

“Tell him,” Eirik said without turning, “that Lord Eirik is occupied with pressing matters of state following the… incident. He may wait. Or he may return tomorrow. His choice.”

Harkin blinked. “But Milord… he’s a noble’s emissary… and he’s been waiting…”

Eirik turned, fixing the old guard with a piercing stare. “Harkin. Understand this. Negotiation isn’t about jumping when the other side snaps its fingers. It’s about control. About timing. They are desperate. Leif tried to murder me in front of half the keep. I hold their heirloom sword worth a small fortune, their family’s honor is in the mud, and their Steward Brynn faces the Ice Trench. My position has never been stronger. Theirs has never been weaker. Letting that messenger cool his heels reinforces that imbalance. Makes my eventual price seem even more… reasonable. Every minute he waits makes Lady Fenrir more anxious and more willing to concede.” 

“Aye, Milord. I’ll… inform the messenger of your… occupation.”

“Good,” Eirik nodded. 

Harkin bowed. He turned to go, and suddenly stopped. “Apologies! Milord!” He fumbled at his own belt pouch, pulling out a smaller, jingling leather sack. He tossed it to Eirik. “Yorrick’s stash. Recovered just as you ordered.” 

Eirik caught the bag, feeling its satisfying weight in his palm. First tangible step towards the Warchest. 

[Objective: Amass 5,000 Silver (36/5000)]

———

He pushed back from the desk and began pacing. The thick rug muffled his footsteps as his mind churned through the implications. He summoned the system objectives faintly in his peripheral vision.

[Tutorial Quest #5 (out of 7): Leader of the Pack]

[Quest Type: Martial]

[Objective: Rally a warband under your banner and crush an enemy force of 50 souls or more in a single battle.]

[Tutorial Quest #3 (out of 7): Build A Warchest]

[Quest Type: Stewardship]

[Objective: Amass 5,000 Silver (36/5000)]

[Tutorial Quest #6 (out of 7): Skills Mastery]

[Quest Type: Learning]

[Objective: Getting at least 1 skill to C- rating (0/1) and 3 other Skills to D rating. (1/3)]

These are the three objectives before the final quest, which Eirik had expected would give him something powerful befitting a system. Is there a quick way to take care of all three quests at once and accelerate his progress into carving his independence in the north? 

His gaze fell on the Fenrir sword resting on his desk. The silver wolf pommel gleamed in the firelight. A warrior’s weapon. 

What if…

The idea struck him like lightning. His spine straightened as the pieces clicked together.

A Mercenary Company.

His breath hitched. It was so obvious, yet so radical within the rigid feudal structure of Stormkeep. Lords commanded sworn vassals and levied troops, and used sell-swords only absolutely necessary. But I am no ordinary lord, he thought, I am a legitimized bastard with no land, no loyal vassals, and enemies circling. And the system doesn’t care if my “warband” is sworn knights or hired swords. As long as I have victory. 

Eirik’s pulse quickened. This could work. More than work—it could be the perfect solution to multiple problems.
Think about the advantages.

First, it would explain his sudden need for money. 

Everyone understood that forming a mercenary company required significant startup capital. Weapons, armor, supplies, wages—it all cost coin.

Second, it gives him the muscle he needs to act on lucrative objectives. Not immediately. Not directly. But once he had even a small force of trained fighters, options opened up. He could pressure corrupt merchants. Seize bandits’ stashes. Take “contracts” that happened to target his enemies. 

But most importantly…

It provided the perfect excuse the leave Stormkeep eventually. Mercenary companies wandered where the contracts led. WHen he headed north, it wouldn’t be fleeing — it would be seeking employment. 

The company becomes both the means and the excuse. 

His mind raced through the logistics. How much would he need to start? What kind of men should he recruit first? 

His thoughts circled back to the Fenrir messenger cooling his heels in the antechamber. That negotiation would be his first test. Not just for the money—thought he needed every copper—but also to establish his reputation.

If word spreads that the bastard Stormcrow outmaneuvered House Fenrir in negotiations after beating their heir in combat… 

That was the kind of story that attracted ambitious fighters. The kind of reputation that made men believe following him might lead somewhere. 

A knock interrupted his thoughts. “Milord… House Fenrir’s messenger had requested me to check your availability again.”

“Send him in.” Eirik’s cold smile returned. 

The game was about to begin, and he intended to win. 

The door opened, and a thin, nervous-looking man in Fenrir colors entered while clutching a sealed scroll.

“Lord Eirik,” the messenger bowed stiffly. “I bear an urgent message from Lady Fenrir regarding… today’s unfortunate events.” 

“Speak.”

The messenger cleared his throat and unrolled the scroll with shaking hands. “Lady Fenrir extends her deepest apologies for her son’s… lapse in judgment. She acknowledges the shame brought upon House Fenrir and seeks to make amends.”

“Amends,” Eirik repeated flatly. “Her son tried to kill me. With magic. In front of half of the keep.”

The messenger paled further. “Yes, Milord. Lady Fenrir understands the severity. She offers… compensation. 

“I’m listening.”
“First, House Fenrir formally withdraws all claims to the wagered sword.” The messenger’s eyes flicked to the blade on the desk. “It is yours by right of combat.”
“That was already mine,” Eirik pointed out. “What else?”

“Lady Fenrir offers five hundred silver talons as blood price for the attack.”

Five hundred. Eirik kept his expression neutral, but internally he scoffed. For attempted murder? With magic? In front of witnesses?

“And in exchange?” 

The messenger swallowed hard. “Lady Fenrir humbly requests that you… speak favorably to Baron Cedric regarding the incident. That you… emphasize Leif’s youth and heat of the moment. That you request leniency.”

Ah. Leniency. Attempted murder with magic was a capital crime. Leif’s life literally hung on Cedric’s judgment—and Cedric would likely ask for Eirik’s input as the victim. 

“Five hundred talons,” Eirik mused aloud, “to spare the life of the heir who tried to murder me.” He let the silence stretch uncomfortably. “Tell me, messenger. What do you think Leif’s life is worth to his mother?”

The man shifted nervously. “I… I wouldn’t presume to—”

“Let me help you.” Eirik stood, moving around the desk with deliberate slowness. “Leif is her only son. The heir to House Fenrir. Trained expensively in combat and magic. Educated. Groomed for leadership.” He stopped directly in front of the messenger. “Without him, House Fenrir’s line ends. So I ask again—what is that worth?”’

“Then you’re wasting my time.” Eirik turned away dismissively. “Tell Lady Fenrir that I’ll be giving Lord Cedric a full, detailed account of the attack. How Leif ambushed me after losing fairly. How he channeled killing magic. How he showed no honor, no restraint, no mercy.” He paused at the window. “I imagine the Baron will find it all very… illuminating.”

The messenger’s face went white. His hands trembled as he clutched the scroll tighter.

“Please, Lord Eirik! Surely… surely we can reach an understanding! Lady Fenrir is prepared to… to increase the compensation!”

“How much?”

“One thousand silver talons!” the messenger blurted out. “And… and a formal apology!”

One thousand. That was better, but still nowhere near what Leif’s life was actually worth to them. 

“Not enough,” Eirik said simply.

The messenger flinched as if struck. “Milord! Please! One thousand silver talons is a substantial sum! Lady Fenrir implores you—”

“Implores?” Eirik cut him off. “Her son tried to murder me. And she sends you with a paltry bribe wrapped in empty apologies? Your mistress mistakes desperation for leverage.” He gestured dismissively at the door. “Go. Tell her my next conversation on this matter will be with Lord Cedric.” 

The messenger was sweating now despite the cold room. 

“What… what would you consider fair compensation, Lord Eirik?”

Eirik pretended to consider this carefully. In reality, he’d already calculated multiple scenarios. The key was not to name a realistic number yet. That would give them something to negotiate down from. Instead, he needed to establish that the current offer was laughably inadequate. 

“Five thousand silver talons,” he said finally. “Plus the Skyfrost Cloak.”

The messenger’s eyes went wide. “Five thousand… and the… the cloak? Nobody in the Barony has this kind of money! And Lord Eirik… you already took one of their family heirlooms!”

“Which I did fairly.” Eirik said. “And I am giving you a fair offer now.”

“I… I cannot possibly agree to such terms without Lady Fenrir’s direct approval!”

“Then get it.”
“But Lady Fenrir… she’s at the family estate, and the roads in this weather…”
Eirik felt a cold flash of irritation. She’s either stalling, or she genuinely doesn’t grasp how deep the pit she’s fallen into. He’d let this messenger dangle long enough. It was time to force the real player to the table. 

“Enough,” Eirik declared. “This is pointless. You lack the authority, and Lady Fenrir clearly lacks the courage or the sense to understand the gravity of her position. Go back. Fetch your lady. Tell her I will speak to her, and only to her. Immediately.”

The messenger was stunned. “F-Fetch Lady Fenrir? Milord, where? Here? To these chambers?“ He gestured around Rurik’s quarters, the implication clear: it would be politically volatile and deeply humiliating for the noblewoman to be summoned like a servant.

“No. Not here,” Eirik stated. “Somewhere public but won’t be easily overheard.” He watched the messenger scramble for an answer. 
“The… the market square?” The messenger offered hesitantly. “It’s bustling near dusk.”
“Too open. Too many prying eyes. And freezing.” Eirik dismissed it.

“The copper Tankard? The main tavern?”

“Full of soldiers. Too many witnesses prone to drunken gossip.”

The messenger wrung his hands. “Perhaps… perhaps the Foundry Quarter warehouses? But they’re deserted at this hour, Milord…”

Eirik was about to dismiss that too when the messenger’s eyes lit with a sudden, desperate idea. “There is one place, Milord! The Frost Pit! The combat trials begin soon. Tonight it’s condemned men against a young ice troll. It will be… loud. Very loud. Packed with common folk and off-duty guards. Lady Fenrir could attend discreetly. No one would question her presence in the private upper galleries, and the roar of the crowd…” He trailed off, the implication was clear: privacy amidst pandemonium.

The Frost Pit. 

Eirik searched his memories which brought forth an image of a grim arena tucked near the outer walls. A brutal, bloody spectacle used to entertain the masses and thin the ranks of prisoners with serious crimes. 

“Do it,” Eirik said. “The Frost Pit. One hour. Ensure she’s alone. If I see otherwise, or any sign of treachery, the deal is off, and I ride straight to the Baron upon my return.”

The messenger bowed shakily. “I… I will relay your message, Milord.”

“Good. Now get out.”

Chapter Eleven (TIBK)

[Tutorial Quest #4 (out of 7): The duelist —— Completed!]

[Complete the Quest Chain to Earn a Special Reward!]

[Reward Claimed: 5 Points in Strength]

[STRENGTH: 13 → 18] 

[Reward Claimed: 5 Points in Agility]

[AGILITY: 3 → 8] 

[Reward Claimed: 2,000 Mana Fragments]

[Reward Claimed: Skill Upgrade Crystal (Bronze)]

[Skill Upgrade Crystal (Bronze): Upgrade any skill of choice to D tier. Only usable for F-tier skills.]

[Reward Claimed: Identify]

[Identify: Ability. Must be equipped to Cast. ]

———

[New Quest issued:]

[Tutorial Quest #5 (out of 7): Leader of the Pack ]

[Quest Type: Martial]
[Objective: Rally a warband under your banner and crush an enemy force of 50 souls or more in a single battle. ]

[New Quest issued:]

[Tutorial Quest #6 (out of 7): Skills Mastery ]

[Quest Type: Learning]
[Objective: Getting at least 1 skill to C- rating (0/1) and 3 other Skills to D rating. (1/3)]

———

[Existing Quest:]
[Tutorial Quest #3 (out of 7): Build A Warchest ]

[Quest Type: Stewardship]
[Objective: Amass 5,000 Silver (0/5000)]

———

[Tutorial Quest #7 (out of 7): ???]

[Quest Currently Locked!]

[Complete All Previous Quests to Unlock!]

———

Relief, sharp and swift, washed over him. 

It’s done. Against a Snow Realm Rank Three opponent, hampered by idiot rules and crippling low agility. Eirik catalogued the immediate outcomes, breathing deeply despite the discomfort. 

But first, the spoils.

His mind quickly scrolled past his increase in strength, agility, and mana fragments. Power surged through him, and the heavy practice sword, which felt like an anchor moments ago, suddenly felt light. Moreover, his balance felt surer, grounded yet fluid. The agility upgrade meant he’d transformed from a tortoise to… passably average fighter? Maybe better? The sheer relief was staggering. Leif’s last, desperate feint would have been trivial to counter with this. No more clumsy over-reliance on strength alone. 

This changes everything. 

As for the mana fragments, his immediate thought was to reserve them for a realm rank upgrade soon. The training today not only crossed another objective out of his to-do list, but also made him realize that he could generate skill-specific mana fragments just by training and doing combat. Essentially, he could just swing the sword for long enough time and the skill will naturally progress to the next level. Which means the free mana fragments should NOT be spent on skills unless absolutely necessary. 

Skill Mastery was more or less a quite straight-forward quest. 

Getting one Skill to C- Rank, and choosing Swordsmanship is pretty much a no-brainer. The duel had proven the skill system’s core mechanic: do the thing, gain the progress. Swinging the sword earned his swordsmanship fragments. He could level these skills purely through practice, and use the free mana fragments for realm upgrade only. 

Three more skills to D rank. Maybe Alchemy to make himself available to potions for healing and enhancements? He’s got a great foundation in intellect, after all. Or adding Stealth for a more assassination-type of build? What’s next? He’d have to think about this more. 

He compartmentalized the learning mission away, and focused on the “Leader of the Pack mission.” 

The objective was brutally clear, yet the prospects were daunting. Rally a warband. Crush fifty enemies. He had the legitimacy of his Stormcrow name now,but legitimacy didn’t fill bellies or forge loyalty. His coffers were empty. His “retinue” consisted of Harkin. Recruiting capable fighters, equipping them, feeding them — it all screamed the one resource he desperately lacked: money. 

He needed to strategize how he’d go about this carefully and deliberately when he got back to his quarters. 

Now, the thing that made him so very curious that he’d save it for last. 

[Identify: Ability. Must be equipped to Cast. ]

Equip. 

He focused his mind, visualizing the ability. Mentally, he reached for the first of his only available Mana Slot (the next slot would unlock at Snow Realm Rank 3). He imagined slotting the intangible concept for [Identify] into it.

[Ability: Identify equipped to Slot One.]

[Equip Cost: 2 Mana.]

[Mana: 3/5]

Can I use this on myself? He quickly scanned his own hands, summoning his mana. A faint, almost imperceptible chill radiated from his core, channeled into the spell.

[CASTING: IDENTIFY]

[Cast Cost: 1 Mana. ]

[MANA: 2/5]

[TARGET: EIRIK STORMCROW (SELF)]

[REALM: SNOW (RANK 2)]

[STATS: STR 18, END 7, AGI 8, INT 12, CHA 6; Mana: 2/5]

[SKILLS: SWORDMANSHIP: (D); OTHERS (F)]

[TALENTS: (LOCKED)]

[ABILITIES: IDENTIFY (EQUIPPED)]

… 

This would be pretty neat, if he can cast this also on enemies or allies to obtain intel. He thought about using it on Cedric, Garrick, or maybe his potential… matchmaking prospects. Before the outside world intruded sharply. 

"Uhngh!"

Leif was groaning, being helped to his feet by two other nobles, his right arm cradled uselessly. Garrick Stormcrow shoved his way towards the fallen noble, his face purple with fury. Ignoring the sword entirely. 

“Get him to the infirmary! Now! ” He whirled, spittle flying as he jabbed a finger towards Eirik. “You cheating filth!”

Marshal Gunnar moved swiftly, planting his massive frame between Garrick and Eirik. “Enough Lord, Garrick! The duel is decided by the rules set! Your brother won within those rules.” He turned to Eirik. “You! Collect… your prize.” His tone made it clear the sword was the least of his concerns right now.

Eirik nodded, gaze fell to the magnificent longsword lying on the frozen ground where Leif had dropped it. He focused his will on the sword, pouring his mana towards the [Identify] ability. 

[CASTING: IDENTIFY]

[MANA: 1/5]

Blue text shimmered into existence before his eyes, superimposed over the visual reality of the sheathed sword: 

[ITEM: HOUSE FENRIR’S HEIRLOOM LONGSWORD]

[TYPE: LONGSWORD (MASTERWORK)]

[MATERIAL: PATTERN-WELDED ICE-STEEL CORE (PRIMARY), HIGH-CARBON STEEL (CLADDING), SILVER (POMMEL/GUARD]

[ENCHANTMENTS:]

[CHILLED EDGE (PASSIVE)]: Inflicts minor frost damage on successful strikes, allowing minor muscle reactions in the wound area. 

[REINFORCED STRUCTURE (PASSIVE)]: Resistant to shattering and deformation. Maintains edge exceptionally well. 

[HOUSE FENRIR BOND (PASSIVE)]: Attuned to the bloodline of House Fenrir. Grants minor proficiency bonus to wields of Fenrir lineage. 

[ENCHANTMENT TIER: FROST]

[ESTIMATED VALUE: 1,500 SILVER TALONS]

Magnificent. 

Eirik’s breath caught. The information was invaluable. Far beyond just knowing it was a good sword. The Chilled Edge passive explained the faint frost trails Cedric could summon — a weaker version, perhaps, inherent in the blade itself. It offered a tactical advantage, however small. The Reinforced Structure meant durability, essential in the harsh Wastes. The House Fenrir Bond was a minor irritation — a small bonus he couldn’t access — but irrelevant compared to the other perks. 

And the value… 1,500 Silver Talons! That was a significant chunk of the 10,000 Silver needed for the Warchest quest! Selling it is now a serious option if absolutely necessary. But holding onto a weapon of this quality was far more appealing for survival. Knowledge is power. 

This ability… is incredible. 

———

Pain screamed up Leif’s arm and legs, but it was a distant echo beneath the tsunami of humiliation crashing over him. Lost. Lost to HIM. The bastard. The creature everyone spat on. Two days ago, seeing Eirik sprawled in mud after Garrick tripped him was just… entertainment. Now… now he — Leif Fenrir — was the one dragged through filth before his peers. 

He’s ruined me.

He felt the nobles hauling him upright. He caught Garrick’s furious glare – not sympathy, but disgust at the inconvenience of his defeat. Leif’s vision swam, but not just from pain. He saw his mother’s tear-streaked face again, the day Brynn was dragged away. Brynn wasn't just his grandfather; Brynn had raised him after Leif’s own father died young in Cedric’s service. Brynn had been his rock, his mentor, the one smoothing his path within Stormkeep. And I promised Mother I’d save him. This duel was supposed to be his redemption, the proof of his strength. Now? Brynn would die in the mines. His mother would weep forever. And Leif… Leif was the noble heir who lost everything to a bastard.

Brynn had been negotiating a crucial betrothal for him – Lady Astrid of Deepwood, a prestigious match that would elevate House Fenrir significantly. Gone. All gone. He’d become a joke, forever marked as weaker than the stain on Cedric’s honor. 

Then he saw it. Eirik was turning away from him. Turning towards his sword. House Fenrir’s Heirloom. The symbol of their lineage, their honor, their loyalty to the Stormcrows. The beautiful blade forged by master smiths, the ice-steel core whispering of ancient frost, the silver wolf’s head pommel snarling defiance. His most prized possession. More than prized. It was part of him. Its weight, its balance, the subtle hum of mana when channeled through it — a promise of the great warrior he was destined to become. Leif watched as Eirik’s calm gaze shifting downwards towards the sword. 

Leif watched, numb horror freezing his blood, as Eirik’s hand descended towards the familiar leather-wrapped hilt – the hilt Leif’s own hands had polished a thousand times. He’s going to touch it. He’s going to take it. That filthy bastard’s hands are going to soil Great Grandfather’s blade. MY BLADE! He couldn’t let it end like this. He wouldn’t. There had to be something left.

“W-wait!” Leif’s voice cracked. 

He wrenched himself away from the nobles supporting him, staggering a step forward despite the agony in his arms and legs. All eyes snapped to him. Garrick’s glare was now a mixture of annoyance and impatience. Marshal Gunnar’s expression hardened into granite. Eirik paused, his hand hovering inches above the sword’s grip, eyes lifted to meet Leif’s.

Leif sucked in a desperate breath. “Stormcrow!” He rasped. “Duel me again!”

A stunned silence descended heavier than before. Even Garrick was taken aback. 

“Fenrir…” Gunnar’s voice was a low rumble of warning. 

Leif’s mind raced, fueled by panic. The betrothal is already hanging by a thread! If word spreads I lost my heirloom sword to the Bastard... Astrid’s father will formally withdraw. House Frostmantle won’t tie their daughter to a disgraced house led by a failure. He saw Garrick staring at him like he was mad. Let him stare! He doesn’t understand! My name, my future, Grandfather’s life... it’s all slipping away! He had to get the sword back.

“Listen!” Leif desperately announced. “The sword… it’s yours. But…” Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold, mingling with the grime from the ground. “I wager House Fenrir’s Skyfrost Cloak! Passed down from the founding! Woven with wyvern down, enchanted for warmth and lightness! Worth twice that sword! Fight me again! Right now! First blood! Real swords! You win, you take the cloak as well! I win…” His voice hitched. “I win, I take my sword back!”

The offer hung in the frigid air. The Skyfrost Cloak. Leif hadn’t even inherited it officially yet, but it was the next most significant heirloom of his house. The sheer audacity, the desperation of the gamble, was breathtaking. The nobles murmured, eyes wide. Garrick stared at Leif as if he’d lost his mind entirely.

Eirik straightened slowly. He hadn’t touched the sword yet. 

“No,” Eirik said. “The terms were clear. The duel is over.”

The rejection made Leif sway. He won’t duel. Coward! He steals my sword, my honor, my future… and just walks away? Like I’m nothing? 

“No, Fenrir!” Marshal Gunnar’s voice cracked like thunder, freezing Leif in place. The Marshal stepped close. “You will stop. You are injured. You are not thinking clearly. You dishonor yourself and your house with this display.” He looked past Leif at the nobles still holding him. “Take him. To the infirmary. Now. If he resists, restrain him.” He turned to Eirik. “Take your prize, Lord Eirik, and leave this yard. Report back for training tomorrow at dawn.” The ‘Lord’ held a distinct note of displeasure. 

Finish him. The thought crystallized in Eirik’s mind. Leif was a loose end, a noble son simmering with hatred and shame, backed by Garrick. Letting him leave meant that he would plan revenge against him and would at best become a constant nuisance or an actual formidable foe at worst. He wanted none of that. He needed to push Leif over that edge. Subtly. 

Eirik turned his back on Leif’s pleas and Gunnar’s scolding. Deliberately. Slowly. He focused entirely on the sword lying on the ground – Leif’s sword. He made his movements deliberate, unhurried. He crouched, making a show of examining the gleaming pommel. Look at it. Appreciate it. It’s already mine. 

He let his fingers hover over the leather grip for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Feel it, Leif. Feel me claiming what’s yours. Then, with deliberate, possessive slowness, his fingers closed around the familiar leather-wrapped hilt. He lifted it, the blade catching the weak sun. Look at it in my hand. Your family’s pride. Held by the bastard you despise.

Eirik kept his posture relaxed, seemingly oblivious to Leif’s agony. He projected utter indifference. Like you’re already irrelevant, Leif. Like your house doesn’t matter. 

Because it doesn’t. 

A raw, animalistic sound tore from Leif’s throat — a guttural scream of rage, pain, and utter despair. He threw himself forward with the last surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, wrenching himself violently from the grasp of the startled nobles holding him. The agony in his arm and legs was nothing now, consumed by the volcanic fury erupting within him. 

He didn’t strategize. There were no feints, no stances. There was only the overwhelming, blinding need to destroy the source of his ruin. His left hand, still clumsy from disuse and throbbing from Eirik’s earlier blow, shot towards the dagger sheathed at his belt. It wasn’t a noble dueling weapon. It was a dagger used for desperate moments like these. 

With a violent, convulsive wrench, he tore free from the stunned nobles holding him, and lunged forward like a rabid beast. A flicker of deep hued blue flashed at the dagger’s sharp point. 

Frostbite Edge. 

The recognition slammed into Eirik’s mind. Leif wasn’t lunging blindly. He was channeling mana, pouring all of his Rank Three core’s power into a spell designed to shatter bone and freeze blood. On cold steel. As frost visibly bloomed over the steel of Leif’s dagger, forming intricate, jagged patterns.

Eirik acted. 

Instead of trying to complete his own sword draw or dodge fully, he committed forward. His solution wasn’t clean nor elegant, but what the hell.

He dropped his center of gravity, bending his knees deeply. Simultaneously, he released the hilt of the Fenrir sword, letting it slide back into its sheath with a sharp Shink. His newly empowered strength propelled his now-free right hand not towards a weapon, but towards the ground. He scooped up a handful of the frost-slicked, grit-filled earth and pebbles where he’d been standing a second before. 

Leif’s dagger, now wreathed in shimmering cold vapor, began its descent — a savage arc aimed at Eirik’s head and shoulder. 

Eirik straightened from his crouch in a single explosive motion, using his powerful legs like springs. As he rose, his right arm whipped forward, hurling the dense clump of frozen mud, gravel, and half-melted snow directly into Leif Fenrir’s face. 

SPLAT! 

The impact was brutal and utterly unexpected. The heavy, gritty mass smashed into Leif’s eyes, nose, and open, snarling mouth. He choked, blinded instantly. The furious concentration needed to sustain Frostbite Edge wavered. The icy patterns on the dagger flickered wildly as his mana flow was violently interrupted by the shock and suffocating grit filling his mouth and nose. The dagger’s descent faltered, losing a bit of its lethal intent and momentum. 

Eirik didn’t pause. Capitalizing on Leif’s momentary blindness, he whipped the sheathed Fenrir sword upwards in a savage short arc. Leif, unable to see it, dove headlong into it.

CRACK-THUD!

The heavy pommel of the sheathed Fenrir sword — the snarling silver wolf head — slammed brutally into Leif’s forearm with bone-jarring force. Eirik felt a searing flash of cold erupt from the point of contact, while Leif screamed. The enchanted dagger flew from his spasming hand, clattering harmlessly onto the frozen earth several feet away. 

The whole sequence, from the lunge to the disarm, spanned less than ten breathes. 

Marshal Gunnar’s roar shattered the stillness. 

“FENRIR! YOU FLAYED IDIOT!”

He moved like an avalanche, covering the distance in a few strides. He didn’t offer help, but instead planted a heavy boot on Leif’s forearm, pinning it to the ground with crushing force. Leif screamed and struggled uselessly against the Marshal’s bulk and fury.

“You drew steel on a fellow trainee!” Gunnar thundered. “In MY yard! After a duel decided by the rules YOU demanded!” Spittle flew. “You spit on discipline! You spit on honor! You spit on House Fenrir’s name!”

Leif writhed, his face pale except for the livid bruise blossoming on his cheekbone from the fall. “He… he took it… my sword…!” He choked out, the words barely coherent. 

“He won it! Fairly! Under the rules YOU agreed to!” Gunnar leaned down, his face inches from Leif’s. “YOU drew steel outside the duel! YOU used a mana ability with intent to kill! YOU have violated every law of this yard, every code of honor!” He gestured violently at the guards nearby. “You two! Bind his hands! NOW! Take him directly to the Ice Cells! He will face the Baron’s judgment for attempting an assault with lethal intent!”

The two guards flinched and obeyed, roughly hauling Leif upright despite his pained cries and securing his wrists behind his back. He offered no resistance now, just shuddering sobs.

“Humph!” Gunnar grunted. “A fine mess. Fine mess indeed.” He looked around the silent, tense yard. “Dismissed! All of you! Training is over! Guards, clear the yard! NOW!” 

Chapter Ten (TIBK)

Leif exploded forward. Not a direct charge, but a rapid, weaving approach. Three quick steps left, a feint low towards Eirik’s lead leg, then a sudden dart right, the practice sword snapping out in a lightning-fast thrust aimed at Eirik’s padded stomach.

Eirik didn’t try to chase the movement. He planted himself, pivoting only at the waist, bringing his own sword down and across in a powerful parry. 

THWACK!

He met Leif’s thrust solidly. The impact jarred up Eirik’s arms, but his rooted stance absorbed it. Leif, expecting Eirik to be off-balance or swinging wildly, was already pulling back from his thrust, preparing to disengage. 

Eirik didn’t let him. The moment his parry connected, he shoved forward, leaning his whole weight into it. He didn’t try a skillful riposte; he used the heavy practice blade like a battering ram, forcing Leif’s light sword down and pushing the noble man physically backwards. 

Leif stumbled, caught off guard by the raw, inelegant shove. He regained his footing quickly, annoyance flashing across his face. It wasn’t the elegant domination he’d envisioned. 

He’s fast, Eirik acknowledged, settling back into his high guard. But he telegraphs the direction changes lightly. That little hitch in his shoulder before he cuts back… that’s the tell. Eirik focused intensely, filtering out the jeers from Garrick’s cronies. His entire world became Leif’s upper body, watching for the minute tensing that signaled his next lateral burst. 

Leif circled warily now, his earlier confidence tempered. He feinted again, a quick jab high. Eirik started to raise his sword to block, a fraction slower than necessary. Seeing the opening, Leif abandoned the feint instantly and lunged low, aiming another thrust at Eirik’s lead thigh. This was the move! The shoulder dip confirmed it!

Eirik’s block was already dropping. Not perfectly timed — his Agility betrayed him. Instead of intercepting the thrust cleanly, his descending blade slammed onto Leif’s thrusting sword, knocking it down towards the ground. 

THUD!

Leif’s blunted tip grazed the frozen earth near Eirik’s boot. But Eirik didn’t stop. As his sword smashed Leif’s thrust downward, he stepped forward again, simultaneously twisting his wrists and bringing the heavy wooden blade sweeping from low to high in a brutal, clumsy, but powerful rising cut aimed at Leif’s momentarily exposed ribs. It was ugly. It was strength-driven instead of finesse. And it worked. 

Leif, caught mid-lunge with his sword point scraping dirt, had no time to recover his guard or dodge. He tried to twist away. Too late. Eirik’s rising practice sword slammed into the thick padding covering Leif’s ribs with a muffled WHUMPF!

[SKILL: MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: SWORDSMANSHIP (D)] 

[5 MANA FRAGMENTS GAINED FROM PRACTICE]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 8/2000]

Leif gasped, staggering sideways, the air knocked from his lungs again. The blow hadn’t hurt through the padding, but it was unmistakably solid. 

“Hit!” Gunnar’s voice cut through the sudden silence. “One to Stormcrow.” 

A collective intake off breath sounded from the spectators. Garrick’s smirk vanished, replaced by a look of utter disbelief. Kael’s grey eyes narrowed sharply, locking onto Eirik with renewed assessment. The nobles who’d bet on a quick victory exchanged uneasy glances. Leif Fenrir, Snow Rank Three, had just been struck first by the bastard with the agility of a plow horse.

Leif straightened up, his face flushed a deep crimson, humiliation warring with fury. He hadn’t just been hit; he’d been hit by a brute-force move he should have easily avoided. He’d underestimated Eirik’s ability to predict and counter with overwhelming power, not speed. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. 

His eyes blazed. He dropped any pretense of circling. He adopted a pure aggressive stance, sword held forward, body coiled like a spring. He wasn’t going to dance anymore. He was going to overwhelm Eirik with a blistering flurry of attacks, speed and skill smothering strength before it could be applied. Eirik saw the shift instantly. 

No more finesse, Eirik thought, his grip tightening on the heavy practice sword. Now he comes to kill. His mind raced, scanning the limited options. He couldn’t win a flurry. He had to make Leif pay for every step. 

Leif surged forward. Not weaving this. Time, but driving straight in, unleashing a rapid sequence of thrusts and high-line cuts aimed at Eirik’s head and shoulders. THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! Eirik retreated, parrying desperately. His blocks were solid, but Leif’s speed was relentless. Each parry jarred Eirik, forcing him back step by step. He couldn’t find an opening to shove or counter; he was purely on the defensive. Leif pressed harder, faster, forcing Eirik towards the edge of the makeshift circle. One misstep, one slow parry… 

Eirik felt his boot slip slightly on a patch of frost-slicked earth. His high guard faltered for a fraction of a second. Leif saw it instantly. With a snarl of triumph, he abandoned the thrust he was winding up for and switched instantly to a powerful horizontal slash aimed at Eirik’s now-lower guard. 

It was coming fast. Too fast. Eirik couldn’t bring his heavy sword back up in time. Pure instinct took over. Instead of trying a hopeless high block, he twisted violently toward the blow, lowering his head and shoulder. 

WHUMP! 

Leif’s horizontal slash slammed into the thick padding covering Eirik’s upper back, right below the neck. The force staggered EIrik, driving him down to one knee. Pain lanced through his shoulder despite the padding. But the blow had missed his head and neck — the targets Leif had likely been aiming for with such force. 

“Hit!” Gunnar called immediately. “One to Fenrir. Stand up, Stormcrow!”

The nobles erupted in cheers. Garrick roared with approval, pounding Kael on the shoulder. 

Eirik grimaced. The impact had rattled his teeth. That hurt. Even padded. But he was up. And Leif was furious, breathing heavily, his perfect rhythm broken by the desperate unconventional dodge that had turned a potentially fight-ending blow into a mere scoring hit. The score was tied: 1-1. 

Leif didn’t pause. He advanced again, determined to press his advantage before Eirik recovered fully. He unleashed another combination — thrust to the face, which forced Eirik to guard high, then a vicious low cut aimed at Eirik’s lead knee. It was a classic high-low attack.

Erik blocked the high thrust solidly, the impact vibrating up his arms. He started to drop his guard for the low cut. But then he saw it — the subtle tension in Leif’s wrist and a shift in his back foot. The low cut was itself a feint. Leif was going to pull it and thrust high again as Eirik dropped his guard!

It was the same basic pattern, but accelerated, relying on Eirik’s slower reactions. Eirik’s instinct screamed the danger. He had an instant to decide. Block the low feint and get hit high? Or call the bluff?

He called it. As Leif’s sword started its descent towards his knee, Eirik didn’t drop his guard fully. He shifted his weight slightly back, keeping his sword poised between high and mid-guard. He braced himself.

Leif’s blade snapped down, then instantly reversed direction, rocketing back up into a thrust aimed squarely at Eirik’s chest. Eirik’s partially lowered guard was almost perfectly positioned. He jerked his arms up and inwards. THWACK! The parry connected, but it was awkward. Leif’s thrust, driven by momentum and anger, punched through Eirik’s defense. The blunted tip slammed hard into the center of Eirik’s padded chest. 

WHUMPH! 

The force knocked Eirik backwards, staggering him. He tasted blood in his mouth — he must have bitten his tongue. He managed to stay on his feet, barely, gasping for breath. The impact felt like being kicked by a horse.
“Hit!” Gunnar’s voice was grim. “Two to Fenrir!”

Another roar from the nobles. Garrick was practically jumping. “Finish him, Fenrir!”

Leif stood panting heavily, a grin now spreading across his face. The next strike would end it.

Eirik forced his stance back under control, sucking in a sharp breath that stabbed his bruised chest. His grip tightened on the clumsy wooden practice sword. 

Breathe.

The cold, analytical core within him clamped down on the panic. He straightened slowly, deliberately, meeting Leif’s triumphant glare. 

Alright, Leif. You’re forcing me to play the agility game in which I am bound to lose. So what if I change how the game is played?

“Stand ready!” Gunnar barked. “Fenrir leads, two to one! Begin!”

Leif exploded instantly. His feint morphed into a vicious horizontal cut aimed directly at Eirik’s lead thigh — the same leg Eirik favored, the one carrying most of his weight in his rooted defensive stance. A blow to the thigh, even padded, could buckle the leg, leave him open and immobile for the finishing strike.
Eirik reacted. But not as Leif expected. 

He didn’t drop his guard fully to parry the low blow. He knew he couldn’t match Leif’s speed. Instead, Eirik committed entirely to the high block he’d already started, shoving upwards with all his strength against Leif’s feint. It was less of a parry than a forceful deflection upwards. At the same instant, as Leif’s real attack snaked low, Eirik did something utterly unexpected by everyone present. 

He let go of the sword with his dominant right hand. 

Eirik’s right hand snapped down, not towards his own sword hilt, but like a striking snake towards Leif’s wrist, just as Leif committed fully to the powerful low cut. It was a move born of countless modern close-quarters combat drills at BlackRidge — sacrificing weapon control for split-second physical disruption. His fingers clamped around Leif’s sword-wielding wrist, directly above pulse point.

THWACK!
Leif’s wooden blade slammed solidly into the frozen ground, missing Eirik’s thigh guard by inches. Eirik’s grip on Leif’s wrist held firm, driven by pure, desperate strength. More importantly, it misdirected the thrust and jammed the follow-through. Leif couldn’t recover the blade for another strike.

Gotcha.

Leif’s eyes widened in shock at the sudden, brutal grip. He instinctively yanked his arm back to disengage, muscles straining against Eirik’s iron hold. It was a brief tug-of-war, a fraction of a second where Leif’s superior speed was nullified by Eirik’s superior strength and the shocking, unorthodox tactic. 

Eirik didn’t waste it. While his right hand anchored Leif’s sword arm, his left hand was still wrapped around the hilt of his own heavy practice sword, held high from the initial block. With a grunt fueled by pain and adrenaline, Eirik dropped his entire body weight. 

He didn’t try to swing the sword. 

Eirik fell forwards onto his lead knee, dragging Leif off-balance with his grip on the nobleman’s wrist. Simultaneously, his left arm whipped his practice sword downwards in a short, savage, hacking arc. Not aiming for Leif’s padded body, but for the exposed forearm below where Eirik’s own hand gripped Leif’s wrist. 

CRACK!

The thick, rounded wood of the practice sword collided brutally with Leif’s forearm, just above the wrist joint. A sharp, choked cry tore from Leif’s throat. His fingers spasmed open involuntarily. His own practice sword clattered uselessly onto the frost-hardened ground. 

[5 MANA FRAGMENTS GAINED FROM COMBAT]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 13/2000]

Silence. Utter, deafening silence fell over the training yard. The jeering nobles froze mid-cheer. Garrick’s triumphant sneer turned into stunned disbelief. Even Marshal Gunnar’s impassive expression flickered with surprise. Kael’s grey eyes narrowed to slits, analyzing the brutal efficiency of the move. 

Eirik released Leif’s wrist instantly, rolling back onto his haunches. His thigh screamed, and his chest ached fiercely. He kept his own practice sword raised defensively, eyes locked on Leif.

Leif stumbled backwards, clutching his injured forearm, his face contorted in a mix of agony, humiliation, and utter shock. His right arm hung limp, visibly trembling. The pain was intense — a deep bone bruise at best. Tears of fury and pain pricked at the corners of his eyes. He tried to flex his fingers, but they responded weakly, trembling. His sword lay abandoned at his feet. 

“Hit!” Gunnar’s voice, though laced with surprise, was firm. He stepped forward slightly. “Solid disabling strike to the weapon arm. Second hit to Stormcrow.”

Garick’s face turned purple. “That was… that was dirty!” He sputtered, shoving past a few nobles towards Gunnar. “He grabbed him! Like a common street thug! That’s not swordsmanship!”

Gunnar turned a stony gaze on Garrick. “Disarming an opponent is a valid combat technique, Lord Garrick. And a very efficient one in actual battlefields.” 

Garrick fumed but couldn’t openly contradict the Marshal. He shot Eirik a look of venomous promise before turning his attention to Leif, who was being helped up by one of his companions, still cradling his arm. 

“Can you continue, Fenrir?” Garrick’s expression was more annoyed at Leif’s loss than concerned for his injury.

The question hung heavy. Leif tried to flex his hand again, wincing. He could feel the hot throb radiating up his arm. He couldn’t grip a sword, let alone wield it effectively. He looked at his sword on the ground, then at Eirik’s steady, wary gaze. Humiliation warred with the searing pain. 

Continuing was impossible, unless… 

He ground his teeth, helping himself to stand with his other good hand and forcing the words out.
“I can continue.”
The silence that followed was thick with disbelief and horrified fascination. Even the nobles who’d been cheering him moments ago stared, mouths agape. Garrick’s triumphant sneer froze, then twisted into something ugly. 

“Leif, don’t be a fool!” a nobleman near Garrick blurted out, voicing the collective thought. “Your arm!”

Leif ignored him. 

His pale blue eyes burned with a feverish intensity locked solely on Eirik. The agony radiating from his right forearm made his fingers twitch uselessly. But the deeper pain, the searing humiliation of losing his sword, of being bested by this bastard in front of everyone, drowned it out. His grandfather Brynn, old and broken, facing death in the mines… his own reputation as a promising warrior of Snow Realm Rank Three… all of it hung in the balance. Surrender now meant accepting utter defeat. 

“I said I can continue!” Leif snarled. He pushed away the nobleman who’d tried to steady him, stumbling slightly but regaining his footing. He glared at Marshal Gunnar, challenging him to stop it. “I’ll switch hands.” He bent awkwardly, wincing as the movement jarred his injured arm, and scooped up his fallen practice sword with his left hand. 

A low murmur rippled through the yard, switching to the off-hand? It bordered on suicidal. 

Gunnar’s bushy eyebrows knitted together, his face like thunder. “Fenrir,” he growled, stepping close. “Look at you. You’ll get yourself hurt worse. This ends now.” 

“No, Marshal!” Leif spat, clutching the sword hilt awkwardly in his left hand. His stance was off-kilter, compromised by the throbbing weakness on his right side. But the fire in his eyes was undimmed. “I have the right to continue!”

“Marshal Gunnar,” Garrick interjected with a voice dripping with false reasonableness. “The rules were set. Three hits or yield. Fenrir hasn’t yielded. He’s choosing to fight on. Denying him now would be unfair. And the rules never specified which hand the sword must be held in.” He offered Gunnar a thin, sharp smile. “Let him continue.” 

Eirik ignored Garrick completely and remained laser-sharp on Leif. Him switching hands was a massive disadvantage, but it didn’t eliminate the threat entirely. To think that he’d be this determined for another fight just to lose to me with his off-hand would be naive. 

Leif must have prepared something for me. The question was what, and when. 

Gunnar looked from Leif’s feverish, determined face to Garrick, then finally to Eirik. The now legitimized son met his gaze calmly, giving nothing away. The Marshal’s jaw clenched.

“Fine!” Gunnar barked. “But one more step out of the line, one hint of a dangerous move, anything, I’ll end it! Whoever disobeys me will be cooling your heels in the Ice Cells! Am I clear?”

“Clear, Marshal,” Leif gritted out, his gaze never leaving Eirik.

“Stormcrow?” Gunnar demanded.

“Clear,” Eirik acknowledged.

Gunnar gave a curt nod. 

“Final exchange! Get Ready!”

Every eye was fixed on Leif Fenrir, swaying slightly, his face pale except for two spots of feverish color high on his cheeks. He clutched the wooden practice sword in his left hand, feeling the raw pain radiating from the right forearm. 

He broke my arm. Bastard broke my arm! He fights like gutter filth!

The humiliation burned hotter than the pain. His grandfather was condemned to the Ice Trench because of this bastard. His mother had been grieving non-stop. The mocking whispers about House Fenrir losing face to a Stormcrow by-blow. It was unthinkable. He couldn’t lose. Not like this. 

Just one hit. One hit and Grandfather is saved. House Fenrir is saved. And I get to see the smug look wiped off that bastard’s face forever. He tightened his grip on the sword hilt with his left hand, ignoring the unfamiliar clumsiness. Just one hit. 

Opposite him, Eirik watched with unnerving calm. He stood rooted, breathing deeply, the gambeson padding his frame making him look broader and immovable. 

“Begin!” Gunnar’s command sliced through the tense silence. 

Leif moved first, but it was a jerky shuffle forwards, not the explosive speed he’d shown earlier. He feinted a clumsy high thrust, the blade wobbling off-target.

Too obvious. What’s his game? Eirik didn’t react. He simply adjusted his weight, his eyes never leaving Leif’s center, watching the awkward distribution of his body. 

Leif shuffled again, slightly to his right — his injured side. His face twisted in a grimace that looked utterly genuine. He stumbled, just a fraction, as if his weakened right leg buckled beneath him. His guard dipped sharply, exposing his entire right flank — the shoulder, ribs, thigh — completely open. It looked like a moment of pure vulnerability.

Now. The opportunity screamed at him. A powerful horizontal slash could smash Leif’s exposed ribs, and end this immediately. He started the movement, his body coiling to unleash the punishing strike he excelled at. His sword began its arc. 

TRAP!

The realization slammed into Eirik a second before his strike would have committed him fully. Leif hadn’t stumbled; he’d dove into that position, sacrificing balance deliberately. As Eirik’s powerful swing began its devastating path towards the open flank, Leif was already counter-shifting. 

With a guttural cry that mixed pain and desperate effort, Leif shoved off hard with his lead foot — away from the incoming blow. Simultaneously, his left arm, the one holding the practice sword, snapped upwards not in a block, but in a vicious and awkward backhand slash aimed not at Eirik’s body, but at the wrist of Eirik’s striking arm. Leif couldn’t generate much power left-handed, but he didn’t need to. He just needed to connect. A touch.

Eirik’s mind raced. He couldn’t stop the momentum of his heavy swing entirely. His agility was too low. But he could still redirect. Abandoning the full force of the attack, Eirik snapped his wrists violently downward and inward, turning the intended horizontal slash into a desperate downward chop aimed at the wooden blade Leif was thrusting towards his wrist.

CRACK!

The two wooden swords collided hard just above Leif’s hand. The fore jolted up both their arms. Leif cried out again as the impact slammed into his already injured hand. Eirik’s heavier blade won the contest, battering Leif’s sword down. 

Damn… He nearly got me. With one hand. 

The close call ignited a cold fury in Eirik while frustration boiled over Leif. The bait almost worked. Yet what was left for him now was pure desperation. Leif charged, not with a thrust or cut, but a clumsy, shoulder-first shove, abandoning his sword almost entirely as he tried to crash bodily into Eirik. Eirik sidestepped, twisting his upper body away. As Leif stumbled past, off-balance and overextended, Eirik swung his heavy wooden blade horizontally, low and fast.

THWACK!

The solid blow cracked across the backs of Leif’s knees, just above the padded greaves. Leif cried out - a strangled yelp of pain and shock - as his legs buckled. He crashed face-first onto the frozen earth, lay sprawled, his face scraped against the grit. 

[5 MANA FRAGMENTS GAINED FROM COMBAT]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 18/2000]

A collective gasp went up from the watchers. Garrifck’s expression was apoplectic. Kael’s face remained impassive, but his gaze was locked intently on Eirik. 

“Hit!” Gunnar’s voice boomed. “Strike to the legs! Third hit to Stormcrow! The match goes to Eirik Stormcrow!”

Blue light enveloped Eirik. 

———

[Tutorial Quest #4 (out of 7): The Duelist —— Completed!]

Chapter Nine (TIBK)

Leif Fenrir spat onto the frost-hardened ground, the globule landing perilously close to the worn boot of the man beside him.His pale blue eyes tracked the lone figure walking towards the training grounds – Eirik Stormcrow. 

The name felt like a rancid joke spat in the face of every true noble house.

Spineless Bastard. That's all he was yesterday. Less than dirt. And now he dares wear our Lord Baron’s name? After what he did? The memory of his grandfather, Steward Brynn, collapsing after the lashes, the raw wounds on his back... all because this bastard twisted facts and humiliated Garrick. A fresh wave of hot shame and fury washed over Leif. He’s nothing. A worm who got lucky once. True power came from birthright and disciplined training, not cheap tricks in a hall. Eirik represented everything he despised: weakness elevated through undeserved circumstance, tainting the honor of those who rightfully held it. Just looking at him made Leif's stomach churn. He’d spent years earning respect through sweat and bruises. This bastard just inherited it by breaking a nose and telling lies. The injustice burned.

“Alright, Fenrir, Stormcrow,” Gunnar’s gravelly voice cut through the tension. “This is basic form work. No fancy shit. Footwork, guard stances, basic attacks, basic parries. Stormcrow, you watch Fenrir. Fenrir, you demonstrate cleanly. Then switch. Start slow. Understood?”

“Understood, Marshal,” they both nodded. 

Leif didn’t wait. He dropped into a practiced stance — left foot forward, right foot back and slightly out-turned, knees bent, weight centered. He held the wooden sword with both hands, blade angled slightly upwards, pointing towards EIrik’s center mass. 

Standard high guard variation, Eirik identified instantly. Good balance. Favors powerful downward strikes and strong parries. Leaves the lower legs a bit exposed if he’s slow to adjust. 

Leif held the position for a three-count, then deliberately shifted his weight forward onto the lead foot, extending the sword in a straight lunge. Basic thrust. Textbook form, but telegraphed. He recovered smoothly back to the guard stance. He repeated the movement — stance, lunge, recover.

He’s good, Eirik conceded internally. Well-drilled. Years of noble training. But it’s… stiff. Like he’s following a script carved in stone. The System-granted D-tier swordsmanship skill allowed Eirik to see beyond the form to its inherent limitations and potential openings. Leif moved with confidence of repetition, not the fluid adaptability of true mastery. 

Leif demonstrated three more basic attacks from the guard stance: a downward diagonal slash, a horizontal cut aimed at the midsection, and a low, rising cut targeting the legs. Each was executed with crisp, powerful movements. 

“Your turn, Stormcrow,” Leif sneered, putting deliberate emphasis on the new name. He stepped back, gesturing mockingly with his sword. 

Eirik shifted his own feet, settling into the same high guard stance Leif had demonstrated. But as he did, subtle adjustments happened almost automatically: his back foot angled for better push-off power, his knees flexed just a touch deeper for a lower center of gravity, his grip on the sword hilt relaxed minutely to allow faster wrist action. It wasn’t flashy, but the stance immediately looked more grounded.

Garrick snorted. “Looks like he’s posing for a tapestry.”

[SKILL: MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: SWORDSMANSHIP (D)] 

[1 MANA FRAGMENT GAINED FROM PRACTICE]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 1/2000]

The notification was a very welcome confirmation. Eirik had wondered where else he could generate apart from finishing the system quests. This had verified that training in a specific skill category would be one of the sources of mana fragments. 

“Alright,” Gunnar grunted, breaking the tense silence. “Parries now. Fenrir, attack. Stormcrow, defend. Basic blocks only.” He gave Leif a meaningful look.

Leif nodded tightly, and moved into position. “High guard. Ready?”

Eirik settled back into his guard stance, sword angled upwards. He’s predictable. He’ll start with the diagonal slash. 

Leif raised his sword, telegraphing the move just as he had during the demonstration, and brought it down in a powerful diagonal arc aimed at Eirik’s left shoulder and head. Eirik’s arms moved, meeting Leif’s descending sword with a solid thwack. This was deflection disguised as a block that allowed Eirik angled his own blade to slide Leif’s strike slightly offline, dissipating some of its force effortlessly. The mitigated impact travelled down his arms, but he absorbed it easily without jarring shocks. 

“Recover,” Gunnar ordered. 

Leif pulled back. The blow hadn’t shaken Eirik like he’d hoped. He went for the horizontal cut next, swinging hard at Eirik’s ribs. 

Eirik shifted his weight, bringing his sword across his body horizontally. Thwack. Again, his parry wasn’t a desperate slap. It was a precise intercept, meeting force before it could reach its maximum impact. 

Leif’s frustration deepened. He shifted into the low, rising cut, aiming for Eirik’s lead leg. 

Eirik dropped his guard smoothly, dipping the tip of his sword downwards. Thwack. The wooden blades connected low. Again, Eirik controlled the impact, using the leverage of his stance to nullify the upward force.

“Good,” Gunnar rumbled, surprising himself. “Recover. Switch roles.” 

Eirik stepped back, lowering his sword slightly. Leif’s face was flushed, but quickly adopted his own high guard stance. 

“Attack, bastard.” Leif braced, muscles tensing for the heavy diagonal cut he expected. 

Eirik began the telegraphed wind-up for the diagonal slash, exactly like Leif had done. But halfway through the motion, with Leif committed to blocking high, Eirik deliberately stumbled. His foot slipped slightly on the frosty ground. His intended, subtle shift into a thrust became a clumsy, off-balance lurch forward. The blunted tip of his practice sword thudded weakly, almost accidentally, against Leif’s padded gambeson near the ribs, more a shove than a strike.

[3 MANA FRAGMENT GAINED FROM PRACTICE]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 3/2000]

Leif staggered back half a step, not from pain, but sheer surprise and insult. 

His face flushed crimson. Being hit at all by the bastard was an outrage, but being hit by such a clumsy, inept-looking movement? It was a public humiliation. Gasps and a few stifled snickers came from the watching nobles. Garrick’s smirk vanished, replaced by a look of disgust. “Pathetic!” he muttered loud enough to hear. “Can’t even stand properly!”

“HALT!” Gunnar bellowed, stepping forward, furious. “By the Frost! Stormcrow! What was that? A drunken stumble? Control your damned feet! Fenrir, are you hurt?”

Leif sucked in a sharp breath. The weak blow hadn’t injured him, but the sheer indignity burned. He pointed his practice sword accusingly at Eirik. He struck me! That… that stumbling oaf struck me! Intentionally or not, it is an insult! Leif sucked another breath, the color draining from his face only to rush back in a hot flush of anger. 

“Apologies, Lord Fenrir,” Eirik said, the title delivered with flat neutrality that somehow sounded worse than sarcasm. “The yard is crowded with… unexpected obstacles.” 

“Unexpected obstacles?” Leif spat, stepping forward aggressively, invading Eirik’s space. “You mean nobles you weren’t taught to avoid? Know your place, mongrel!”

Perfect. Eirik held his ground, refusing to flinch. He needed the challenge formalized before Gunnar intervened. “My place, Fenrir,” Eirik stated calmly, his voice carrying clearly in the sudden quiet that had fallen over their corner of the yard, “is where my strength takes me. If you find my presence so offensive, perhaps you lack the spine to enforce your so-called place.” He deliberately used the word ‘spine’ – Leif knew Eirik’s old nickname.

Leif’s face flushed crimson. He pointed his wooden blade at Eirik’s chest. “You dare?! After years of crawling, one taste of recognition makes you think you can stand among your betters? You’re still gutter filth!”

Gunnar’s bellow cut through. “FENRIR! STORMCROW! What in the Frost is this?!” The Marshal stalked over, scowling.

Before Gunnar could shut it down, Leif whirled to face him, chest heaving. “Marshal! This bastard insults my House and my person! He challenges my standing! I demand satisfaction! A duel! Here! Now!” He pointed his sword accusingly at Eirik again. “Unless he prefers to crawl back to the kennels where he belongs!”

Eirik kept his face impassive, but inside, satisfaction bloomed cold and hard. Hook, line, sinker. The challenge was thrown, loud and public. Refusal now would mark him as exactly the coward Leif claimed. Garrick’s smirk widened. Kael’s eyes narrowed slightly, perhaps sensing the setup.

“Enough!” Gunnar roared. “This yard is for discipline, not a backyard playground!”

“Marshal! A request!” Leif spat the words again. “Since Lord Eirik clearly possesses… advanced instincts…” The sarcasm dripped, “and feels the need to demonstrate them outside of basic drills… I formally request a practice duel!”

A ripple went through the watching trainees — guards and nobles alike. Murmurs broke out. Practice duels weren’t uncommon, but rarely sprung like this, dripping with barely concealed hostility. Gunar’s scowl deepened into a canyon. 

“Fenrir, this isn’t—”

“Let them!” Garrick’s voice cut in. 

He strode forward a few steps, Kael shadowing him silently, cold grey eyes fixed on Eirik. “My brother cheated in a simple drill. Marshal. But not only that, he showed disrespect to both your orders and his fellow trainee.” He gestured towards the nobles around him, who quickly chimed in with murmurs of agreement. “It is important that my brother learns the value of respect on his first day. Marshall.”

Eirik met Leif’s furious gaze.

“A duel seems… unnecessary, Fenir. It was a misstep during a drill. You recovered well. You have my apologies. ” 

“Unnecessary? You think you can strike me like that and hide behind the Marshal? Coward!” Leif spat the last word. 

“Truly. Fenir. I am sorry. Let’s act rationally.” Eirik ignored the insults.

Leif’s chest swelled. He yanked the sword sheathed at his hip free with a metallic rasp that silenced the yard. 

It wasn’t his practice blade. This was the real thing.

“Fenir, stop whatever you’re—” Marshal Gunnar stepped forward, yet stopped mid-way as Leif switched his grip, now holding it up with both hands so everyone could see its deadly beauty. 

The longsword gleamed in the morning sun. The blade was forged from masterfully pattern-welded steel, the swirling layers etched faintly, creating a rippling effect reminiscent of ice flows under moonlight. The pommel was a beautifully cast silver wolf’s head, jaws open in a silent snarl, the sigil of House Fenrir. It wasn’t encrusted with jewels or ostentatiously large — it was a warrior’s blade, honed for balance and lethality. It screamed quality, the kind of blade a well-funded minor noble heir would carry proudly. 

“My sword,” Leif declared, “Pattern-welded Ice-Steelcore, folded twenty times by the master smiths of Frosttholm Keep. Duel me. Bastard. If you win, this is yours.”

Fwhhht——

A low whistle came from one of the nobles. Garrick looked faintly annoyed — he probably coveted it himself. Kael’s grey eyes assessed the blade dispassionately, then flicked back to Eirik. 

Eirik did not react outwardly, but his mind assessed the offer. In the Barony of Stormkeep, this was likely among the finest weapons owned by someone his age, worth hundreds of silver talons easily. For him, starting nothing but a rusty dagger, this is practically a king’s ransom. But… 

“What if you win?” Eirik asked. 

“If I win…” Leif looked into Eirik’s eyes as if waiting for this moment, “You go to Lord Cedric. You beg him to commute Lord Brynn's sentence! No more manual labor in the Ice Trench mines! He’s served Stormkeep loyally for decades! The lashes he suffered were more than enough!” 

Eirik tilted his head slightly, “I see. You blame me for your grandfather’s punishment for a crime he committed?” 

“Blame you?” Leif laughed. “You twisted everything! He’s an old man! The mines would kill him! And you… you smug bastard, you made this happen! Do you accept the stake or not?”

“I accept.” There was no hesitation in Eirik’s words. 

Refusing now would make him look weak, exactly what he couldn’t afford after his defiance in the hall. Worse, it would waste this perfect opportunity Leif’s rage had handed him. I need that duel. Winning against a Snow Realm combatant was the next system quest. Leif Fenrir, arrogant, predictable, and furious, was the ideal target.

“Lord Gunnar!” Leif immediately turned to the Marshal.

“Absolutely not!” Gunnar snapped. “This yard is for discipline and learning, not settling personal scores! You,” he pointed at Leif, “need to control your temper. And you,” the finger jabbed towards Eirik, “need to learn humility and follow orders! This ends now!”

Garrick stepped forward, smoothly inserting himself.

“Marshal, with respect, the insult has been given. Fenrir demands satisfaction, as is his noble right. And Stormcrow here accepted the challenge openly. Denying it now… well, it makes both look weak. And reflects poorly on Stormkeep’s martial spirit, wouldn’t you say?” The surrounding nobles murmured louder agreement. 

This is it. Eirik analyzed the situation instantly. Gunnar’s reluctance was obvious, but Garrick’s manipulation and the crowd’s reaction had backed him into a corner. Everyone here wants Eirik to be defeated and humiliated and put right back to where he was. Every. Single. One.

Gunnar’s jaw worked. He looked from Leif’s desperate, furious face, to Garrick’s manipulative smirk, to the expectant nobles, and finally to Eirik. His gaze lingered on the ‘bastard’ son who’d defied the Baron and now stood calm amidst this brewing storm.
“Stormcrow?” Gunnar groundout. “This is madness. You’re barely initiated into martial practice. You want this?”

Eirik met the Marshal gaze. 

Gunnar’s trying to give me an out, but secretly wanted this as well. He thought. Gunnar holds all the power here, and if he said no, no one would dare openly defy him. Maybe Gunnar also wanted justice for Brynn, and also believed Leif could beat him into some proper manners. Sure. 

Eirik’s voice cuts through the murmurs. "The challenge was given and the stakes set, Marshal, before all witnesses." He deliberately didn't mention Leif's grandfather, focusing only on the terms Leif himself had declared. "House Fenrir has laid down its honor and its steel. House Stormcrow does not shy from such tests. I accept." The words were chosen carefully – framing it as a matter of house honor, making refusal seem cowardly not just for him, but for the Stormcrows. Let Gunnar chew on that.

Gunnar stared at him for another long, heavy moment. Finally, he growled. 

“Fine! On your own heads be it! But rules!” He boomed, silencing the yard. “Practice swords only! Standard sparring protection!” He gestured to the training gambesons — thick, padded jackets designed to absorb blows. 

“First touch acknowledged as a hit! Three solid hits, or yielding, ends it! I am the only judge! I see a dangerous blow, intentional injury, or someone ignoring my call to halt, and it stops instantly! Ignore my call, and you face the Ice Cells! Am I understood?!”

Idiot rules, Eirik thought coldly, cinching the leather ties with deliberate slowness. First touch acknowledged. Three hits. Practice swords. The Marshal’s decree effectively neutered Eirik’s greatest advantages.

His Strength meant a solid hit with a real blade would likely break bones or end the fight instantly. His Swordsmanship skill would give him lethal precision and the ability to exploit openings — openings that might only become fatal with genuine steel and intent. But with padded jackets and blunted wood? Strength became less decisive. Landing a disabling blow was nearly impossible. 

Worse was his pathetic Agility. Leif Fenrir, like most well-trained noble sons, almost certainly had Agility far higher than that. The rules required EIrik to hit Leif three times while avoiding being hit himself three times. This essentially turned the duel into a game of speed and evasion. Eirik’s low agility meant his movements, even with D-Tier skills guiding them, would be comparatively sluggish. Leif could dance around him, strike, and retreat before Eirik could effectively counter. His perfectly timed feint in the drill had worked because Leif wasn’t expecting at all. Leif wouldn’t make that mistake again. 

Gunnar, Eirik mused, picking up the heavy, clumsy practice sword. The Marshal’s stern expression gave nothing away, but the logic was clear. He just handed Fenrir the perfect tool for revenge. 

Brynn was Steward, likely working closely with Gunnar for decades. Gunnar saw a jumped-up bastard responsible for Brynn’s brutal punishment. He might enforce the rules impartially, but he certainly hadn’t chosen rules that favored Eirik. He’d practically ensured Eirik would take a public beating. 

A circle had formed around the makeshift dueling ground. Guard mingled with the noble sons, the air thick with anticipation and low murmurs. Garrick stood prominently near the front, flanked by the silent predator, Kael. Garrick’s swollen face bore a vicious smirk. Kael watched Eirik with that unnerving, detached intensity. 

“Fifty Talons says Fenrir finishes him in under a minute.” A young noble declared loudly to his companion.

His friend snorted. “Stormcrow’s bastard got some bite, I heard. Fenrir wins, but it takes three minutes.”

“Three minutes?” Another voice chimed in. “Look at him lumbering in that gambeson! Fenrir’s at Rank Three! The bastard only just entered Snow Realm as a newbie Rank One. I’ll take the under a minute bet.”

Rank Three. The words sliced through the ambient noise, landing squarely in Eirik’s awareness. His internal calculations shifted instantly. So that was it. Leif Fenrir wasn’t just a well-trained noble; he was significantly further advanced in cultivating his Mana Core. Snow Realm Rank Three meant more raw power, potentially higher stats overall, and crucially, a larger Mana pool. While Frostbite Edge was banned implicitly per Gunnar’s rules, who knew what minor tricks, bursts of speed, or enhanced resilience Leif might subtly draw upon? It explained the confidence radiating off him even after being winded. 

Odds just got worse, Eirik acknowledged internally. But instead of anxiety, a cold, sharp focus descended. 

The world narrowed to the packed earth circle, Leif Fenrir, and the heavy wooden sword in his own hand. If there’s one thing I know, Eirik thought, it’s improvising out of a hole someone else dug for me. 

He wouldn’t win by matching speed. He had to win by being smarter, dirtier, and exploiting the environment and Leif’s own predictable rage. 

Gunnar stepped into the center, his bulk imposing silence.

“Combatants ready?”

Leif snapped into a ready stance. Not the high guard from the drill—his feet were positioned for quick lateral movement, his knees deeply bent, weight balanced precisely on the balls of his feet. He held the practice sword one-handed, the blade held low and slightly out to the side, the point angled towards Eirik’s lead knee. His free hand was open, held slightly forward for balance or maybe a quick grapple. It was a stance designed for quick darting attacks, feints, and rapid retears. An agility-focused dueling stance. He’d clearly switched tactics. 

Eirik adopted a much more conservative, rooted stance. Feet planted firmly, shoulders squared, holding the practice sword in a solid two-handed high guard. It looked slow, defensive, almost ponderous compared to Leif’s coiled readiness. A murmur of derision rippled through the watching novels. Garrick chuckled openly. 

Leif’s taking me quite seriously this time, Eirik noted. He needed to read his intent before the movement began—the angles of attack, the shifts of weight that preceded a lunge. His low Agility meant he couldn’t react after the move started; he had to anticipate. 

“Begin!” Gunnar barked, stepping back swiftly. 

Chapter Eight (TIBK)

The heavy oak door closed behind Eirik, muffling the last echoes of the emptying great hall. He stood just inside the threshold, cataloging his new world. 

Rurik’s old quarters.

Eirik knew the significance immediately. Ceric hadn’t shuffled him off to some minor noble’s spare room. This was a statement. This had been the chamber of the favored son, the one who Cedric had sent to the Earl’s court because he had much bigger ambitions for him than Garrick. 

The sheer scale of the favor Cedric was trying to buy, even now, was staggering. And infuriating. 

It was also… warm.

After just waking up in a freezing, draughty shack masquerading as a room, the warmth hit Eirik like a physical force. He hadn’t truly felt warm since transmigrated into this frozen world. Heat radiated from not one, but two large hearths crackling merrily at opposite ends of the spacious common area. 

The stone floor was covered in thick, intricately woven rugs depicting hunting scenes — wolves, stags, bears locked in eternal, frozen pursuit. The furniture was heavy dark wood, polished to a deep sheen, cushioned with thick velvet. A massive oak desk sat near one window, overlooking a snow-dusted inner courtyard. The were actual glass panes in the windows, clear and intact, keeping the biting cold at bay while letting in the pale northern daylight. 

In a smaller adjoining chamber, likely intended as a study or solar, Yorick hunched over a small writing desk. Two stony-faced Stormcrow guards in full armor flanked him. His fingers trembled as he dipped a quill into an inkpot, scratching furiously at a fresh piece of parchment.

Eirik hadn’t needed to lock him in a cell; he’d locked him in the gilded cage with him. The punishment was exquisite. 

Satisfied York was effectively contained and working, Eirik walked deeper into the main room. He ran a hand over the back of a plush armchair, feeling the rich texture. He stopped before one of the roaring hearths. The heat seeped into his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment. 

Finally… quiet. 

For the first time since his consciousness had slammed into this weak boy in a freezing shack, the relentless pressure eased. There was no immediate threat of starvation, freezing, or a beating. He was nominally safe, warm, fed, and recognized. He had a silver of power, resources beginning to trickle in. 

Eirik stared into the hypnotic dance of the flames. 

A visceral craving hit him, sharp and sudden. A cigarette. The acrid bite of smoke filling his lungs, the calming ritual of the inhale-exhale. The smooth burn of good whiskey, single malt, warming his throat. The simple, grounding vices of a life lived on the edge. He could almost smell the leather of his favorite dive bar booth, feel the weight of a glass in his hand. 

His goal hadn’t budged an inch: the Northern Wastes.

But Cedric had slammed that door shut. Trying to argue now, especially after the public humiliation of having his grand gesture of paternal acceptance thrown back in his face, would be useless. Pleading would be seen as weakness. Defiance would probably lead straight to the Ice Cells.

Escape? Eirik considered the option coldly. 

Just slipping away into the night. It was tempting, the simplicity of it. But it was impractical. Six personal guards, sworn directly to him? That sounded like protection, but it was also surveillance. Cedric wouldn’t give him freedom to roam. Those guards would report his every move. Trying to sneak out would be difficult, probably involving violence against his own sworn men. 

And even if he succeeded… where would he go? He had minimal resources. No allies beyond the shaky loyalty of Harkin, Jens, and the terrified Yorick. The Northern Wastes weren’t a stroll in the park; they were lethal. Arriving there weak, alone, and pursued as a fugitive son of Stormkeep was a death sentence waiting to be served by frost giant, barbaric tribesman, or blizzard. 

He paused by the window overlooking the snow-dusted inner courtyard. Guards patrolled with lit torches. The night was already deep. 

The Earl. A thought surfaced. 

If Cedric couldn’t be convinced, could he be circumvented? Eirik frowned, mentally sifting through the scraps of information the original host possessed. The Baron ruled Stormkeep Barony, but answered to the Earl of Frostfang Province. The Earl held more power, but he knew nothing about him, especially his temperament, ambitions, and relationship with Cedric. 

He did remember that Cedric had sent Rurik to the Earl’s court, but couldn’t be sure if that was the Earl helping Cedric expanding Rurik’s influence, or the Earl being suspicious of the ambitions of the Baron of Stormkeep. 

Either way, Eirik had no real contacts there. Walking in cold and begging for permission to be sent to the Northern Wastes would sound like madness. Worse, Cedric would see it as a direct challenge. Treasonous even, bypassing him. The risk of escalating to figures beyond Cedric, as of where his status and power stood now, would be too dangerous. 

Nevertheless, going to the Earl may still be the best option if he could find a less confrontational, more strategic approach. But this would require him to gather more intel. 

His eyes narrowed slightly as he focused inward, mentally summoning the System’s blue text.

[Complete the Quest Chain to Earn a Special Reward!]

His first priority, he decided, was to complete the tutorial quest chain, and find someone resourceful and reliable enough to help him get into touch with the Earl or his court. The “Special Reward” could provide leverage, power, or even something that changes the board. It would hopefully help him slice through an opening even Cedric can’t block. 

Eirik turned his gaze to the window, watching the winter night deepen outside. Snow fell in lazy spirals, coating the courtyard in fresh white. The torches of patrolling guards created small pools of orange light against the darkness.

Harkin hasn’t returned yet, he noted. Finding Marta might take time. She’s probably hiding somewhere she thinks Garrick won’t look.

Behind him, he could hear the steady scratch of Yorick’s quill on parchment. He turned from the window and walked to the study doorway. 

“You’ll continue tomorrow.” Eirik turned to the guards. “Escort him to the servant’s quarters and see to it that he does not leave without my permission.”

Yorick scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking over the inkpot. “Y-yes, my lord!”

The guards escorted the trembling scribe out as Eirik watched. The heavy door closed behind them with a solid thud. 

Alone at last. 

He moved through the common room to a door he hadn’t yet explored. 

The bedchamber. 

A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, draped in heavy furs and thick blankets. More than big enough for three people. The mattress looked soft—actual down, not the straw-stuffed sack he’d woken up on this morning. Another fireplace crackled here too, keeping the room warm enough that he wouldn’t need five blankets just to avoid freezing. 

He lied on the bed, testing it. The mattress gave way perfectly, supporting without being too soft. His hand ran over the fur blanket—wolf, from the texture.

First night in a new world, was his last coherent thought. Let’s see what tomorrow brings. 

———

The training grounds of Stormkeep were a sprawling expanse of packed earth and stone, partially sheltered by high wooden walls and flanked by weapon racks bristling with practice swords, axes, shields, and spears. 

Snow had been swept aside, leaving a treacherous layer of frost glittering under the weak morning sun. The air bit sharply at exposed skin, carrying the familiar scents of sweat, leather, metal polish, and woodsmoke from braziers set around the perimeter.

A surprising number of figures were already present, stretching, running drills, or clashing wooden practice swords in controlled pairs. 

Eirik recognized the uniforms of the regular guards, but also a distinct group: younger men, perhaps twenty in number, wearing finer, practical gear — tunics embroidered with less noble house sigils or high-quality leather armor. The barony’s noble sons, likely required to train under Marshal Gunnar. 

As Eirik entered with Harkin a respectful step behind, conversation dipped. Heads turned. Eyes — curious, assessing, wary, hostile — followed his approach to where Gunnar stood near a large stone slab used for demonstrations. Gunnar himself, a mountain of scarred muscle in worn, functional armor, barely glazed up from sharpening a practice sword. 

Interesting. 

Most glances slid away after the initial assessment, returning to their drills or muttered conversations. But one pair of eyes locked onto him with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. A young nobleman, perhaps a year or two older than Eririk, with sandy hair and a face that would have been pleasant if not contorted by a simmering, suppressed rage. His knuckles were white around the hilt of his practice sword. He wore the silver wolf head sigil of House Fenrir, a minor but respected vassal house loyal to the Stormcrows. 

Fenrir. Leif Fenrir? Or Torvald? Eirik sifted through fragmented memories. Leif. 

Eirik recalled him clearly now. Leif wasn’t just another Garrick sycophant, but the heir of House Fenrir, a minor but proud vassal house loyal to Stormkeep. To nobles like Leif, Eirik’s bastard status meant that he was filth, a stain barely worth acknowledging, let alone standing near. 

But today, that sneer was twisted with rage. Why the special hatred? Eirik wondered briefly, then realized: he was the grandson of Steward Brynn, who was exiled to the Ice Trench mines on Eirik’s testimony. Of course he hates me.

His eyes flickered to the System prompt glowing faintly in his mind:

[Tutorial Quest #4 (out of 7): The Duelist]

[Win a Duel Against a Snow-Realm Combatant in the Barony.]

He needed that duel. He needed it soon, before Cedric tightened his leash. Leif, furious and underestimating him, was the ideal target. He just needed to make Leif snap first, publicly, forcing the Marshal's hand. He met Leif Fenrir’s glare unflinchingly for a moment, then deliberately looked away, focusing on Gunnar. 

Garrick arrived a few minutes later, sweeping into the yard flanked by two companions. One was a hulking brute with a vacant expression. The other… this was the dangerous one. 

Taller than Garrick, leaner, moving with the quiet precision of a stalking predator. Dark hair, cold grey eyes that scanned the yard with unsettling calm, missing nothing. He wore no overt sigil, but his bearing screamed mercenary or a knight from a lesser house seeking advancement. 

Garrick preened under the immediate attention, several noble sons offering respectful nods or murmurs. His nose was still swollen and discolored, a purple bruise blossoming across his cheekbone. His gaze flicked to Eirik, hatred flashing pure and hot before he masked it with a sneer, turning to exchange a quiet word with his dangerous companion, who merely inclined his head slightly. The companion’s eyes, however, lingered on Eirik a fraction too long, assessing him with the detached interest of a hawk observing prey. 

That one screams trouble. Eirik realized. 

Gunnar finally finished sharpening the practice sword, its edge gleaming wickedly even on blunted training steel. He slammed the tip into the frost-hardened earth, the impact echoing. 

“Enough chatter! Line up!” His voice, gravelly and commanding, cut through the morning air. 

Immediately, the guards and nobles snapped to attention, forming ragged lines. Eirik moved to stand slightly apart, at the end of one line. 

Gunnar’s gaze swept over them, pausing briefly on Eirik. 

“Eirik Stormcrow. You haven’t trained with us. Today, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.” 

He said as he shoved a practice sword into Eirik’s hands, then moved to face the whole cohort.

“Weapons down.” 

Gunnar grunted as wooden blades clattered on the packed earth. 

“Last week, we began working on the basic channeling pattern for Frostbite Edge. Simple Mana-infused ability. Core for any Stormcrow fighter.” He gestured towards the large stone slab. 

“This ability allows you to infuse your weapon with killing cold. Makes a cut bite deeper, slows a foe, and shatters weaker armor. Your first true step beyond just swinging a stick.”

He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, holding the practice sword loosely at his side. 

“Recap. To cast this ability, you need to visualize the flow and draw the cold from your core. Not your muscles. Your mana. Feel it.” He closed his eyes for a second, a visible ripple passing through him. The air around the blade grew hazy, shimmering with cold vapor. “Guide it. Down your arm. Into the grip. Through the steel.” 

Frost began to visibly crawl up the wooden blade, sparking in the weak sunlight, forming intricate, shifting patterns. The temperature around Gunnar plummeted noticeably. 

That’s… efficient. Brutal elegance. Eirik quickly absorbed the details: Gunar’s posture, the slight tension in his forearm, the absolute focus in his eyes. He mentally mapped the flow Gunnar described.

Core… arm… grip… weapon.

Gunnar snapped the blade up in a blur of motion. It struck the stone slab with a sharp CRACK! Not a thunderous blow, but precise. Where the frosted wood impacted, a spiderweb of ice exploded across the rock surface, radiating outwards a full foot before stopping. Shards of ice and stone fragments pattered onto the ground. A collective intake of breath sounded from the trainees. 

“That,” Gunnar stated, lowering the sword, the frost already receding from the blade, “is Frostbite Edge applied correctly.” He scanned the trainees. “Who remembers the pattern? Show me. On air. No channeling yet. Just the visualization.”

Hands went up, mostly among the guards and a couple of nobles. Gunnar pointed at a guard. The man stepped forward, holding a practice sword, and slowly went through the motions. Gunnar grunted and pointed to another noble son. The noble performed the motion with more flourish but less precision. Gunnar just shook his head. 

His gaze landed on Garrick. “Lord Garrick. Demonstrate.”

Garrick preened, stepping forward. He adopted a dramatic stance, took a deep breath, closed his eyes dramatically, and swept his wooden sword through the air as if wielding a relic. Frost flickered weakly around his hand for a  second, then sputtered out. He opened his eyes, looking expectant.

Forceful but uncontrolled. Eirik thought coldly. He’s trying to push the mana out through muscle effort, not guide it. 

A few sycophantic nobles murmured, “Well done, Lord Garrick!” and “Strong flow!” Gunnar’s expression remained impassive, but a flicker of something — annoyance? Disappointment? — crossed his face.
“Passable visualization, Lord Garrick,” he rumbled, “But you need to practice more.” 

“Now,” Gunnar pointed abruptly to the dangerous man beside Garrick. “Kael. Show them.”

So that’s his name. 

Kael stepped forward. He held out his hand, palm down, his expression was utterly focused, almost serene. 

The air around his hand visibly chilled. Frost condensed instantly, not just coating his skin but forming complex, sharp-edged geometric patterns miniature ice crystals — dancing around his palm. It lasted only three seconds before winking out, but the precision and control were undeniable. 

“That,” Gunnar said, “is how you do Frostbite Edge.” He glanced at Garrick, whose smug expression had tightened slightly. “Remember, mana isn’t endless. Especially in the early Snow Realm. You might have enough for two, maybe three solid Frostbite Edge applications in a real fight. Use it strategically. A sudden burst to finish an opponent, shatter a shield, slow a charging beast. Leave it on constantly?” He snorted. “You’ll be dry before the fight truly starts, and then you’re just a man with a stick.” He thumped the frost-free practice sword onto his shoulder. “Comprehension?”

A chorus of “Yes, Marshall!” echoed. 

“Good. Pair up. Practice forms. Sword and shield drills. Focus on footwork and defense.” He started pointing, assigning partners among the guards and nobles. His gaze fell on Eirik, then scanned the line. His eyes lingered for a moment on Leif Fenrir, still radiating simmering anger. An idea seemed to form.

“Eirik Stormcrow,” Gunnar called. “You’ve never drilled with us. Forget about practicing Frostbite Edge or any mana-infused abilities for now. You’ll need to learn the basics first.” He pointed towards the far end of the yard where straw dummies stood. “Dahl.” He indicated a younger guard, barely out of his teens, who looked terrified at being singled out. “You pair with Eirik. Stick to basic attacks and parries. Teach him the guard stance first.”

Eirik moved towards Dahl, deliberately putting himself on a path close to Leif Fenrir. As he passed, he met Leif’s burning glare, holding it for a split second longer than necessary. He didn’t sneer. He just looked. Calm. Unimpressed. Like looking at a barking dog.

Leif stepped forward abruptly. “Marshal Gunnar!”

Gunnar paused, eyes narrowing. “Fenrir?”

Leif kept his fiery gaze locked on Eirik, ignoring Dahl completely. “If the Bastard requires instruction… perhaps someone of proper standing should provide it.” He spat the word ‘Bastard’, emphasizing Eirik’s old title, rejecting his new name. “Allow me to assist.”

Gunnar looked between them, his expression unreadable. He sighed. “Fine, Fenrir. You pair with Eirik. Practice. Basic forms. Sword and shield drills. Focus on footwork and defense. Understood?” His tone carried a heavy warning. This was to be disciplined training, not a grudge match.

“Understood, Marshal,” Leif ground out, not taking his eyes off Eirik. 

“Understood,” Eirik echoed, his voice level. Good. You took the bait, Leif. Now let's see if I can make you bite hard enough for the duel. 

Chapter Seven (TIBK)

[Tutorial Quest #2 (out of 7): The Baron’s Wrath —— Completed!]

[Complete the Quest Chain to Earn a Special Reward!]

[Reward Claimed: 5 Points in Charm]

[CHARM: 1 → 6] 

[Reward Claimed: 5 Points in Intellect]

[INTELLECT: 8 → 12] 

[Reward Claimed: 2,000 Mana Fragments]

[Reward Claimed: Skill Upgrade Crystal (Bronze)]

[Skill Upgrade Crystal (Bronze): Upgrade any skill of choice to D-tier. Only usable for F-tier skills.]

———

[New Quest issued:]

[Tutorial Quest #3 (out of 7): Build A Warchest ]

[Quest Type: Stewardship]
[Objective: Amass 5,000 Silver Talons (0/5000)]

———

[New Quest issued:]
[Tutorial Quest #4 (out of 7): The Duelist]

[Quest type: Prowess ]

[Objective: Win a Duel Against a Snow-Realm Combatant in the Barony. ]

———

[Tutorial Quest #5 (out of 7): ???] 

[Quest Currently Locked]

[Tutorial Quest #6 (out of 7): ???]

[Quest Currently Locked]

[Tutorial Quest #7 (out of 7): ???]

[Quest Currently Locked]

———

Eirik felt the changes immediately. 

Twelve Intellect. That’s beyond most scholars in the barony already. He instantly recalled Cedric’s exact phrasing, Ingrid’s micro-expressions, and the layout of the hall with near-perfect clarity. His thoughts felt clearer and his mind sharper. 

Then, Charm. A subtle confidence now emerged in his posture that did not require him putting his full intentional effort into it as it previously required. Six points in charm weren’t great, but it was enough to avoid immediate disgust, perhaps even inspire a flicker of interest.

He still had 2,000 Manage Fragments to spend, as well as a skill upgrade card. Then he needed to strategize about completing the next two quests.

But first things first, he needed a complete picture of his assets.

System. Show Status. 

Blue text shimmered before his eyes. 

[NAME: EIRIK STORMCROW]

[TITLE: THE LEGITIMIZED THIRD SON OF LORD CEDRIC STORMCROW]

[AGE: 19]

[REALM: SNOW (RANK 1 of 5)]

[MANA FRAGMENTS NEEDED FOR SNOW REALM RANK 2: 2000/2000]

[NOTE: THE REALM TIERS ARE RANKED FROM LOW TO HIGH AS FOLLOWS:]

[UNINITIATED, SNOW, FROST, HAIL, GLACIER, BLIZZARD, EVERWINTER]

[MANA: 0/0]

[STATS]

[STRENGTH: 13]

[ENDURANCE: 2]

[AGILITY: 3]

[INTELLECT: 12]

[CHARM: 6]

[MANA: 5/5]

[NOTE: MANA CAP SCALES WITH REALM RANKS.]

[SKILLS]

[STRENGTH AFFECTED SKILLS]

[MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

[SHIELDS PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

… 

[AGILITY AFFECTED SKILLS]

[DODGE (F)]

[SNEAK (F)]

[LOCKPICK (F)]

[HORSE RIDING (F)]

…

[ENDURANCE AFFECTED SKILLS]

[ARMOR PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

… 

[INTELLIGENCE AFFECTED SKILLS]

[ALCHEMY (F)]

… 

[CHARM AFFECTED SKILLS]

[FIRST IMPRESSION (F)]

… 

[MANA-AFFECTED ABILITIES]

[SLOT ONE: EMPTY]

[SLOT TWO: UNLOCKS AT SNOW REALM RANK 3]

[SLOT THREE: UNLOCKS AT SNOW REALM RANK 7]

… 

[TALENTS]

[LOCKED]

Eirik analysed the sheet coldly. 

His overall stats had grown significantly, yet his endurance and agility were still abysmal. 

Agility was key for dodging and sneaking, and endurance determines what type of armor and shield he could use. These were important survivability stats that he needed to improve in the future. 

Moreover, he noticed something he hadn’t seen before: mana.

He had 5 mana, and the cap limit is at 100, which meant that it wasn’t great either. Moreover, there are now mana-affected abilities that he still had no idea where to get his hands on one. 

However, he’s sure that whatever Cedric had used during the trial, like leaving frost trials or making him suddenly unable to speak, had something to do with this. Maybe that’d be a good question for Gunnar tomorrow. 

Now, the spoils of war. 

He accessed the Mana Fragments menu.

[MANA FRAGMENTS: 2,000]

He mentally hovered on the tooltip, hoping to see a more extensive explanation of its various uses.

The system granted his wish. 

[MANA FRAGMENTS]

[USE FOR:]

[REALM UPGRADE (SNOW RANK 1 → SNOW RANK 2) COST: 2,000 MF]

[SKILL UPGRADE (F → E) COST: 500 MF PER SKILL]

[SKILL UPGRADE (E → D) COST: 1000 MF PER SKILL]

[SKILL UPGRADE (D → C) COST: 2000 MF PER SKILL]

[SKILLS CAP LOCKED AT C-TIER UNTIL NEXT REALM]

[STAT POINT PURCHASE COST: 100 MF PER POINT FOR STATS <= 10]

[STAT POINT PURCHASE COST: 200 MF PER POINT FOR STATS <= 20]

[STAT POINT LOCKED AT 20 UNTIL NEXT REALM]

[OTHERS: (LOCKED)]

The list was quite long, but it essentially meant that Eirik could either upgrade a realm, or upgrade a couple skills, or purchase a bunch of stat points. 

His most immediate objective, besides finding a way to convince Cedric to let him leave for the Northern Wastes, would be finishing those two new quests. 

Getting that 10,000 silver wouldn’t necessarily require him to be super strong, but winning a duel against the strongest snow realm warrior would mean that he’s got to be a lot more deadly than he currently was. 

Realm upgrade seemed to be the best choice again, Eirik thought. This would give him some stat points to spend, as well as increase his mana cap and make him just one rank lower to unlock a second ability slot. 

Or, alternatively, he could use the [Skill Upgrade Crystal (Bronze)] to upgrade a given skill to D-tier, and then upgrade it with 2,000 MP to make it C-tier.

A C-tier in anything in the Snow realm would mean that he’d reached the ceiling, since B-tier skills won’t unlock until reaching the Frost realm. This would also be a good option.

But… 

Even though he hadn’t had access to a mana-influenced ability yet, he’s sure that this is going to be a big factor in that fight. He thought about the frost spiraling at Cedric’s feet, and decided that raw skill alone unaided by mana wasn’t going to be sufficient. 

Realm upgrade first, Eirik decided. 

He focused on the Realm Upgrade option.

[UPGRADE TO SNOW REALM RANK 2?]

[COST: 2,000 MANA FRAGMENTS]

[Y/N?]

Yes.

The familiar, biting cold slammed into him again, deeper this time. Not the shock of the first awakening, but a profound, marrow-deep chill that settled into his bones. He saw not just falling snow, but vast ice fields. 

Power surged. His muscles felt like coiled springs ready to explode. The lingering aches from the earlier scuffle with Garrick vanished entirely.

[REALM ASCENDED: SNOW (RANK 2)]

[5 STAT POINTS AWARDED!]

[MAX MANA INCREASED TO 10]

[MANA FRAGMENTS NEEDED FOR SNOW (RANK 3): 0/4000]

[POINTS AVAILABLE: 5]

His current endurance was at 2. 

This meant that one solid hit from the opponent could incapacitate him. 5 points wouldn’t fix it completely, but it would make a huge difference. 

[5 STAT POINTS ALLOCATED TO ENDURANCE!]

[ENDURANCE: 2 → 7 ]

The effect wasn’t a surge of power like Strength. It was… resilience. Eirik felt like he could run for leagues, ensure a beating, and stand firm against a stiff wind without flinching. The lingering exhaustion from the day’s high-stakes drama ebbed away, replaced by a steady, unwavering stamina. 

Much better. 

Now, the Skill Upgrade Crystal. He cycled through options mentally. 

[MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

[SHIELDS PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

[ALCHEMY (F)]

[HORSE RIDING (F)]

… 

He definitely needs to upgrade his weapon proficiency first. And, in the context of winning a duel, Swordsmanship seems to be his only choice. It is the most versatile weapon to deal against all other types, which specialize one form of combat or another. 

Still, he’s quite tempted by a few other skills. Alchemy could help him make potions that better prepare for a life in the Wastes or turn them for profit. That could be his path to the Warchest in the long run. 

But right now, his sole focus was winning the duel. 

[Use Skill Upgrade Crystal (Bronze) on MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: SWORDSMANSHIP (F)?]

[Y/N]

Yes.

The crystal vanished from his inventory. A warm, tingling sensation flowed down his arms, settling into his hands and shoulders. It wasn’t painful, but profoundly strange. Suddenly, the balance point of an imaginary sword in his grip felt instinctive. Footwork patterns — advances, retreats, pivots — flashed through his mind like half-remembered dreams. 

In a matter of seconds, Eirik understood the different angles of attack and defense — high-line, low-line, inside, outside — as ingrained reflexes. The mechanics of a proper thrust, cut, and parry settled into his muscle memory. 

It was the knowledge and instinct of hundreds of hours of dedicated practice, internalized in an instant.

[MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: SWORDSMANSHIP (F) → (D)]

[SKILL UPGRADED!]

[MANA FRAGMENTS NEEDED FOR SWORDSMANSHIP (C): 0/2000]

The great hall’s massive oak doors groaned shut behind Eirik. 

Three figures waited in the dim corridor—Harkin, Jens, and Yorick.

They’re here to say goodbye, Eirik realized. They think I’m moving to the noble quarters and won’t need them anymore. 

“Lord Eirik.” 

Harkin executed a surprising crisp salute for an old man — fist over heart, forearm parallel to the ground. A solder’s salute. Jens hurriedly copied the gesture, awkwardly. Yorick just bowed his head so low his chin touched his chest. 

Eirik stopped before them, his gaze sweeping over each man. 

This is the foundation I have, he thought, Broken men, but men who chose loyalty when it mattered the most. 

“You stood up for me,” Eirik stated. “That took courage.”

Harkin met his gaze directly, a spark of fierce pride igniting in his tired eyes. “T’was only right.”

Jens nodded vigorously, “Aye, milord. Couldn’t… couldn’t let him win.” 

Yorick just trembled, unable to speak. 

Eirik analyzed them swiftly. Harkin’s loyalty is genuine, Jens acts from guilt and a sudden, desperate hope. Yorick… is terrified of consequences. 

“You’ve sworn loyalty to me and proved it with actions today,” Eirik continued, “and I will see to it that your loyalty is rewarded. That you join the ranks of those protected under the Stormcrow name — my name.”

Eirik focused first on Harkin. The old guard deserved recognition for his unwavering stance. 

“Harkin. Your service to me was critical. That service will be recognized. Marshal Gunnar trains the guard. I will speak to him. A position training new recruits, perhaps. Something befitting your experience and loyalty. A stable post, decent quarters, proper rations.”
Harkin’s breath hitched. His eyes, watery and rheumy, widened. A position? Training recruits? At his age? Decent quarters? He expected a dismissal with a few coins at best… this… 

But… 

Harkin saluted again, harder this time. “Lord Eirik… I thank you, Milord. If that’s your wish, then I won’t fail you.” His voice was thick. “But… I’m an old sword, milord. My place… my best place… is guardian’ doors and walkin’ walls. If… it pleases you, I’d rather keep my duty as a houseguard. Standin’ watch, like I know. That’s honor enough for me.”

He held his breath, hoping his refusal wasn’t seen as ungratefulness. 

Eirik analyzed the old soldier. Duty. A man defines himself by vigilance and direct service. Whose loyalty is performed as an end to itself not just a means to seek reward. 

And Eirik is of a certain mind to reward this rare trait abundantly. 

He looked at Harkin for a few heartbeats, and gave a single, sharp nod.

“Done. You retain your post as my houseguard. Your loyalty will be remembered in your wages and rations.”

Harkin gave a grateful nod as Eirik turned to Jens. The woodcutter flinched slightly. 

“Jens.” EIrik’s voice was cooler. “You followed orders. Garrick’s orders. The firewood you shorted me caused suffering.” 

Jens paled further, his huge shoulders slumping. “Aye, milord,” he mumbled, staring at his calloused hands. “I… I were afraid. My family…” 

“I understand fear,” Eirik cut in. “But loyalty requires actions despite that fear. Today, you acted. That mitigates your past failure.” He paused, his gaze lingering on Jen’s powerful build. “You will be assigned directly to my new quarters. Proper wages. A cottage near the inner wall for your family. Our previous agreement on you chopping double firewood for an entire year still stands.”

Jens looked utterly stunned.

Inner wall cottage? Protection for his family? Tears welled in his eyes. “Milord! I… I swear on the Frost Mother’s tears, I’ll cut enough wood to burn Stormkeep twice over! My family… thank you!” 

Eirik shifted his icy gaze to Yorick. 

“Yorick.”
The scribe whimpered. “M-mlord! I… I beg forgiveness! I was weak! Greedy! Lord Garrick threatened me! He—”
“Silence.” Eirik raised a hand, and Yorick snapped his jaw shut. “Your crimes are significant. You actively siphoned my meager resources. For years.”

Yorick crumpled to his knees, pressing his forehead to the cold stone floor. “Mercy, Lord Eirik! Mercy! I will serve! I will do anything!” 

“I don’t need your groveling, Yorick.” Eirik said coldly. “Your punishment is ongoing service until you repay every coin you’ve stolen from me. Your loyalty, Yorick, must be proven daily. Every hour. There will be no coin stolen from my coffers from now on. Not a single copper. You will report to me directly on any discrepancies, any whispers, anything… unusual… concerning my finances or household.”

“Do not mistake this for forgiveness. Your wage will be basic until you’ve earned your trust back, Yorick.”He leaned down slightly. “And if you even think of betraying me again… if you breathe a word of my business to Garrick or Ingrid…” 

“Thank you… Lord Eirik!” Yorick stayed on the floor, trembling.

Satisfied he’d dealt with the immediate retinue, Eirik’s thoughts turned to the missing piece—

Marta. 

“Harkin. Where is Marta?”

“Milord. Think she might’ve… fled. Saw her scuttlin’ out the servant’s passage soon as Lord Cedric left. Looked like a ghost chased her.”

“She implicated Garrick directly, about the poisoning." Eirik stated, however briefly. “More importantly, she knows things Garrick might not wish to have revealed. He will hunt her.”

Jens growled, a low rumble in his chest. “That bastard. He’ll gut her like a fish.”

“Find her, Harkin.”  Eirik commanded. “Discreetly. Offer her two paths, from me.”
He looked at Jens, ensuring he understood the gravity. 

“Path one: flight. if she wishes to flee Stormkeep entirely, she may. I will provide a pouch of silver — enough to get her far away. I will arrange for an escort — someone reliable — to see her and her son safely across the border into the neighboring barony.”

He saw the understanding in Harkin’s eyes. “Path two: stay. If she wants to stay, she comes under my protection. Tell her that she and her son will have quarters within the inner keep, guarded. But she will not work in the kitchens. Not yet. She will perform heavy and undesirable duties like emptying piss buckets within my household. But she and her son will be safe. On one condition… ”

Eirik’s gaze hardened. 

“Make it clear, Jens. The condition is her absolute loyalty.” 

Harkin met his gaze squarely. “Understood, milord. I’ll find her. Quiet-like. Offer the choices. Your word will be passed.” He hesitated. “What… what of the silver, milord? For her flight? And the possible escort?”

The Warchest quest starts now. Eirik mentally accessed his system. His new stipend wouldn’t start immediately, and he had only the pittance he’d saved from his old three-copper allowance. He needed funds, fast.

“Yorick. Get up.”

He has the answer right here, whimpering on the floor, Eirik thought. 

Yorick flinched, scrambling upright like a puppet on jerky strings. He couldn’t meet Eirik’s eyes, staring instead at the lord’s worn boots. 

“You’ve been siphoning my funds. That money, Yorick. My money. Where is it?”

That question slammed into Yorick. “M-milord… I… Lord Garrick, he… he took most! The coin, it went to him! I only kept the silver talons he paid me for the work! The rest… I just recorded the entries! I held nothing back! I swear!”

“Interesting,” Eirik murmured. “That is embezzlement and conspiracy, Yorick. Punishable by flogging and exile. Steward Brynn is currently receiving twenty lashes before being sent to the mines. Do you feel fortunate?”

Yorick whimpered, shrinking back. “N-no, milord! Please! I… I have some coin! Saved… saved a little! My wages… and… small things…”

“How much?” Eirik demanded. “The truth, Yorick. Lie to me now, and the path forward narrows considerably. How much, in total silver talons, did you help Garrick steal from me?”

 Yorick’s eyes darted wildly. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the corridor’s chill. 

“Milord… it… it varied. Some months… ten, fifteen talons for fodder. Others… the beef… that was fifty talons worth! And… and small bits… your stipend… two copper per month siphoned… that’s… that’s…” He was terrified to give a final number, Eirik observed. He knows the sum is damning. 

“The number. Now.” Eirik commanded.

The pressure was unbearable. Yorick blurted out, “F-Four hundred! Maybe… maybe four hundred fifty talons, milord! Over the three years! But Garrick took it! I only got my one talon per month! Thirty-six talons! That’s all I have! I swear by the Frost Mother!”

Four hundred fifty talons stolen. Minus his cut of thirty-six… Garrick profited four hundred fourteen talons from starving and freezing me. 

“So,” Eirik stated calmly, “Garrick stole four hundred and fifty talons worth of resources designated for my household. You enabled it and profited from the theft. Therefore, you owe me two hundred and twenty-five talons. That is the debt you incurred through your actions against your lord.”

Yorick’s face turned ashen. His jaw dropped. “T-two hundred…? Milord! No! I didn’t take it! I only recorded! Garrick took the coin! I can’t pay that! It’s impossible! Please!” He looked ready to collapse again. 

Eirik held up a hand, silencing the rising panic.

“Impossible? Perhaps. But debt must be paid. However much you gained from your thievery was between you and Garrick. You answer for the damage you’ve done as a major conspirator, not the reward you reaped from it.”

Yorik looked physically ill. Harkin and Jens exchanged grim looks. This seemed like a death sentence for the scribe. 

“However,” Eirik continued, his tone shifting fractionally. “I am willing to extend your debt on account of certain conditions. Here are your terms, my scribe.”

Yorick looked at him with fearful and confusing eyes.

“One: You will immediately surrender to me the thirty-six silver talons you illegally obtained. Consider it a down payment.”

Yorick nodded frantically, desperate to comply with anything. “Yes, milord! At once! I’ll show you where I stored it in my quarters!” 

“Two: You will produce a ledger, a true account of everything you’ve helped Garrick steal from me, including every single transaction and must be as accurate as a ledger could be. It shall be done within three days for an official submission to Lord Cedric.”

“Y-Yes… lord! It will be done!” 

“Three: after that ledger is finished. You shall report to me with a separate account on any financial irregularities concerning Lady Ingrid and Garrick. I somehow have a feeling that I am not the sole victim of their… greedy efforts.” 

Eirik leaned forward slightly to face Yorik directly. 

“Accurate valuable information will earn you silver bonuses applied directly against your debt. Significant intelligence means substantial debt cuts, and even a bonus for you.”

“Y-yes, Lord Eirik!” Yorick bobbed his head in frantic agreement. “I understand! I accept! Thank you for your mercy! I will serve faithfully! The coin… I’ll fetch it now?”

Eirik smirked a little. Yorick would fetch it, that’s for sure, but afterwards he’d likely bolt like a leopard if Eirik took his eyes off of him even just for a second. 

Not going to happen. 

“Harkin will fetch it on your behalf. You have work to do with me.” Eirik turned to Harkin. “Go to Yorick’s quarters and secure his funds. Take anything of value, anything, then deliver my offer to Marta. Jens, go with Harkin.”

Harkin saluted again. “Understood, milord.” He shot Yorick a stern look. “Serve well, scribe.” They moved off down the corridor, leaving Eirk alone with the trembling Yorick.

Eirik watched Harkin and Jens stride down the corridor, their forms shirking in the gloom until they vanished around a bend. Since when did it turn dark? Silence pressed in, thick and cold, broken only by the frantic, shallow breaths of Yorick beside him. The torchlight flickered, painting long, dancing shadows on the damp stone walls. 

This is the calm he’d always enjoyed. 

Eirik placed a hand on Yorick’s trembling shoulder. The scribe flinched as if it burned.

“Well,” Eirik said, “Aren’t you excited to see our new quarters?”

Chapter Six (TIBK)

The revelation hit the gathered nobles, guards, and servants alike. 

Eirik had reached the Snow Realm. At nineteen winters. Saying that this is a “miracle” would almost feel too gentle. It was watching a corpse rot for days suddenly sit up, stretch, and take down a powerful brute with one punch. 

Garrick’s mouth worked soundlessly. He wanted to scream. He needed to scream — Lies! Cheat! Father, he’s tricking you! — but Ingrid immediately put a hand onto his uninjured forearm. Her nails bit into his flesh through the sleeve. 

No, you fool, Ingrid’s mind screamed silently at her son, her own face now showed a mask of carefully composed horror while chaos churned beneath. She saw the shift in Cedric’s glacier-blue eyes. She saw the way the frost patterns on his armor writhed, not with anger, but with something dangerous close… awe? Recognition?

This was a travesty. Ingrid thought. 

The servants accusing Garrick were nothing but annoying flies. She knew Cedric well enough to understand that his disappointment from that shitshow came not from the fact that Garrick did what he did, but rather he left dirty traces and got caught in front of everyone. But this? This monstrous display of hidden power and potential? This was an earthquake beneath the foundations of her world. Cedric’s obsession wasn’t merely about power, but it was the future glory of the Stormcrow name. Garrick, her precious, trueborn heir, was suddenly revealed as not just cruel, but utterly, pathetically inadequate next to this… this bastard she had spent nineteen winters despising. 

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at her throat. What leverage do I have now? What angle can I spin? For the first time in decades, Lady Ingrid Stormcrow felt truly powerless. 

Lord Cedric Stormcrow took a single step forward. He looked at Eirik as if seeing him for the first time. Gone was the glacial fury, replaced by a fierce pride that flickered in his eyes. 

“My son, you have surprised everyone here today. Truly surprised.” He paused, letting the weight of his words carry across the silent hall. “Such an accomplishment deserves not punishment but celebration.”

Cedric raised his chin. 

“Therefore, the sentence I pronounced moments ago — three moons in the Ice Cells, labor in the quarries — it is hereby forfeited!”

A collective breath seemed to be sucked back into the hall. Faces flickered with confusion, then dawning realization. Relief washed over Harkin, Jens, and Yorick. He’s free? After breaking Garrick’s nose? Truly free? 

Cedric’s gaze swept the room, landing back on Eirik. 

“Eirik Stormcrow.”

The name echoed. Stormcrow. Not ‘bastard’. Not ‘Eirik’. Eirik Stormcrow. The first time Cedric had ever publicly bestowed the family name upon his neglected son. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, louder this time, mixed with awe. 

“You are hereby recognized, formally and without reservation, as a true son of this house. Your blood is Stormcrow blood. Your strength is Stormcrow strength.”

He turned to address the assembly. “Hear me, all of Stormkeep! Let no man dare slight his name again!” His glare swept over the guards, the counselors, lingering pointedly on Ingrid and Garrick. Ingrid flinched minutely; Garrick looked physically ill. Cedric turned back to Eirik, his expression softening fractionally, though the fierce pride remained dominant. 

“You will receive a stipend befitting your birthright — a hundred silver talons monthly. A retinue of six personal guards, sworn directly to you. And quarters fit for a warrior of your standing.” He leaned in slightly. “Eirik Stormcrow, I will see to it that you receive proper training with the best tutors. I will harness this ice within you, and make sure you become the warrior your birth destined you to be.”

As he finished, the tension broke with a roar.

“HAIL EIRIK STORMCROW!” Harkin, the old guard, was the first. A guttural cheer erupted from this throat. Jens followed instantly, “HAIL!” Yorick, tears streaming his grimy face, joined in, “HAIL THE SON OF STORM!”

THOOM! 

THOOM! 

THOOM! 

The guards who had moments before been ready to drag Eirik to the cells now thumped their spears on the stone floor in a rhythmic, thunderous salute. Counselors exchanged with stunned glances, then hesitant smiles, some even clapping. 

Eirik stood unmoved at the center of the acclaim.

The cheers washed over him like waves against a cliff. Inside, his mind was ice. He saw the hope in Cedric’s eyes. He saw the calculation in Ingrid’s stare. He saw the fury in Garrick’s chest. He’s not better off just because he’s all of sudden being showered with praise, nor was he worse off when everyone had despised him as Eirik the Spineless. He had a goal—gaining independence as a Lord—and he shall accomplish it regardless of how everyone else treats him. 

Cedric beamed, mistaking Eirik’s stillness for overwhelmed awe. The cheers were music to him, validation of his own magnanimity. That his own blood had yielded, impossibly, a diamond forged in secret hardship. 

He places a hand on Eirik’s shoulder. 

“Son! Tell me! On this day, your true birth into this house. What do you desire? Name your gift! A blade forged by the finest blacksmith in the Barony? A stallion from the Earl’s own stables? Lands? Name it, and it shall be yours!” 

The crowd quieted slightly, eager to hear the newly elevated lord’s first request. 

Eirik met Cedric’s expectant gaze. He didn’t smile.

“I want to go to the Northern Wastes.”

Silence. Utter, chilling silence. The cheering died instantly. 

The rhythmic spear-thumping stopped mid-beat. Harkin’s triumphant grin froze. Jens’ raised first dropped slowly. Yorick looked like he’d been slapped. Every face turned to Eirik, disbelief warring with horror. 

Cedric’s smile vanished.

The warmth in his eyes solidified into glacial disbelief, then flickered towards annoyance. Is he jesting? Trying to seem more daring? He forced a short, dismissive chuckle, squeezing Eirik’s shoulder a little too tightly. 

“Hah! Brave words, my boy! Showing that Stormcrow fire, eh?” He shook his head, his tone becoming paternal, placating. “We understand, Eirik. Truly. The years of hardship… the isolation… the injustice. It scars man. Makes him want to prove something, anything, to the world.” He gestured expansively. “But look around you! The proving ground is here now! You have proven it! More than any of us imagined!”

Eirik stood there, expressionless. 

Cedric leaned in, his voice lowering. “Put the Wastes out of your mind, son. Stay. Train. Become the champion Stormkeep needs. That is your path. That is the only path now.”

He looked at Eirik expectantly, confident the boy would accept the glorious future laid out before him.

“No,” Eirik stated. “I want to go to the Northern Wastes.”

What followed was a hollow, ringing silence like a bell struck too hard.

Cedric’s face went utterly still. This wasn’t just defiance. This was an insult. A rejection of everything he offered, everything he was. He had just publicly embraced this bastard, elevated him, forgive him! ANd this… this ingrate refused? Twice? 

Garrick’s malicious grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of primal fear. This bastard isn’t just defiant, Garrick realized with dawning horror. He’s utterly unafraid. Of Father. Of anything. 

However, for Eirik, the choice was crystal clear. The cheering, the name ‘Stormcrow,’ the promise of tutors and guards and silver… it was a gilded cage. Cedric doesn’t see me, Eirik thought. He sees a warrior he can shape, a new piece for his Stormkeep board. Cedric’s offer promised, at best, the life of a respected Baron’s third son. The baron was forty-three winters old, still in his prime, and likely to rule for decades. Even if — a massive if — he somehow surpassed Rurik, impressed the Earl, and eventually inherited Stormkeep… What then? Baron Eirik Stormcrow? 

It was a dead end.

From just a noble-born to a Baron was a chasm few crossed without royal favor or marriage. Baron to Earl would mean another lifetime of intrigue and war. Earl to Duke was practically mythical. And Duke to King? That was akin to scaling the frozen, storm-wracked face of the Gods’ Spine itself. Cedric’s ‘glorious path’ led, at best, to becoming a slightly bigger fish in the same stagnant, feudal pond. He pictured it: endless maneuvering against Ingrid’s poisonous intrigues, Garrick’s pathetic schemes, Rurik’s inevitable meddling. Infighting within Stormkeep, then petty wars with neighboring Barons. All for scraps. The thought was suffocating. 

On the other hand… 

The Northern Wastes are ripe with opportunities. No titles mattered there. No bloodlines. Only strength. Unadulterated power. It was a crucible where kingdoms could be forged by those strong and cunning enough. The Chaos Tribes, who only bow to strength, could be united with Eirik to become their lord. The monstrous beasts could be tamed or slain for power. The ancient ruins could be explored for powerful magical treasures. 

It was a blank brutal canvas. His canvas.

With his education at Blackridge and a System at his side, the Wastes shall become his crucible where a king would be born from nothing but sheer will and raw power. 

Nonetheless, he’s not going to share this reasoning with anyone. Announcing the will of becoming a king, even if just as jest, is equivalent to treason and will be punished by death. Even Cedric couldn’t save him as it would escalate to powerful figures much more influential than him. 

“Eirik,” Cedric’ voice was dangerously low, the warmth entirely gone. “You speak of the Wastes. You understand what that means?”

Eirik met his gaze, unwavering.

“I understand perfectly, Lord Cedric. It means forging my own destiny.” 

The words were a physical blow to Cedric. His grip loosened slightly, replaced by a dawning, chilling realization. 

He’s serious. He truly means to throw away everything I just gave him.
Garrick couldn’t contain himself. 

“See, Father!” he croaked, blood bubbling faintly from his broken nose. “He’s mad! Ungrateful! Or worse — maybe he is tainted! The Wastes call to their own! Exile him! Send him now!” 

Hope surged in him. Yes! Send him to die! Let the frost giants grid his bones! 

Lady Ingrid watched. Part of her wanted to cheer Garrick on. But another, colder part assessed the situation differently. This could all be part of another cunning trick that Eirik had pulled time and time again. 

Cedric is shaken. She observed. Truly shaken by this bastard boy. His pride is wounded, but… he sees potential now. Pushing for exile might make Cedric dig in his heels, deciding to keep his newfound ‘diamond’ close. She needed a different angle. Moreover, she needed to stop whatever Eirik’s determined to do, even if it went against her own common sense.  

Her tears had dried, replaced by a mask of worried authority. 

“Lord Cedric,” she said, now her voice is as smooth as honey. “The boy speaks from pain, clearly. The years of hardship… they twist the mind.” She took a step closer, radiating false concern. “Look at him. Nineteen winters of suffering. It’s the rambling of a traumatized child, desperate to prove something… anything… to the father who finally acknowledges him.” She turned leading eyes on Cedric. “He needs guidance, my lord. Firm guidance. Not indulgence in suicidal fantasies.”

Clever. Eirik thought coldly, watching her performance. Her words had just spun his courageous choice into a child crying for attention. 

The council murmured. Some nodded hesitantly. Ingrid’s narrative of a child acting out was easier to swallow than a son willing to choose exile and death over the Baron’s favor.

Marshal Gunnar stepped forward, head bowing. 

“Young Lord Eirik. I knew the Wastes. I’d lost plenty of fighters there. Even though you have reached Snow Realm, you’d still only last a week, maybe a moon, there.” He raised his head, looking at Eirik. “Yet with proper training, under my watch, I will make sure you can not only survive but also score victories for House Stormcrow at the Wastes after just a few winters.”

For Eirik, this could be a tempting offer except for one fact: he didn’t have a few winters to spare. He wanted to leave. Soon. He switched his focus back on Cedric. He was not going to back down unless he got what he wanted. 

“Lord Cedric. I—.”

Cedric raised a hand, interrupting him as Eirik felt a sudden sense of intense coldness deep in his throat. 

“You will not speak unless I grant you the privilege, and now this privilege is revoked.” He stepped back, putting a small distance between them. His expression hardened back into the familiar mask of the Baron of Stormkeep. “You are my son,” Cedric declared with finality. “Blood of my blood. Recognized before this court. That means you carry responsibilities that you must honor.”

Here it comes, Eirik thought. The cage bars clang shut. 

“Your request,” Cedric continued, pacing slowly before the throne, frost crackling faintly under his boots, “is born of ignorance and youthful arrogance. The Northern Wastes are not an escape. They are oblivious. What glory is there in being devoured by a frost troll? What legends can you build frozen solid in a blizzard? Your strength, Eirik, is a gift — to this house, to this Barony, to me. It will not be squandered.”

He stopped pacing and faced Eirik directly, his glacier eyes boring into him.

“You will remain. You will accept your stipend, your guards, your quarters. You will train under Marshal Gunnar. You will learn discipline, tactics, and statecraft. You will learn your duty to your family and your people.” He paused, letting the absolute command settle over the hall. “The matter of the Wastes is closed. Speak of it again, and the punishment I revoked will be reinstated and doubled.”

It was a declaration, not a discussion. The Baron had spoken. 

Garrick’s look of furious disappointment twisted into something ugly. He gets to stay? After humiliating me? After refusing Father? The unfairness choked him. 

Eirik didn’t argue. Arguing now would be pointless. Cedric wouldn’t listen, not in front of the court, not with his pride freshly bruised. Fighting would only lead to punishment, perhaps even being thrown into the Ice Cells right now. That would delay everything.

Patience, he told himself. The seed is planted. Cedric knows I want to go. He knows I refused comfort and titles for the Wastes. It seems insane to him now. But when I grow stronger, when I prove my strength again, when a more suitable opportunity rises up again… Then, he will remember this refusal. He will see it not as madness, but as the ambition he respects.

Or… if he refuses even then… Eirik’s gaze hardened imperceptibly. I will find another way out. 

“As you command, Lord Cedric.” 

Eirik lowered his head, but his voice was devoid of emotion. 

Relief, cold and pragmatic, washed over Cedric. He hadn’t lost his diamond. It was just… recalcitrant. Training and discipline would fix that. 

“Good,” Cedric nodded. He turned to Marshal Gunnar. “Gunnar. Begin his training at dawn. And find him a proper steel.”

Gunnar thumped his fist against his armored chest. “It will be done, my lord.”

Cedric looked back at the assembly. 

“This audience has concluded. Take Garrick to the infirmary. Steward Brynn’s duties will be handled by his deputy until further notice. All of you, return to your duties.”

He didn’t look at Eirik again, turning instead towards the door leading to his private chambers. He needed solitude, ale, and time to process the impossible son he had both neglected and now unexpectedly prized. 

As Cedric swept out, the hall began to empty. 

Counselors muttered amongst themselves as they filed out. Garrick was half-led, half-dragged by two guards towards the infirmary, sputtering protests that no one listened to. Ingrid followed, and shot a final, venomous glance at Eirik. Guards ushered whoever remained away.

Eirik remained standing where he was, in the center of the emptying great hall. 

Blue light enveloped him. 

———

[Tutorial Quest #2 (out of 7): The Baron’s Wrath —— Completed!]

Chapter Five (TIBK)

Cedric straightened, voice hardening into a decree.

“Garrick Stormcrow. As my son and heir, you have brought shame upon this house.”

“For conspiring against kin, squandering our resources, and tarnishing this house’s honor, you will surrender six moons of stipend to replenish Eirik’s coffers.”

“You’ll also spend thirty days in the training yard under Marshal Sila’s supervision—dawn till dusk drills. Use this time to reflect.”

Garrick’s bandaged face flushed. “F-Father, that’s—”

“Silence.” Cedric’s glare froze his son’s protest. “If I hear one more complaint, it’ll be sixty days.”

Garrick’s jaw snapped shut.

Eirik’s mind churned.

Three months’ stipend? That’s nothing since Ingrid’s coffers would keep Garrick fat and happy with wine and whores. As for training? This had Eirik convinced that Cedric wasn’t so much offended by the fact that Garrick had bullied others, but rather he failed at bullying others.

Cedric turned to Lady Ingrid, who dabbed fake tears with a silk handkerchief. “You, my lady, will attend at the Frostmother’s temple daily for prayer and penance. Reflect on your… motherly instincts.”

Lady Ingrid’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smirk before she bowed her head.

“Your wisdom humbles me, my lord.”

Prayer and penance? Eirik stifled a snort and kept his face neutral.

Cedric’s gaze swept the hall.

“Let this be a lesson. Treachery against kin is a rot I will not tolerate.”

Everyone bowed in silence. Steward Brynn’s temporary exile at least sounded harsh, but the lord’s family received only symbolic scoldings. The council knew better than to question it.

Cedric's eyes looked around the hall, and finally lingered on Eirik.

“Eirik, you appeared quite resourceful today, and, dare I say, surprisingly so.” Cedric said slowly. “But violence between brothers is equally vile, and will not go unpunished.”

Here it comes.

Sure enough, Cedric’s glacier-blue eyes locked onto Eirik.

“You. Kneel.”

The command crackled with authority, but Eirik did not move an inch.

“Well?” Cedric growled.

“No.”

Gasps rippled through the hall. None had dared to openly defy the Baron of Stormcrow because he ruled with absolute power. Those who crossed him faced brutal punishments—exile, flogging, or death.

And now—the spineless bastard just did that right in front of their eyes?
Cedric’s voice turned lethal.

“You dare disobey me again?”

“I dare,” Eirik cut in. “Because kneeling won’t change the rot festering here. Cutting stipends? Training yard? Prayers? We both know the judgments you carried out meant nothing.”

He gestured to the cowering servants.

“They’ve confessed. Your heir is a liar, a schemer, and a coward. Yet you still choose to protect him. Because to you, appearances matter more than honor.”

Lady Ingrid lunged forward, jewels clattering.

“You ungrateful vermin! Garrick is trueborn! You’re just a—”

“A bastard.” Eirik laughed. “A word you—and everyone—wielded against me since my first breath. But tonight, Lady”—he spat the title like poison—“the bastard outshone your precious son.”

Garrick snarled, lunging despite his injuries.

“I’LL KILL YOU FOR SPEAKING TO MY MOTH——”

Whoosh.

Eirik’s fist was inches from Garrick’s jaw before stopping. The swing carried so much weight that had Garrick already cowering away.

Since when did this bastard had so much strength?

To Ingrid, this almost seemed surreal. She’s not unaware of how Eirik had reacted to Garrick since he grew up——always shivering, a good-for-nothing pushover, a worm she never cared to think about even for more than three seconds, and now…

“Stay down,” Eirik said softly. “Or I’ll break more than your nose.”

Garrick’s body froze mid-lunge.

Anger made him want to scream, but fear choked the words in his throat. He took a shaky step back instead, clutching his swollen face, too scared to risk another beating.

Ingrid watched everything unfold in sheer shock.

Her son used to dominate Eirik like a cat toying with a mouse. Now just a look from Eirik was enough to make Garrick cower in a way that she never saw him before.

How… how can this be?

Cedric’s roar split the air.

“ENOUGH!”

Frost exploded outward from the Warden’s feet, encasing the nearest guards in ice up to their knees. The hall plunged into sub zero silence.

Cedric’s eyes now blazed with a cold blue light.

“You,” he growled, pointing at Eirik, “You are in a world of trouble now.”

Eirik looked at him calmly.

“And, so are you, my Lord Cedric.” Eirik drew a big breath. “You’ve allowed Garrick’s cruelty, and in turn, made him a weak heir. Everyone calls me ‘bastard,’ yet it was he who truly stains the ‘Stormcrow’ name.”

The hall plunged into stunned silence—so deeply they could hear the crackle of hearth ice. Everyone—counselors, servants, and guards gaped, knowing that what Eirik just did was practically begging for execution.

First, Eirik accused Cedric of being a poor father, then refused to kneel. Now, he’d crossed an unthinkable line, daring to blame Lord Cedric himself. Three acts of defiance, each worse than the last, and this did not even take into consideration breaking Garrick’s nose.

“Eirik.”

Cedric slowly rose from his throne, frost creeping down the stone steps.

“All here witness my patience. I gave you mercy, yet you spat on it.” His armored boots clanked as he stepped down, frost spreading with every word.

“But your insolence ends now. You attack your brother, shame your family, and spit on my mercy. For nineteen years, I tolerated your weakness. Now your first taste of strength is used against your own blood? You leave me no choice.”

He raised a hand, frost swirling around his fingertips.

“Eirik. You will serve three moons in the Ice Cells, then labor in the quarries until summer’s end. Let the cold—”

“Just exile me to the Northern Wastes.” Eirik’s interruption stunned the room.

“W-what?”

Lady Ingrid croaked through split lips as gasps rippled through the hall.

Lord Cedric Stormcrow stared at his bastard son as if knowing him for the first time.

“The Northern Wastes?!” Cedric repeated slowly, as though tasting poison. “You’d march into that hell to die?”

“Yes. Lord Cedric.” Eirik didn’t flinch. “I have already made up my mind before coming here. Before teaching my brother a lesson in decency by breaking his nose. I am tired of living as Eirik the spiness bastard. I want to live a warrior’s life by dying a warrior’s death.”

The hall held its breath. Even Harkin and Yorick exchanged uneasy glances.

The Northern Wastes weren’t just dangerous—they truly were death.

The cold itself kills—blizzards freeze flesh in minutes, and icy winds in some parts can cut through muscle tendons like knives. Monstrous breasts roam there: giant ice wolves with teeth like swords, hairy mammoths that crush whole villages, and frost trolls that heal even if one chops them apart. Bloodthirsty warriors who ride chariots made of bones, worship dark gods, and burn—or eat—anyone who isn’t one of them.

It’s common knowledge that the land itself is cursed, and even the strongest warriors from the entire Northern Kingdom rarely come back alive.

Not even the most desperate people would venture to the Northern Wastes.

“The Northern Wastes?!”

Garrick’s voice cracked with a mix of disbelief and relief. Yes! Let the frost take him! Let the tribes skin him alive! Lady Ingrid’s lips curled, though her eyes flickered with suspicion. Though she was also initially pleased by the prospect of Eirik being crushed to pieces by the frost trolls, she knew better than to trust Eirik’s sudden death wish.

Lord Cedric’s icy gaze bored into his bastard son.

“The Wastes are no place for the weak. To survive even a day there, one must reach at least Snow Realm.” His voice dripped with scorn. “You’ve stayed in the Uninitiated for the past nineteen years and show no sign whatsoever of ever improving. You are asking for suicide.”

“Lord Cedric, do you truly think I am still Uninitiated?”

Cedric froze.

Eirik stepped forward. “Lord Cedric. Do you truly not see it?” Eirik’s voice was low but carrying through the entire hall. “How do you think I survived Garrick’s beatings? The ‘training accidents’? The starvation?” He spread his arms, the threadbare sleeves of the tunic sliding back to reveal lean muscle. “I trained. In secret. While your trueborn heir gorged himself and bullied servants, I reached the Snow Realm.”

The hall exploded into chaos again.

Gasps, curses, and the clatter of armor filled the air as servants and nobles alike struggled to process Eirik’s words.

Snow Realm? The spineless bastard? At nineteen?

It was absolutely unthinkable.

In the Northern Kingdom, power was measured in realms: Uninitiated, Snow, Frost, Hail, Glacier, Blizzard, Everwinter.

Most never left Uninitiated—farmers, cooks, low-ranking soldiers. Reaching the Snow Realm meant joining the elite. But it would take years, even more than a decade, of brutal training. Lord Cedric’s best warriors—his personal guards, veteran commanders—had only reached Snow Realm in their late twenties or thirties.

Even Marshal Gunnar and Spymaster Yelena, the strongest in the barony after Cedric, were just Frost Realm. Cedric, a fearless warrior and a ruthless ruler revered by many, had only reached Frost Ream’s late stages after decades of battle.

The records were clear. Cedric’s second son, Rurik, had been the youngest to hit Snow Realm at twenty winters old—a feat celebrated not just across the barony, but also across the earldom. Garrick, at twenty-one winters old, was still Uninitiated, though he’d constantly bragged about how he'd reached Snow Realm and obtained the second best record “very soon.” For Eirik, the joke of Stormkeep, to claim Snow Realm at nineteen? It’d shatter every expectation—if true.

“Lies!” Lady Ingrid spat. “If this runt had reached the Snow Realm, how come no one had ever noticed it?!”

“Test me.” Eirik did not bother to even argue with her.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Test him? Cedric’s fist tightened.

The boy bore no visible frost-magic swirling around him like elite Snow Realm warriors. Yet for those who just entered the Snow Realm, it is also normal if these visible cues weren’t immediately showing.

In any case, Cedric had noticed that there was a sharpness in Eirik’s stance—a predator’s tillness—not just moments ago, but from the very beginning of this trial. And that was enough to make him curious.

“Summon the Eye of Snow,” Cedric ordered.

The Eye of Snow was a crystal orb used to determine someone’s realm.

To use it, one simply puts their hand on it, if they were Uninitiated, the orb would stay clear and cold. If they’d reached the Snow Realm, the runes would glow bright blue, and frost swirled inside the crystal like a miniature storm.

The orb couldn’t measure higher realms like Frost or Hail—those require something much more rarer. Still, it was a key tool for judging warriors’ worth in the North.

A guard hurried out, returning with a fist-sized crystal orb etched with runes.

The crowd recoiled.

Cedrick nodded at the guard, who thrust the orb toward Eirik.

“Place your hand on it.”

The room held its breath. Eirik’s hand rested on the crystal orb.

Seconds ticked by.

The runes remained dark. No frost swirled inside.

Murmurs spread through the crowd. Servants exchanged glances. Lady Ingrid’s smirk sharpened like a knife. Pathetic liar. Just as I thought.

Garrick snorted, pointing at the lifeless orb.

“See? He’s still Unini—”

CRACK.

The orb shattered.

Shards of crystal exploded outward, glittering like frozen tears. Gasps erupted as frost crawled across the floor from Eirik’s feet, spider webbing toward the dais.

The hall fell silent.

Everyone stared at the broken crystal shards scattered at Eirik’s feet. No one had ever seen the Eye of Snow shatter before. It wasn’t supposed to break—it either stayed clear for the Uninitiated or glowed blue for Snow Realm. The outcome had always been binary.

This made no sense.

Garrick was the first to snap.

“Impossible!” he screeched, pointing at Eirik. “He cheated! That orb’s broken! He must’ve rigged it!”

Lady Ingrid rose sharply, her voice cutting through the noise.

“My son isn’t wrong. I’ve heard tales of the Eye shatter before.” Her eyes narrowed at Eirik. “Certain dark magic from the Wastes can fake power for a short time. This is an indication of forbidden spells being used. The orb shattered because it exposed his lies!”

Murmurs spread like wildfire.

“That makes sense! How else could the spineless runt suddenly act so tough?”

“But dark magic’s a crime! Punishable by death!”

“This explains everything. The sudden strength. The defiance. He sold his soul to the tribes!”

Others nodded.

Garrick seized the moment. “Arrest him! He’s a traitor!”

Cedric’s face darkened as the crowd’s shouts grew louder. When people noticed his grim expression, the hall fell silent again.

Cedric stood up, frost crackled under his boots as he turned to Spymaster Yelena.

“Yelena,” he said coldly, “is Lady Ingrid correct? Does the Eye shatter only when dark magic is used?”

Yelena stepped forward.

“Not entirely, my lord.” Her eyes glanced at Eirik, then back to Cedric. “The crystal breaks in two cases. First, if someone uses forbidden magic to fake their strength. Second…”

The crowd started murmuring again.

“Second, if their mana core—the source of their power—is far purer and stronger than normal. The Eye of Snow was an entry-level crystal that isn’t built to handle such pure energy… so it breaks.”

Silence followed.

Lord Cedric stepped closer to Eirik.

“Answer me truthfully. Did you use dark magic to fake your power?”

Eirik met his stare without blinking.

“No. ”

Cedric’s eyes glowed faint blue. “Then you won’t object if I check your mana core myself. My magic will flow into your body to inspect it.”

The crowd sucked in a sharp breath. Everyone knew what this meant. Mana cores were the source of a warrior’s power. If Eirik was lying and had no real core, Cedric’s magic would tear through his body like a sword through paper—crippling or killing him instantly.

Even if he had a core, letting someone else’s mana invade you was risky.

“My lord, maybe there’s another way to—”Yelena stepped forward.

Cedric silenced her with a raised hand. His gaze never left Eirik. “Well? If you’re telling the truth, this won’t harm you. But if you’re lying… you’ll die here. Last chance to confess.”

Lady Ingrid clenched her silk gloves. She didn’t care if Eirik died, but a public execution would stain the family’s honor. Garrick, though, grinned wildly, blood still crusting his broken nose.

Do it, Father! Expose the cheat!

“Do it.” Eirik shrugged.

Lord Cedric stepped right in front of Eirik. The air grew colder with each step. Frost crackled under his boots, leaving icy footprints on the stone floor.

His breath turned to mist as he raised his right hand.
Ice crystals formed on Cedric’s fingertips. He placed his palm on Eirik’s forehead. A sharp hiss filled the air as frost spread from Cedric’s hand, covering Eirik’s face in a thin, glittering layer of ice.

Eirik’s breath slowed, turning visible in the freezing air.

Cedric’s magic poured into Eirik’s body like a blizzard. The frost crept down Eirik’s neck and arms, trying to freeze him from the inside. But then—

Something pushed back.

A bright blue light burst under Eirik’s skin, glowing through the ice. The frost on his body began to melt. Steam rose where Cedric’s magic met Eirik’s power. Cracks spread through the ice covering Eirik’s face like shattered glass.

Cedric’s eyes widened.

His frost magic was being absorbed—exactly like when he had tested the mana core of Rurik.

The ice on Eirik’s skin dissolved completely. Now Cedric’s hand started shaking—not from cold, but from the raw energy pulsing under Eirik’s skull.

“Impossible…” Cedric growled through gritted teeth. Fearing that he might have killed Eirik on the spot, He had secretly limited himself to Snow Realm—and this should still be stronger than Eirik in every means possible. Yet Eirik’s mana burned colder, sharper, cutting through Cedric’ power like a hot knife through now.

This only had one explanation: which was that Eirik mana core must be even purer than his.

The hall was silent. Everyone stared at the steam still rising from Eirik’s shoulders.

“Convinced?” Eirik wiped melted ice from his brow.

Cedric couldn’t bring himself to answer.

His jaw clenched as frost regrew over his burned fingers, healing them. The truth was undeniable—Eirik hadn’t just reached Snow Realm, and his core was of rare purity.

And Cedric couldn’t believe he’d never noticed.

He’d spent years molding Garrick into a proper heir, only to watch the boy grow into a petty tyrant. Meanwhile, the bastard son he’d written off had clawed his way to power in silence.

How many nights had he toasted Rurik’s achievements and Garrick’s potential? Yet here stood this bastard, this ghost he’d willed into irrelevance—his son—burning brighter than any flame Cedric’s pride had ever kindled.

Memories ambushed him.

He remembered Eirik flinching as Garrick lobbed stones——cowardly, Cedric had then thought, since the boy wasn’t even courageous to at least throw them back at Garrick. He remembered Eirik shivering in threadbare furs while stewards “miscounted” firewood——but why hadn’t the boy said something or even protested to servants below his status? He remembered Eirik collapsed in the training yard after Garrick’s “accidental” spear thrust—a man unable to stand up for himself in a fight isn’t worthy to bear the Stormcrow name. The only word Cedric remembered Eirik by was “cowardice,” and it was rightly so, he thought. But now—gods—the shame coiled hot in his gut.

How blind I’ve been.

Nineteen winters. Nineteen winters of him letting Garrick’s cruelties fester, of dismissing Eirik’s silence as cowardice. Yet he must have trained in secret. Survived poison, starvation, betrayal—while I turned my back.

Cedric’s throat felt tight. He wanted to roar—to shatter the vault of his pride and drag Eirik into an embrace, to rasp Forgive me into his son’s unyielding shoulder. But his pride prevented him from doing so in front of the public. Weakness, Cedric had preached for decades, is the only sin. And here stood Eirik, a sin unmasked as salvation.

You are everything I demanded of Garrick. Everything I am.

The frost patterns on Cedric’s armor writhed, betraying him. His voice, when it came, was glacial gravel.

“Eirik had indeed reached Snow Realm… with a very pure mana core. At nineteen winters of age.”

The admission hung like a death knell.

Chapter Four (TIBK)

The path to Lord Cedric’s hall was not pleasant in the slightest.

Not just the weather, that he had expected as much, but rather how others treated him as he made his way.

Servants scurried past without bowing - one even spat in the snow near his boots. A stableboy “accidentally” kicked slush at his leggings, snickering with his friends.

“Spineless Bastard!”chanted two kitchen girls hanging frozen linens, making foggy breaths in the air. A group of privileged boys “tripped” sideways to block Eirik’s path, forcing him to detour around a stinking manure pile. He ignored them and kept walking.

Icy wind slapped Eirik’s face. The cobblestone path to the Great Hall glittered with frost. A child threw a snowball at him, which missed him by inches. Their parents watched from stalls selling fish and spices, making no effort to hide their smirks.

Still, he ignored them.

A massive hall appears in front of him, interrupting his thoughts on what he’s about to do when seeing Lord Cedric.

Two guards flanked the hall’s oak doors. Both wore Stormcrow sigils—a black raven screaming against a white mountain.

Both gripped spears like they itched to use them.

Eirik halted before the towering doors. “Announce me.”

The guard changed smirks.

“Announce you?” The taller one sneered, tapping his spearhaft against Eirik’s chest. “Think you’re lordling now, Mudborn?”

CRAAACK—

Eirik’s hand blurred with a speed that neither guard had expected, then the tall guard’s spear ironwood shaft snapped like kindling. Before the splintered halves hit the ground, Eirik seized the guard’s gorget and hoisted up him one-handed, leaving him boots dangling a full foot above the ground.

“Announce. Me.” Eirik said calmly, watching the man’s eyes bulge as veins throbbed in his throttled neck. The second guard watched in utter shock.

“Y-you’re mad! Lord Cedric will—”

Eirik tightened his grip. The tall guard gagged.

“Fine! Fine!” The second guard scrambled to bang the door-ram.

———

The great hall of Stromkeep was not warm at the best of times. Smoke from the hearths coiled up toward the rafters like gray serpents, never quite seeped from the stone.

Today, the cold felt sharper.

Lord Cedric Stromcrow sat atop a stone throne at the far end of the hall.

His face was sharp, clean-shaven, with eyes like chips of ice. Silver hair, streaked with white, fell straight to his shoulders. He wore a fur-lined tunic, full black, with the Stormcrow raven sigil stitched in silver thread over his heart.

He was the man that the entire barony both revered and feared. He had buried his enemies, crushed rebellions, fought barbarians and monsters beyond the Northern Waste, and turned a crumbling barony into a fortress.

Garrick stood at his father’s right, face swollen and wrapped in bloody bandages. To Cedric’s left stood Lady Ingrid, Garrick’s mother. Her lips curled like she’d just tasted spoiled milk. Six armored guards lined the walls, hands on sword hilts.

Across the hall, the entire Stormcrow council stood expressively, among them were Steward Brynn, Marshal Gunnar, and Spymaster Yelena.

If someone weren't aware of the current situation, they would surely think this must be a war-council or about other equally grave matters.

Lord Cedric impatiently broke the silence:

“The guards were ordered to drag Eirik here. Why did it take so long?”

Garrick’s split lips twisted.

“Probably pissing his breeches at the door, Father. Let me—”

Boom. Boom. Boom.

A deep, resonant sound echoed across the hall.

“What—?” Steward Brynn wondered out loud. It was the sound of the door ram banging on oak, a ceremonial banging that was only reserved for important events or the arrival of distinguished guests such as the Duke or powerful Earls and Viscounts. Why suddenly—

The oak doors groaned open.

“Lord Eirik Stormcrow approaches!”

Eirik walked in—back straight with measured steps. His threadbare tunic hung loose, but his shoulders were squared.

He wore clothing that befit less a royal and more a peasant, but his eyes—

Cold. Clear. Glinting like snow.

The hall fell silent.

Gasps hissed across the hall. Steward Brynn’s quill slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the ground. Marshal Gunnar, a hulking man built like a bear, narrowed his eyes. Spymaster Yelena’s sharp gaze flicked between Eirik and Garrick. Guards stared at the boy they’d mocked for years—now standing tall like a pine tree.

But the loudest reaction came from the Lord Heir.

“WHAT?” Garrick pointed a shaking, bandaged hand at Eirik. “Since when do guards announce this worm?”

Lady Ingrid’s cold smile vanished. Her painted nails dug into the arm of her chair.

“This is ridiculous. Cedric, why is he being treated like a guest?”

Lord Cedric said nothing. His icy stare locked onto Eirik.

The hall fell silent again.

Eirik dipped his head—

“You summoned me, Lord Stormcrow.”

Cedric’s eyes narrowed. For years, Eirik had slouched, mumbled, and knelt without being told. Now his bastard son stood straight-backed, meeting his gaze without flinching.

Since when does this weakling have a spine? Cedric leaned forward slightly, studying Eirik’s calm face.

His icy eyes narrowed. For years, Eirik had slouched, mumbled, and knelt without being told. Now his bastard son stood straight-backed, meeting his gaze without flinching.

Cedric’s fingers tightened on his throne’s armrests.

Since when does this weakling have a spine? He leaned forward slightly, studying Eirik’s calm face.
He saw only cold focus.

Lady Ingrid stood abruptly.

“You dare address your father without kneeling?”

“Father?” Eirik met Cedric’s gaze. “By father, do you mean the man who let his son plant daggers on me? Who let my servants poison me? Who’d allow my entire house’s budget to be embezzled so that I barely survived every winter?”

The hall sucked in a breath sharp as a blade.

Did they hear it right? Did the spineless Eirik who’d cower before the ruthless Cedric for something as small as breaking a wine bottle, just tried to denounce him openly? Is this reality?

Lady Ingrid’s face purpled. And Garrick simply could not take it anymore.

“KNEEL, YOU BARBARIAN WHORE’S SPAAWN!”

Spittle flew from his lips.

“GUARDS! FLAY HIS SKIN! HANG HIS GUTS FROM THE—”

“Silence.”

The entire hall froze at Lord Cedric’s voice.

Since when did Eirik… behave like this? Cedric’s mind churned. This… wasn’t the cowering boy he’d ignored for nineteen years. This stranger stood tall, eyes blazing with contempt—no, challenge. A spark Cedric hadn’t seen since…

No. He crushed the memory.

Eirik’s voice again cut through the tension.

“Sure, it was Garrick who did these things to me. But it is you that I take offense to, the man who I used to honor with the word ‘father.’ You allowed everything to happen yet chose to do nothing.”

The council gasped.

Marshal Gunnar stepped forward, sword half-drawn. “You dare insult Lord Stormcrow’s—”

Cedric raised a hand. The Marshal froze.

“Continue.”

Eirik met Cedric’s gaze.

“Garrick planted the dagger and framed it as thievery.” Eirik gestured to his brother’s swollen face. “He confessed before the servants from my household. Ask them.”

Garrick’s swollen lips twitched into a sneer.

Confess?

They’d sooner cut their tongues out than defy me!

Blood crusted his broken nose, but the rush of spite warmed him. These servants knew the price of daring to betray him—floggings, starvation, or worse. His threats were ironclad.

Let the bastard call them. Garrick thought to himself. They’ll lie through their teeth, and Father will finally execute him.

“Bring the witnesses,” Lord Cedric commanded.

A guard hurried out.

Eirik stood motionless, back straight as a spear.

After a long pause, the oak doors creaked as six servants shuffled in—Marta the cook, Harkin the old guard, Yorick, Jens, and a few others. Their eyes darted like trapped mice.

Marta flinched when Eirik’s gaze met hers, her now bandaged fingers clawing her stained apron.

“Kneel,” Cedric ordered.

The servants knelt like scolded dogs, trembling under Lord Cedric’s glacial stare.

Cedric leaned forward, his shadow swallowing the trembling maid Marta whole.

“Speak,” Cedric commanded. “Did Garrick confess to framing Eirik?”
Silence.

Marta’s throat bobbed. Her eyes darted to Garrick—still smug despite his swollen face—then to Eirik, who stood motionless.

Garric will make me suffer greatly if I betray him, she thought, but Eirik… Eirik will skin me alive if I don’t do as he’d wished…

Garrick smirked, blood crusting his crooked teeth. Of course they’ll lie. They know what happens to traitors. He shot his mother, Lady Ingrid, a look. She nodded very faintly.

Instantly, Ingrid’s gaze pinned Marta. “Speak.”

Marta’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

Garrick’s smirk faltered a bit.

What is she waiting for? There’s no reason to delay it anymore! Just blame everything on Eirik and leave the rest to him and his mother!

He shot Marta with an angry look, but she did not look his way.

Instead, graphic memories occupied Marta’s head: the crack of Garrick’s nose, Eirik’s glowing eyes, his fingers denting the wash basin…

He’s not Eirik anymore… He’s something else.

“Answer!” Cedric barked.

Marta flinched as tears streaked down her face.

Garrick’s confidence wavered.

Why isn’t she lying already?

“L-lord Garrick…,” Marta whimpered. “H-he… planted the dagger! Made me tell Lord Eirik to go to the armory three days ago! He… he made me do it!”

Gasps erupted.

Garrick lunged. “Liar! You filthy—”

Eirik moved faster. He caught Garrick’s wrist, twisting it until bones creaked. Garrick howled, collapsing to his knees.

“Truth hurts, brother?” Eirik said softly.

“I’LL RIP YOUR BASTARD THROAT OUT AND—HRAAAAK—” A wet cough cut his rant short, spraying flecks of red across the stone floor. “Father—H-he’s lying—he’s the thief, the trai—”

“ENOUGH!” Lord Cedric’s face darkened like a stormcloud. “Others—confirm this!”

The old guard Harkin crawled forward, forehead pressed to stone. “It’s true, milord! Lord Garrick framed Lord Eirik! We all saw him confess!”

The woodcutter Jens nodded violently. “Aye! Everyone saw it! Including Lord Garrick’s own guards!”

No. No! Garrick’s mind raced. They’re insects! How dare they—

Lady Ingrid shot to her feet. “Lies! My son is noble! This bastard bribed them!”

Eirik laughed.

“With what? My three-copper stipend? Or the poisoned bread you let my cook feed me with? Or the always shorthanded firewood supply to make sure I was miserable every winter?”

Lady Ingrid’s shrill voice cut through the murmurs.

“Lies! This filth dares spin atlas to save his hide! My Garrick is—”

Cedric’s fist slammed the throne arm. The crack of wood splintering silenced her.

“Enough.” The Lord of Stormkeep leaned forward, glacier-blue eyes locked on Eirik.

“You. Explain. Now.”

“My pleasure.” Eirik’s gaze snapped to Cedric. “Let’s discuss his methods, Lord.”

Eirik stepped toward the council, and turned to the trembling servants.

“Marta. Tell the court exactly what Garrick ordered you to do.”

Marta’s bandaged hand clutched her apron, her face pale as fresh snow. She opened her mouth, but only a whimper escaped.

She’s terrified of Garrick retaliation. Eirik’s jaw tightened. Time to remind her who held the leash now.

“Speak. Truth will be your biggest protection.” Eirik said to her.
Marta flinched.

She understood the deeper meaning instantly, that the biggest threat to her life, right now, isn’t offending Garrick, or even Ingrid, but being caught telling lies in front of Cedric.

“L-Lord Garrick… he made me poison Lord Eirik!” Her words spilled out in a panicked rush. “Ground nightshade in his tonic and food—just enough to weaken him! He said… said if I refused, he’d sell my boy to the slavers!”

Gasps erupted from the council.
“Lies! She’s ly—!” Garrick yelled.

“Show them your hands, Marta.” Eirik said calmly.

The cook held up her bandaged hand, the missing pinky nail raw and oozing.

“Long-term exposure to nightshade would leave a permanent purple hue on the flesh. Check if you wish.” Eirik addressed Cedric.

Cerick’s ice-chip eyes narrowed. He flicked a finger at Spymaster Yelena, who strode forward and seized Marta’s wrist. The spy peeled back the bandage, revealing the telltale violet smudges beneath the fresh wound.

Yelena’s lips thinned. “Confirmed, my lord. Nightshade residue. For as long as two winters from the looks of it.”

“This proves nothing!”Lady Ingrid shot to her feet. “That wretch could’ve poisoned herself to frame my son!”

“Ah yes.” Eirik snorted. “Marta poisoned me for the past two years just to frame your son. A genius move that would have her showered with honor and coins, surely.”

A few guards muffled snickers.

Cedric’s fist slammed the throne again. “Enough! Is this it or do you have some other witnesses?”

Eirik nodded at the scribe, who hunched like a beaten dog. Yorick’s polished boots gleamed in the torchlight—a stark contrast to his threadbare tunic.

“Yorick,” Eirik said, “Did you steal this pair of boots you are wearing?”

The scribe’s throat bobbed. “What? I… I did not—”

Eirik cut him off. “You did, albeit not in the conventional way. The boots cost three silver talons, and your monthly wage is two copper coins. Explain.”

Yorick’s eyes darted to Garrick, who mouthed a silent I’ll kill you. Yet when he looked at Eirik’s eyes, a sense of terror seized him.

He crumpled instantly.

“Lord Garrick ordered me to siphon funds from Lord Eirik’s stipend! He paid me one silver talon per month to do it!”

Steward Brynn nearly dropped his ledger. “Embezzlement? Under my watch?!”

Eirik pressed harder. “How can you prove that Eirik made you do it, instead of you doing it on your own volition?”

Yorick swallowed, then spoke in a shaky voice. “The fake entries… they match Lord Garrick’s hunting trips.”

Lord Cedric leaned forward. “Explain.”

The scribe pulled a small ledger from his robe.

“Lord Eirik’s accounts show purchases of ‘winter fodder’ every fortnight. But look here—” He pointed to smudged numbers. “These dates line up with Lord Garrick’s boar hunts in the Wolfswood. Twenty silver talons spent on ‘fodder’ the day before his last hunt… which costs twenty talons to fund.”

Steward Brynn snatched the ledger, comparing it to Garrick’s travel records.

“B-By the Frost Mother… He speaks the truth!”

Yorick continued faster now. “The money trail leads to Huntsman Olvar - Garrick’s personal game supplier! Ask him where he got extra coins for new hunting dogs last moon!”

“Silence! You worm!” Lady Ingrid hissed while Garrick turned pale.

But Yorick kept going.

“Check the cellar records too! Lord Eirik’s account shows six barrels of salted beef purchased last winter… but our cold storage only holds two! The other four went to Garrick’s feast for Lady Ingrid’s name-day!”

Gasps exploded around the hall as Cedric’s icy calm finally cracked.

“Garrick. Is this true?”

Lady Ingrid grabbed her son’s arm. “L-Lord Husband, this proves nothing. The scribe could’ve—”

“Check the meat barrels!” Jens the woodcutter blurted out. Everyone turned to the shaking servant. “The… the false four barrels were moved with my cart! My axemark’s on the lid - three notches by the handle!”

Garrick’s bandaged face twitched. “L-Lies! That woodcutter’s delusional! His axemarks prove nothing—”

“Prove it?” Jens blurted, fists shaking. His weathered face flushed with a mix of terror and defiance. “Then check Lord Garrick’s firewood storage! I’m sure you’d find quite a few were cut with my axe!”

Lady Ingrid’s painted nails dug into her arm. “Silence, peasant! You dare accuse my son of—”

“What’s special about your axe, Jens?” Eirik interjected.

Jens swallowed, then raised his calloused hands. “Milords… my axe ain’t like others. Got a notch on the blade—three shallow grooves near the handle. Leaves three tiny lines on every log I chop!”

Murmurs exploded across the hall.

"LIES! Father, this worm FORGED—"Garrick exploded.

Cedric’s fist slammed the armrest. “Enough!”

The entire hall quivered. Frost spiraled from the Baron’s armored boots.

His gaze swept over the trembling servants, the calm Eirik, and finally settled on his wife and eldest son.

Lady Ingrid’s face had gone pale as ash, while Garrick hunched like a beaten dog.

So, this is the rot festering under my roof, Cedric thought, fingers digging into the splintered armrest. Garrick, my beloved son that’d one day inherit everything that I have, showed nothing but petty schemes, brutish idiocy and corruption.

The truth pricked Cedric’s pride like needles.

Garrick seethed beside him, clutching his twisted wrist. “Father, this bastard attacked your heir! He’s twisting lies to—”

“Silence.” Cedric’s eyes narrowing. “Do you think me blind, boy? Or a fool?”

Garrick flinched. Lady Ingrid gripped her arm tighter, her jeweled rings glinting as she stepped forward.

“My lord, this was all my doing. I… I ordered Garrick to act. The bast… Eirik… threatened our house’s good name! I couldn’t let him—”

“Enough.” Cedric’s roar shook the hall’s rafters. Even the guards stiffened. “You think groveling excuses will spare you?”

His glare swung to Brynn.

“And you. My steward. Did you think your sins wouldn’t surface?”

Brynn stood up, shaking. “ I—I have nothing to do with this!”

“Nothing?” Cedric smirked. “You are the one who vetted the staff members for royal households, yet there is a traitor who has poisoned my son for years. You are the one who is supposed to review my sons’ ledgers, yet you let my son’s money be siphoned away and suffering cold in the winter. And yet you said ‘nothing.’”

“M-mercy, my lord!” Brynn pressed his forehead to the floor in terror.

Cedric’s jaw tightened. This was a typical scapegoating move, yet a necessary move he must carry out no matter what others think.

“Steward Brynn. You will receive twenty lashes, then exile to the Ice Trench mines for a full moon. In the meantime, you are stripped of title and holdings waiting further review.”

“L-Lord! I—”Brynn wailed, but guards dragged him away.

Cedric turned to Lady Ingrid. “You—”

“A mother’s love drove me!” She cried, tears streaking her powered cheeks. Dramatic, practiced sobs shook her shoulders. “Garrick is your heir! Must I watch some… some barbarian’s whelp undermine him?”

Cedric hesitated. The plea cut through his rage. Ingrid was cunning, manipulative, but still his beloved wife. Garrick, though immature, was his firstborn. The boy’s incompetence couldn’t erase that.

Meanwhile, Eirik watched the theatrics with cold amusement.

These lies laid bare by Eirik made Cedric’s rule look weaker, yet he could not punish Eirik, who’s in the right here, nor could he actually punish Garrick and his wife, or else the Stormcrow name would become a laughing stock.

He’s cornered into a tight spot by Eirik, and Brynn was his out. As for Garrick and Ingrid? Cedric will just slap their wrists and call it justice.

Cedric straightened, voice hardening into a decree.

“Garrick Stormcrow. As my son and heir, you have brought shame upon this house.”

Chapter Three (TIBK)

Blue light enveloped him.

[REWARD CLAIMED: 5 Points in Intellect]

[INTELLECT: 3 → 8] 

[REWARD CLAIMED: 1,000 Mana Fragments] 

To Eirik’s great marvel, one thousand small glow worm-like energy cubs gathered around him.

These must be the mana fragments.

[STATUS]

[REALM: UNINITIATED]

[UPGRADE TO NEXT REALM (SNOW)?]

[COST: 1,000 MANA FRAGMENTS.]

[Y/N?]

Eirik frowned. 

Wait, the system asked me before upgrading, does it mean that Mana Fragments could be used in other places as well? 

He focused his mind on the mana fragments, which prompted the system to show his full range of choices.

[MANA FRAGMENTS: 1,000]

[USE FOR: REALM UPGRADE / SKILLS UPGRADE / STATS POINTS PURCHASE / OTHERS (LOCKED)]

Eirik opened his Skills list. 

[SKILLS]

[STRENGTH AFFECTED SKILLS: ]

[MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

[SHIELDS PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

… 

[AGILITY AFFECTED SKILLS: ]

[DODGE (F)]

[SNEAK (F)]

[LOCKPICK (F)]

[HORSE RIDING (F)]

…

[ENDURANCE AFFECTED SKILLS: ]

[ARMOR PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

[CARRYING CAPACITY (F)]

… 

[INTELLIGENCE AFFECTED SKILLS]

[ALCHEMY (F)]

… 

[CHARM AFFECTED SKILLS]

[FIRST IMPRESSION (F)]

As basically all his skills were F-tier, there’s really not much to look at. 

His best bet is probably to specialize in one school first, then concentrate resources on that school, in order to have a secure foundation in the beginning.

Strength seems to be a great choice for beginning, maybe agility as well?
Hmm… 

He focused on the [MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)], which instantly breaks into more sub-categories.

[MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: SWORDSMANSHIP (F)]

[MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: AXE MASTERY (F)]

[MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: POLEARMS (F)]

[MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: BLUNT WEAPONS (F)]

… 

His mind focused on [MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: SWORDSMANSHIP (F)]

One could never go wrong with swords. 

[MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: SWORDSMANSHIP (F→E): AVAILABLE FOR UPGRADE!] 

[UPGRADE COST: 500 MANA FRAGMENTS]

[UPGRADE?]

[Y/N]

Hmm…

Erirk hesitated. 

Having one weapon efficiency skill go up is definitely a top priority now, but doing this would prevent him from having a realm upgrade.

In a world where weaklings get crushed, raw power is king. 

[UPGRADE TO SNOW REALM?]

[Y/N]

He’s gotta go with the realm upgrade first. 

[Yes.]

The world around Eirik dropped away.

Cold. He saw snow falling, then felt a bite of frost, then a cleansing rush of a blizzard. The staff gasped. To them, Eirik stood frozen, eyes glazed with a blue hue. Frost spiraled around his feet—and then retracted, as if nothing happened. 

[REALM ASCENDED: SNOW (RANK 1 of 5)]

[STAT LIMIT INCREASED TO 20]

[10 STAT POINTS AWARDED!] 

[MANA FRAGMENTS NEEDED FOR SNOW (RANK 2): 0/2000]

The servants stumbled back as icy light erupted from Eirik’s body. Frost crackled across the floor in jagged patterns — the undeniable mark of a warrior awakening to the Snow Realm.

CLAANG—

Harkin's rusted sword clattered the ground.

“By the Frost Mother’s tears… Snow Realm?” His cracked lips trembled, half in fear, half in awe. Two servants collapsed to their knees, completely in shock.

They were in complete disbelief regarding what just happened, not just because nobody under the age twenty had ever reached Snow Realm within the barony, but also it was Eirik who broke this record. 

Even given what Eirik just did to them… this still feels like a miracle. 

Eirik exhaled. 

He felt his every sense—sight, hearing, touch, taste and smell—sharpened. He counts the flecks of soot in the rafters, and smells the rancid grease in Yorick’s hair. And he could certainly see how the servants looked at him with a sense of awe they’d never thought possible to be associated with him.

He still had to allocate the stat points. 

[STATS]

[STRENGTH: 3+]

[ENDURANCE: 2+]

[AGILITY: 3+]

[INTELLECT: 8+]

[CHARM: 1+]

Rationally speaking, he could allocate 2 points into each category, and make him appear to be more of an average person and less of a pathetic weakling.

However, in a world where raw power is revered as almost divine, his first priority is to reinvent himself as an able warrior, before he needs to worry about other things.

After all, his strength of 3 and F-ranked weapon efficiency in all types meant anyone with half-decent fighting skills could slaughter him with ease on a level battlefield. 

All into Strength. 

Eirik’s mind informed the system.

[10 STAT POINTS ALLOCATED TO STRENGTH!]

[STRENGTH: 3 → 13]

Power burned through him. 

Eirik clenched his fist, feeling the tight coils of muscle shift under his skin. He now almost had triple the strength of an average uninitiated adult man. He grabbed the dented iron washbasin Harkin had brought earlier. Before, just lifting it would’ve strained his arms. Now he lifted it one-handed like it was just a bread loaf. 

“Wha—”

Servants gaped as he gripped the basin’s edge—and crushed it. It screeched, folding like parchment under his fingers. Eirik hurled the crumpled basin across the yard. It smashed through a barrel, splintering wood and spilling frozen potatoes. 

His chest swelled—for the first time, this body did not feel like a prison. 

Eirik turned to the servants. He needed their loyalty—and fast. Garrick would come back with their father soon, and Eirik couldn’t afford letting them be swayed to join the enemy’s side. 

“Listen carefully,” Eirik said, “I am offering you a choice.”

Silence. 

“Swear loyalty to me, and I’ll make sure you are well-compensated from this moment on.” 

He looked at Yorick, Jens, and others, who huddled together, shaking like leaves in a storm, and continued.

“Or you are free to leave this household. But if you dare speak one word of today—even to your family—I’ll make sure you’d end up like that basin over there.”

Everyone gulped. 

“Nobody wants to leave? Then swear.” His eyes suddenly became icy cold.

The servants were silent, then pledged with voices stumbled over each other: 

“I swear! We pledge our loyalty to Lord Eirik!”

“Good.” Eirik said, “As you are not my loyal servants, I order that from now on, no one leaves until further instruction. You will stay in your quarters and await orders.”

The servants nodded like hungry pigeons pecking grain.

Eirik pointed to Harkin. “Harkin is in charge from now on. Disobey him, and I’ll peel your tongues like frostbitten bark.”

Harkin straightened, pride flashing in his eyes. “Yes! Lord Eirik!”

The servants shuffled backward, heads bobbing. The yard became empty in a matter of a few moments as the system’s blue text flickered, interrupting Eirik’s thoughts:

[TUTORIAL QUEST CHAIN CONTINUES!]

[Complete the Quest Chain to Earn a Special Reward!]

[Tutorial Quest #2 (out of 5): The Baron’s Wrath]

[Quest type: Diplomacy]

[Objective: Survive the trial that awaits you. ]

[Reward: Talent Upgrade Crystal (Bronze)]

[Reward: 2,000 Mana Fragments]

[Reward: 5 Points in Intellect]

[Reward: 5 Points in Charm]

———

Eirik took a deep breath of the icy air. 

Yes. The baron’s wrath. The inevitable fallout likely will result in his run that awaited him. Just saying he was framed would not be enough to spare a severe punishment. What he had done to Garrick was much more brutal. He’d learned from Blackridge that the best negotiating tactic, more often than not, comes from understanding the person in charge, the one who will hand out judgments. 

Lord Cedric…What kind of man was he? 

Eirik again searched for memories, regarding this much bigger test than what he just experienced with Garrick. 

Cedric Stormcrow isn’t a spoiled noble. 

The Baron hadn’t inherited a peaceful, prosperous domain; he’d built it alongside his grandfather. He’d fought barbarian raids, crushed minor rebellions, and dragged Stormkeep back from the brink of ruin through sheer force of will and martial prowess.

A self-made ruler, Cedric prized what he’d used to succeed: strength, resilience, results. 

It suddenly made sense to Eirik that if there’s one cardinal sin in Cedric’s eyes, that would be weakness. Why waste resources on a son who couldn’t even muster the spirit to fight back? To him, spinelessness is worse than malice. 

Eirik stopped pacing, staring at the frost-rimed window slit. 

So, how do I present myself? Playing the cowering victim was dead. He needed another way to frame the humiliation of Garrick not as rebellion, but as the necessary consequence of Garrick’s own weakness and Cedric’s inadvertent neglect of duty to all his sons.
But to figure this out, he needed context.

He was still a stranger in this brutal, bronze world. Where did Stormkeep Barony fit in the larger scheme? What opportunities existed beyond its borders? Knowledge was power, and right now, he was blind. 

“Harkin!” Eirik’s voice cut through the chill air. It wasn’t loud, but it carried a new authority that made the old guard, who’d been hovering anxiously near the door, jump. 

“Y-Yes, Young Master?” 

Harkin shuffled forward. Fear warred with his ingrained, weather loyalty. The sudden shift in Eirik — from Spineless to… whatever terrifying force had just dismantled Garrick — was profoundly unsettling.

“Tell me about our world,” Eirik commanded, “Start with Stormkeep Barony. What lies beyond it? How is this land governed? Be thorough.”

Harkin blinked, confused. 

Geography lessons should’ve been common sense for noble sons with tutors. Yet now that he thought about it, Eirik hadn’t actually been treated as a noble son. Harkin swallowed nervously. Where do I even start?

“Well, Young Master,” Harkin began hesitantly. “Our Barony, Stormkeep… it’s Lord Cedric’s domain. We are pretty much at the northernmost of civilizations. We answer to the Ironhelm Earldom, ruled by Earl Borin from his fortress south of here, past the Icefang Peaks.” 

Eirik nodded. “And the Earldom?”

“Huh? Oh, right,” Harkin fumbled. “The Ironhelm Earldom is part of the larger Frostgrip Duchy. The Duke… uh… Thorgrim Frostgrip, rules from his ice palace way down south, near the coast where the sea doesn’t freeze solid, least not all year. Never been there myself.”

“And above the Duchy?”

“The Northern Kingdom, Young Master!” Harkin said, puffing his chest out slightly. “Ruled by King Vandar the Unbending from his throne in Icestone Citadel. Holds the whole north together. Or tries to.” 

Brony, Earldom, Duchy, Kingdom. Climbing the ladder within the established system would be a slog measured in decades that was designed to keep those ambitious firmly in their place. It was Cedric’s path, forty years of struggle and still just a baron. 

“What lies north of us?” Was Eirik’s question. 

Harkin’s expression instantly sobered. He pointed to a shaky finger towards the drafty window, towards the howling wind and perpetual grey. “North? That’s the end of things, Young Master. Beyond our borders… that’s the Northern Wastes.”

The name hung heavy in the frigid air. 

“The Wastes?” Eirik prompted.

“Aye,” Harkin whispered. “Nothing but endless ice and death. Blizzards that freeze a man solid in minutes. Monsters with teeth like swords. And the tribes…” He shuddered violently. “Take captives… or worse.” He leaned in, eyes wide. “Stormkeep Barony… we’re the last bit of real kingdom out here. The frontier. Past our walls and watchtowers, it’s the Wastes. Pure wilderness. No laws, no lords, just… survival. Only fools, madmen, or the desperate go there. And most don’t come back.” He finished with another emphatic shudder. 

Frontier. The word ignited something fierce within Eirik, until it was disrupted by a sudden burst of PAT! PAT! PAT— 

BAM! 

Someone banged on the door, then slammed it open before Eirik barely finished working out his strategies. 

A red-faced house-guard skidded into the yard, panting. 

“L-Lord Cedric Stormcorw—!” He gulped air. “Summons you! Now!”

This feels much more severe than he had thought. Eirik half expected Garrick to come in with Cedric, or maybe also his mom, to settle it as a family would. Instead, what awaits him might be something that assembles a more formal trial than an informal in-house dispute settlement. 

“Eirik. Now.” 

The guard was still panting from running. He got the order from a furious Lord Cedric, and did not dare to delay even for one minute. He’d never seen the man being so angry like this time. Yet more surprising to him was seeing how Eirik reacted. Eirik the Spineless was a “legendary” name that everyone in the barony was very familiar with. He expected Eirik to tremble, to plead while stammering, or even begging for mercy. 

But all he got was an icy cold stare. 

Chapter Two (TIBK)

[LOADING SYSTEM…]

Blue symbols flickered before his eyes like neon signs. Eirik flinched. Text boxes floated midair, glowing faintly.

[ANALYZING BODY COMPATIBILITY… 100% SYNCHRONIZED.]

“What the—”

[CHARACTER SHEET UNLOCKED.]

[NAME: EIRIK STORMCROW]

[TITLE: THE SPINELESS BASTARD OF LORD CEDRIC STORMCROW]

[AGE: 19]

[REALM: UNINITIATED]

[NOTE: THE REALM TIERS ARE RANKED FROM LOW TO HIGH AS FOLLOWS:]

[UNINITIATED, SNOW, FROST, HAIL, GLACIER, BLIZZARD, EVERWINTER]

[MANA: 0/0]

[STATS]

[STRENGTH: 3]

[ENDURANCE: 2]

[AGILITY: 3]

[INTELLECT: 3]

[CHARM: 1]

[MANA: N/A]

[NOTE: THE STAT LIMIT FOR UNINITIATED REALM IS 10]

[SKILLS]

[STRENGTH AFFECTED SKILLS]

[MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

[SHIELDS PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

… 

[AGILITY AFFECTED SKILLS]

[SNEAK (F)]

[LOCKPICK (F)]

[HORSE RIDING (F)]

…

[ENDURANCE AFFECTED SKILLS]

[ARMOR PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

… 

[INTELLIGENCE AFFECTED SKILLS]

[ALCHEMY (F)]

… 

[CHARM AFFECTED SKILLS]

[FIRST IMPRESSION (F)]

… 

[TALENTS]

[LOCKED]

Eirik grimaced. 

He’d thought Eirik was weak, but this?  All below-average stats, F-tier skills, and no talents?! This is a nightmarish start as far as character build goes. 

Nonetheless, this is the hand he’s dealt, and if there’s one thing he’s known for, is not crying about what life had given him.

Another ping interrupted his thoughts. 

———

[TUTORIAL QUESTION CHAIN ACTIVATES!]

[Complete the Quest Chain to Earn a Special Reward!]

[Tutorial Quest #1 (out of 7): Root Out the Rot]

[Quest type: Intrigue]
[Objective: Identify all spies planted by Garrick within your household (0/3 found)]
[Reward: 1,000 Mana Fragments]

[Reward: 5 Points in Intellect]

———

Eirik’s lips twitched.

Spies. Of course. His predecessor must’ve been too ignorant or too scared to notice. 

His mind focused on Marta. The servant girl who had rubbed him the wrong way from the moment he entered this world. In any case, she was an easy one to pick out. 

But what about the other two?

Eirik straightened, ignoring the ache in his ribs. His gaze focused on Harkin, the old guard, who stood nearby. 

Harkin’s woolen tunic was patched at the elbows. Eirik noticed, and this did not come as a surprise, as the old man clearly needed money, still working at his age. His eyes shifted downward, to Harkin’s boots. 

They were mismatched. 

Hmm… interesting. Is Harkin a spy also? 

Eirik tapped into his memory, and recalled that Harkin had served his mother briefly before her death. The man occasionally slipped bread in his quarters during lean winters. Maybe sometimes it’s clothing also. 

Eirik looked at him for a while, and concluded he’s not a spy.

Whoever worked for Garrick certainly did not have the need for stale bread. 

“Gather every servant.” Eirik ordered Harkin. “Everyone, including those assigned to latrines and kennels.”

Harkin swallowed. “Young Master, what is the meaning of—”

“If you value that stolen boot. Move now, Harkin.” Eirik snapped his fingers. “And bring me a basin, well water, and bluewing petals from the stillroom.”

The old guard blinked. “What… what do you need them for, Young Master?”

“Now.”

Harkin scrambled out like a scalded cat.

Alone in the room, Eirik’s mind connected the threads. 

One trick he’d learned from the Academy was that, to sniff out the rats, sometimes you do not need to play detective. He neither had that time nor patience.

He could simply use psychological tactics to make them squeak. 

But he couldn’t bring anything he was familiar with in the contemporary world here, which would give him a much easier time. 

He had to improvise with what Eirik had… what the people in this world had.

In order to do that, he tapped into Eirik’s memories and tried to find any information that would’ve helped him, but it yielded little results. 

Then, he tried to think about interaction with Garrick, maybe that mischievous little brat would help him here.

Suddenly, his eyes opened wide.

He found it.

Bluewing petals—a type of flower found in the Northern Kingdom—would release a harmless blue dye when boiled. And when combined with animal grease, the blue color will become black. However, since not many common folk had a reason to boil flowers nor could afford meat, this was only known to a few royal people and alchemists in the kingdom. Eirik had a distinctive memory of this, because this was exactly how he was set up by Garrick in childhood to be framed as a “demon-born” in front of his father Cedric and distinctive guests. It was a pain for him to summon that precise memory, but it would be perfect for what he’s about to do.

Moments later, six servants shivered in the yard.

Eirik noted each face. Thora the laundress, missing two fingers from frostbite last winter. Jens the woodcutter, who sometimes tossed extra kindling into his rooms during blizzards. Yorick the skinny scribe, who always looks malnourished. And… three other souls that looked like their life was lived through constant suffering and struggle. 

Marta… where is Marta?
Probably still busy getting his meat ready. Eirik thought. Well, maybe it’s going to be even better if she arrives late. He looked at his band of servants that looked nothing like a royal house’s staff but a group of poor adventurers, and readied his throat.

“For nine years,” Eirik’s voice carried across the yard, “This household tolerated traitors.”

Murmurs rustled through the crowd as he studied each one’s facial expressions while Harkin shuffled back into the room with a dented washbasin. 

“This is truthwater. Innocent hands emerge clean. Traitors… will have their skin blackened like their souls...” He let the pause linger. 

The servants shifted uneasily. The blue dye needs thirty seconds to bond with skin oils, then adding the animal fat from the meat platter will turn the color black. But first, Eirik needed someone innocent to touch the water first. 

“Harkin.”

The old guard stepped forward, his fingers trembling as he dipped them into the basin.

Eirik kept his face stern. 

Blue.

Harkin’s hands turned blue as they emerged out of the water.

“Your hands stay pure, Harkin.” Eirik announced as the old man pulled up dripping blue fingers. 

The crowd exhaled—then tensed as Eirik added, “but your boots tell another story.”

Harkin turned gray. “M-Milord, I—”

“Three loaves of bread vanished from the kitchen shelves this month, too.” Eirik stepped closer, watching the man’s pupils dilate with fear. “But.”

Everyone leaned forward.

“You saved me after a beating from Garrick last winter.” Eirik’s voice softened. “Your loyalty outweighs petty thefts. From today, your wages double. Stop stealing.”

Harkin’s jaw dropped. Tears welled as he fell to one knee. “Y-Yes, Young Master!”

Murmurs rippled through the servants like wind through dead leaves. Maybe not everyone is a spy working directly for Garrick, but certainly no one is clean in this house. After all, who’d resist taking advantage of someone so spineless and so weak?
Yet whatever Eirik just did, this had surprised them quite a bit. 

Not only did he successfully spotted Harkin’s petty thievery, he also displayed a kind of kingly grace that somehow made him appear… dare they say… 

Powerful?
Did someone teach this to him? Was Lord Cedric behind this? Make the bastard appear larger than he was? But why all of a sudden—

Eeeerrrrrrrk—

The kitchen door groaned and opened as heads snapping toward her. 

Marta.

Carrying a wooden platter of greasy mutton, she stumbled into the crowd with a look of complete confusion.

“Here’s your meat, Milord. Enjoy—”

“Wash your hands, Marta.” Eirik pointed to the basin.

“Why?” She was quite surprised by the order. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Do it. Now.” Eirik stepped up and took the platter from her hands. 

Marta hesitated. 

She wanted to refuse, since refusing this guy had cost her basically nothing for the past few years. 

But seeing what he just did to Garrick—

Marta slowly placed her hands into the basin, but Eirik noticed that she subtly held her pinky finger up and only touched the water with the other four fingers and her palm.  

Huh… How interesting. 

A smirk crawled onto Eirik’s face as he suddenly realized something, yet he held the silence as he watched what was about to happen with the other servants. 

The water’s blue hue crawled up her fingers—at first. Then, as residual mutton grease met the dye, the color darkened like ink spreading across parchment. 

Her hands emerged pitch black.

Whuh—

Gasps erupted as her skin blackened. 

Marta recoiled as if she just got burned. "Witchcraft! This proves nothing!"

Eirik’s lips curved. 

“Harkin. Hold her.”

The old guard seized Marta’s arms with surprising strength. Loyalty rewarded pays off, Eirik noted. 

Marta shrieked, then begged. “Please. Milord. I am innocent!”

Eirik circled her like a hawk. 

“Three days ago,” Eirik said, “Garrick ‘found’ me alone in the armory. ”

Marta’s jaw tightened. 

“Odd, isn’t it?” Eirik continued, “Since you suggested I went there to pick up a weapon for Harkin that morning.”

A gasp rippled through the servants. 

Marta paled. “I—I didn’t—”

“Liar!” Harkin shook her. 

Eirik raised a hand, silencing the crowd. His mind churned—recalling every intersection Marta had ever thrown him. 

“Last spring. My fever.”

Marta’s eyes darted between the basin and Eirik’s icy stare. “What about it?”

“The healers said it was bad luck.” Eirik stepped so close his breath fogged her face. “You swapped my tonic with ground nightshade. Weak enough to mimic illness. Strong enough to waste me for weeks.”

Marta froze.

“After my first fever, it was like my entire body started to wither away. I constantly experienced a lack of energy, a low tolerance for cold, and occasional illnesses, all thanks to the poison you make me consume regularly.” 

Marta’s pulse throbbed in her neck. “You have no proof!”

Eirik’s smile widened. 

I had no proof. Until you told me just a minute ago.

“Pin her hand.” Eirik nodded to Harkin.

The old guard wrenched Marta’s right arm flat against the table. Her fingers splayed like pale spiders. 

“Wh-what are you d—?”

Eirik gripped her pinky nail.

“Nightshade leaves bruise purple when crushed. Let’s see if your nails hold stains.”

He yanked . 

Crack.

Marta’s scream shattered the silence. 

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

The servants recoiled as her nail tore free, trailing a ribbon of blood. 

And beneath it—faint violet smudges. 

“Nightshade residue.” Eirik held up the nail. “Care to explain?”

Marta sobbed, clutching her mutilated finger. 

“H-he made me! Garrick said he’d sell my son to the ice traders if I refused!”

The confession hung in the air as a system notification appeared before Eirik’s eyes:
———

[QUEST UPDATE: Spies Identified (1/3)]

———

Eirik straightened. 

“Three crimes. Sabotage. Poisoning a noble. And helping Garrick to trespass just moments ago.” He eyed the horrified crowd. “Punishable by flaying… But…”

He tossed Marta’s nail to the fire. It hissed and curled.
“Swear loyalty,” Eirik said, “and I’ll make sure you live.”
Marta’s head jerked up. “Wh-what?”

It’s not that she did not deserve death, which she deserved three times over. But Eirik had learned from the Academy that sometimes it’s better to show a smaller foe kindness in order to create trouble for a bigger foe. 

“Swear loyalty to me. And testify for me whenever I need you to, and I’ll make sure you live.”

Marta stared at him, trembling.

“Otherwise…” 

AIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE—

Marta’s scream ripped through the yard. Servants flinched, eyes wide as slaughtered deer. Marta crumpled, but Harkin held her upright.
Eirik leaned down, his face inches from hers. His eyes—cold, unblinking—locked onto her quivering pupils.

“Screaming wastes time,” he said softly. “And I hate waste.”

Marta’s sobs choked into whimpers. Her entire body shook, breaths ragged. This wasn’t the cowering boy she’d sabotaged for years. This was a wolf wearing his skin. How?

“I-I swear!” Marta gasped, snot and tears streaking her face. “Loyalty! Please—please—”

Eirik straightened. “Harkin. Take her to the still room. Pack the wound with yarrow and spider silk. But bring me a new basin first.”

Harkin scrambled away carrying Marta on his shoulders, while Eirik turned to the gawking servants. 

“Anyone else care to test my patience?”

The servants all shrank back. Who is this? Their trembling lips seemed to ask. Where’s the spineless worm? 

Eirik noticed a twitch flickered across the scribe’s cheek.

Yorick. 

He dissected the micro-expression using what he’d learned from the Academy. Guilt? Fear? Unlike Harkin, the scribe’s boots were freshly polished. Yet his tunic hung threadbare.

Huh. This guy is obviously paid very well, but he’s pretending to be poor.

Before calling him out, however, Eirik took a mutton chop from the platter by hand. 

Eirik was certain that Marta would have poisoned the lumpy gruel, but he believed that, after seeing what happened to Eirik, Marta did not have the guts nor time to do her dirty work on this, too. 

Eirik threw the meat into his mouth and chewed on it greedily. Then another one, and another one, until the whole plate is gone. Him eating, no, devouring, food after just having done what he did to Marta made the servants even more nervous.
Harkin returned right before he was about to finish with another freshly prepared water basin. 

“You.” Eirik pointed at the scribe Yorick while rubbing his greasy hands. “Wash your hands.”
Yorick froze. “M-milord, surely you don’t suspect—?”

“Now.”

Yorick shuffled to the newly brought basin, hands trembling. He dipped a single finger—

SPLASH—

Eirik pulled his hair and yanked his face into the water. Of course, he made sure that his greasy hands also made contact with the freshly brought water inside the basin. 

Yorick thrashed, bubbles exploding as Eirik leaned his weight down. 

"Glrk—blrrbl—grk!" Yorik’s muffled scream vibrated in the water.

A full twenty seconds passed.

The water turned pitch black in front of everyone’s eyes, and Eirik yanked the scribe’s head back by his hair. 

"HaaAAAACK—!"

Yorick gasped as black water streamed down his terrified face. 

Other servants opened their mouths as they saw for another time this miracle water worked its effect.

“Confess,” Eirik said, “or I’ll make sure you won’t be able to breathe next time.”

“Forgive me, my Lord! L-Lord Garrick made me!” the scribe wheezed. “He paid me to falsify your accounts and take a portion of your budget for himself!”

———

[QUEST UPDATE: Spies Identified (2/3)]

———

Eirik tossed him aside. The scribe crawled, retching. 

He turned to the crowd. 

“One traitor remains. Step forward now, and you’ll receive mercy.” he eyed the servants in front of him, all shivering, “But you wait until I find you…” 

Silence.

Then—

Thud.

Jens the woodcutter dropped to his knees, hands raised in surrender. “Milord! I—Garrick asked me to short you on firewood during the winters! But I never meant to harm you! Pl—” 

“What did he say, exactly?”

Jens stared at the floor, not daring to meet Eirik’s eyes. “He… he said he’d sell my daughter to the south. She’s just four winters. It’s all I have after her dead ma…”

“You’ll chop double firewood from now on, for an entire year,” Eirik said coldly. “Fail, even if just for one day, and I’ll chop off your hands and feed them to the flames.”

Jens bowed, forehead touching the stone. “Thank you, milord! Thank you!”

———

[QUEST UPDATE: Spies Identified (3/3)]

[QUEST COMPLETED: Root Out the Rot]

———

Blue light enveloped him. 

Chapter One - THE INVINCIBLE BASTARD KING (TIBK)

He woke to teeth-chattering cold and the smell of damp stone and mold.  Where the hell am I? Panic clawed at his throat. One moment, he was

He woke to teeth-chattering cold and the smell of damp stone and mold. 

Where the hell am I? Panic clawed at his throat. One moment, he was standing proud at the Blackridge SpecOps Academy graduation, top of his class and ready to serve the elite counter-terrorism units. The next… this. 

Did I get drugged? Kidnapped by one of those northern syndicates we tracked? His SpecOps training kicked in instantly. Assess. Threat level? Environment? Assets? His mind raced, trying to cut through the disorientation that overwhelmed him.

His surroundings screamed a neglected medieval style. The rough stone walls wept condensation. Patches of filthy straw, slick with greenish-black mold, plugged holes in the sagging roof. Weak, grey light seeped through gaps where mortar had crumbled away. Frost painted intricate patterns on the interior walls. This was closer to a crumbling tomb than a proper “shelter.”

He tried to move, yet agony lanced through him. Every breath scraped like sandpaper over his bruised ribs. When did I get these? His limbs felt heavy, weak, utterly unfamiliar. This frail, battered shell felt alien. This isn’t my body. Raw fear washed over him — not his own, but a deep-seated terror embedded in the body itself. Memories, fragmented and painful, flooded his mind… 

Eirik. 

The name of the body’s previous owner. Eirik Stormcrow. Or maybe just Eirik — he’s a bastard, the non-legitimized third son of Cedric Stormcrow, Baron of Stormkeep. He was born to a captive woman from the Baron’s early battles, a woman who died bringing him into the world. Cedric once provided for him properly as a father — food, shelter, education — then downgraded them all to a bare minimum, after Cedric lost interest entirely in him when Eirik showed only weakness, not the warrior spirit expected of a Stormcrow son. 

Weak. The memories confirmed it. A lifetime of cringing submission. Mocked as “half-blood” or the less charitable “mudborn.” Bread crusts flung at his head in the kitchens instead of a hot meal. Sleeping in freezing tower rooms, forgotten and shivering. Noble sons who saw him as a convenient punching bag, their favorite game pushing him down icy stairs. They even bestowed him a title that pretty much defined his existence:

Eirik the Spineless.

Spineless. The SpecOps soldier inside him snarled at the concept. Weakness gets you killed. It gets your team killed. This body’s ingrained terror, the urge to curl up and disappear, warred violently with his own ironclad instincts for survival and dominance. He forced himself to sit up, ignoring the screaming protest from his ribs and the tremors running through his thin frame.

He needed to see. He needed to know the face of this cage. Staggering, he made his way to a tarnished bronze mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. The reflection that stared back was like a starvation victim he’d seen in war-torn regions. 

Gaunt cheeks hollowed out. Sunken, dark-ringed eyes that instinctively darted away, too timid to confront even themselves. Shoulders slumped, curled inward as if apologizing for the space he occupied. Ugly bruises mottled his collarbone and neck in sickening shades of violet and yellow. It was the face of relentless defeat, of a soul systematically broken before it ever had a chance to stand tall. 

So this is my new situation, he thought grimly, meeting the reflection’s fearful gaze and forcing it to hold his own hardened stare. 

Just then, the crude wooden door scraped open with a jarring squeal. Cold air rushed in, carrying flurries of snow and the acrid scent of smoke. 

“You’re awake.”

A woman stumbled in, bundled in thick, grimy woolens stained with soot and grease. She carried a wooden tray holding a hunk of stale-looking brown bread and a bowl of grey, lumpy gruel that smelled faintly sour. Marta. The name surfaced from the jumble of Eirik’s inherited memories: Marta is his cook. But strangely, she did not refer to him as ‘lord’ or ‘master’ or displayed any pleasant emotions for seeing him being awake. 

Marta dropped the tray onto a rickety table with a clatter, making the gruel slop dangerous close to the rim. This small gesture of kindness should have sparked warmth and gratitude, instead Eirik felt from his body a mixture of suspicion and fear. 

“Eat.” She turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, and Lord Garrick wants his dagger back.”

Dagger?

Memory stabbed into his mind. The Baron’s armory. A few days ago, the original Eirik was summoned there to be assigned a weapon “worthy” of him. He met Garrick there, his half-brother, who cornered him and shoved a crude iron blade into his hands. Then Garrick started bellowing, “Thief! Bastard Filth!” as his fists and boots were raining down. The guards watched numbly, or amusedly as Eirik felt agony and then darkness. His ribs were bruised, and a fever followed.

Garrick hadn’t even bothered to retrieve the ‘evidence.’ He’d planted it on him, ensuring a later ‘trial’ — a formalized beating dressed up as justice. And the date… He looked at Marat, who was already half out the door. Seems to be today. 

Garrick Stormcrow. Firstborn son. Heir. Utterly eclipsed in every way by his younger brother, Rurik — smarter, stronger, the secondborn son. The constant humiliation had festered inside Garrick, and his one safe, unchallenged outlet was tormenting the ‘Spineless Bastard.’ Eirik was Garrick’s perpetual victim, his stress relief, the one creature in Stormkeep he could dominate without fear or consequence. 

Eirik’s gaze snapped to the wall where the dagger hung in its simple sheath. The ‘stolen’ prize. He pulled it free. It was cheap iron, pitted and dull — a tool for gutting fish, skinning rabbits, utterly worthless beyond basic butchery. Chosen deliberately, he realized. This is a symbol of himself. 

He exhaled a plume of fog in the frigid air. This is a terrible start. No power. No allies. Not even trustworthy servants. But dwelling on disadvantages was pointless. If no one here gives a damn about him… then it’s time to look elsewhere. He refuses to be Spineless Eirik. If the serial novels he read were right and transmigration into a new world wouldn't resolve for years and decades, then he must inhabit this new reality. He’s not a person to waste time on relishing the past and bemoaning the current situation. Whatever happened is past, and he needs to deal with the NOW with everything he got. 

As a modern human, a ruthlessly trained SpecOps, he needed to leverage strength, his kind of strength, to forge something new. A king among worms is better than a coward in a gilded cage. Yes. Maybe even become a King. He did not achieve what he did in the past by setting low expectations. 

The door burst open again, crashing against the wall. A blast of icy wind hit him first, stealing his breath. Then he saw the man filling the doorway. 

Garrick.

“Look who’s already recovered! My bastard brother!”

Garrick Stormcrow stood there, framed by the doorway, flanked by three hulking guards in Stormcrow livery. He wore thick furs and leather, his face flushed with anticipated cruelty. One guard snickered; the other two stared at Eirik with open contempt, like he was something foul stuck to their boots. Behind them, hovering with a look that wasn’t quite fear but starkly lacked the reverence she should show her supposed master, stood Marta. 

Eirik’s chest tightened painfully. A visceral and overwhelming tide of terror ripped through him. Memories cascaded: Garrick’s fist connecting with his jaw, the sickening crunch of ribs breaking, the coppery taste of his own blood filling his mouth. The humiliation of being forced to lick spilled wine off the flagstones while nobles laughed. The body remembered the pain, the helplessness, and it screamed at him to submit and survive. 

STOP! He roared the command internally. Panic got soldiers killed. His muscles locked, trembling violently against his will. Control! He dug his ragged fingernails deep into his palms, focusing on the sharp, grounding pain. There’s a saying that the only time a man can be brave is when he’s afraid. And that time is now.

He locked his knees, forcing his spine straight. Breathe. 

Garrick swaggered into the shack, the guards filling the cramped space behind him. He went straight for the dagger still clutched in Eirik’s hand, snatching it away with a contemptuous flick. He pointed the crude blade mockingly. 

“You’re still holding onto your ‘spoils,’ huh?”  Garrick sneered, leaning in with breath reeked of stale ale. “Or are your pants too wet to return it to the armory?”

The guards chuckled. Even Marta’s lips twitched in a suppressed smirk from the doorway. 

Garrick flourished the dagger. “Theif. What do you say in your defense?”

Eirik’s body wanted to look down, to mumble, to beg. Look at his boots. Look at the floor. Don’t provoke him. The ingrained habit of nineteen years of survival through submission screamed in Eirik’s bones. 

Eirik the SpecOps soldier raised his head. His eyes lifted. Slowly, deliberately, he met Garrick’s gaze. For the first time in Eirik the Spineless’s miserable life, he looked his tormentor directly in the eyes. He saw Garrick’s surprise first — a flicker of confusion in the pale blue irises. Then came the irritation, quickly masked by renewed contempt. 

“I didn’t steal it.” Eirik’ voice was rough from disuse, but clear. 

THe effect was instantaneous. The guards’ smirks vanished mid-breath. Marta’s smirk collapsed into slack-jawed disbelief. The draft whistling through the door seemed to pause. Even Garrick was momentarily stunned. Silence.

Eirik the Spineless. Resisting. Defying. Speaking back. It was unthinkable. He never resisted. Ever. Garrick’s face flushed crimson. “What did you just say to me?” he hissed, taking a threatening step closer. 

“I. Didn’t. Steal. It.” 

Rage flashed across Garrick’s face. Then it morphed into a cruel, twisted smile. He leaned in until his nose was almost touching Eirik’s. 

“Since when did our little worm grow a pair of balls? He turned theatrically to his guards, deliberately exposing his back. “Hear that? The mudborn thinks he has a voice!”

The guards chuckled, playing along but clearly unsettled by Eirik’s unprecedented defiance. Garrick turned back, his expression shifting from mockery to pure, venomous fury. 

“Do you know I’ll KILL you for what you just—”

Garrick never finished the sentence.

Eirik’s knee drove upwards. His body, weak as it was, obeyed him. Not a wild kick, but a precise strike aimed just below the rib cage. This was one of the first moves he mastered during his SpecOps close-quarters combat drills. The move’s effectiveness wasn’t caused by overwhelming muscle, but by technique, timing, and explosiveness. 

THUD.

The impact connected with a sickening force.

“YAAAAAAAAAAAGH—!”

Garrick’s roar was a guttural, animal scream ripped from his very core. He doubled over violently, clutching his stomach. Blood, shockingly bright red against the pale skin, streamed from the corner of his gaping mouth as he gasped for air that wouldn’t come. His diaphragm spasmed, paralyzed. 

Looks like I still got it. Eirik’s mind registered coldly, even as he pivoted on the ball of his foot. While Garrick was bent over, blinded by agony and struggling to breathe, Eirik moved behind him.

The chokehold. Another fundamental technique from the Academy. Against a larger, stronger opponent: Control the neck, control the fight. 

Before the guards could even process the knee strike, Eirik had one forearm snaked beneath Garrick’s jaw. His other hand clamped over his own wrist, locking it in place. The crook of his elbow pressed mercilessly against the sides of Garrick’s throat, crushing the carotid arteries. Garrick’s frantic clawing at his arms was useless; Eirik used Garrick’s own thrashing weight and momentum against him, tightening the vise. 

“Re… Release me! Now!” Garrick choked out, his face already purpling, veins bulging grotesquely at his temples. His boots scraped frantic, useless arcs on the floor. A wet, wheezing gurgle escaped his constricted throat.

The guards stood frozen, mouths agape like fish hauled onto a riverbank. They’d spent years helping Garrick torment this cringing shadow of a man. They’d never seen Eirik move like this. They’d never imagined he could move like this. 

Eirik stared over Garrick’s sagging shoulder at the guards. His voice, when it came, was chillingly calm. “One inch.” He adjusted his grip minutely, making Garrick whimper. “One inch further, and your lord heir will die by having his neck snapped. Understand?”

The guards exchanged terrified glances. The truth was undeniable. Their heir was seconds from unconsciousness, possibly death, held hostage by the creature they’d all despised as weak. To rush in and fail would mean floggings, maybe worse. To do nothing… the same. They were frozen in silent, petrified dread.

Eirik eased the pressure just enough. Air rasped into Garrick’s lungs in a desperate, ragged gasp. He coughed violently, spraying flecks of blood and spittle. 

“You… wheeze… dung-eating… cough… mongrel whore’s sp—”

Wrong move, brother. Eirik’s forearm crunched upward again, cutting off the slur mid-syllable. Garrick’s eyes bulged, his struggles renewing with frantic, weakening energy. 

“Squirm again,” Eirik’s lips almost brushing Garrick’s ear as the latter felt a grotesque intimacy. “and I’ll let your guards explain to father how his firstborn suffocated on his own entitlement.”

Garrick, fury and humiliation overriding terror and oxygen deprivation, bucked harder. “I’ll skin you al—!”

The chokehold snapped tight instantly, silencing the threat. Garrick’s defiance dissolved into wet, animalistic gagging. 

“Last. Warning.” Eirik adjusted his hold. He saw Garrick’s eyes, wide with panic and pain.

“Y-You whoreso—son,” Garrick managed to wheeze out, “Rot in… H—”

“Shhhht—”

The soft, silencing sound Eirik made was barely audible, yet it echoed like a thunderclap in the paralyzed silence of the shack.

Then came the CRACK.

A sickening, wet crunch echoed off the stone walls.

Eirik hadn’t snapped his neck. Instead, with brutal efficiency, he yanked a fistful of Garrick’s greasy hair and slammed his brother’s face straight down into the rough, frozen flagstone floor.

“MUH N-NOSE! Hrkk—YOU FUCKING CUNTSPAWN, M—MY NOSSSE!”

Garrick’s shriek was muffled, thick with blood and agony. He writhed on the floor, clutching his face. Blood gushed from his flattened, undoubtedly shattered nose, painting serpentine trials down his chin and onto the stones. He sounded like a wounded animal that was stripped of any veneer of nobility. 

The guards went corpse-pale. One actually retched. The sight of their lord heir, his nose a ruin, blood pooling beneath him, beaten senseless by the ‘Spineless Bastard’, was unthinkable. They couldn’t even process Lord Cedric’s wrath. Marta’s face was pure terror. The smirk was long gone. She looked like she’d witnessed a mouse sprout fangs and eviscerate a wolf. 

Eirik didn’t hesitate. He snatched the discarded fish-gutting dagger from the floor where Garrick had dropped it. Kneeling, he hauled Garrick’s head back by his blood-slicked hair, ignoring the pained, gurgling screams. He pressed the dull, cold tip of the dagger against Garrick’s left eyelid. 

Garrick screamed again, a high-pitch sound of utter panic, “KI-KILL HIM!”

“Anyone moves,” Eirik growled, “He loses an eye.”

The guards remained paralyzed statues. After the knee strike, the chokehold, the face-slam, and now this…? Provoking this… this terrifying thing seemed like instant suicide. They didn’t dare blink. 

Eirik leaned close to Garrick’s ear, his breath hot against the bloodied skin. 

THUD.

The sound came from the doorway. The old guard, Harkin, Eirik’s sole houseguard — stooped, patched woolens, mismatched boots — had arrived. He’d collided with Garrick’s guards blocking the entrance. He’d been sent on a fool’s errand earlier by Marta — fetching mint from the market — oblivious to the trap. 

Now, Harkin froze. His rheumy eyes widened in utter disbelief at the scene before him: Lord Garrick Stormcrow, heir to Stormkeep, knelt on the filthy floor, face full of blood, nose clearly destroyed, held in a brutal lock by Eirik, with a dagger pressed to his eye. It defied all reality. 

Eirik didn’t take his eyes off the guards or the dagger tip. Harkin. Poor and loyal in small, desperate ways. He remembered Harkin slipping him bread crusts during the worst winters, an old coat once. 

“Perfect timing,” Eirik said, “You’ll witness my brother’s… sincerity.” He addressed Harkin but his glacial stare pinned the guards. 

One guard, recovering slightly from the collision with Harkin, leveled his sword at the old man. “Get out, or—”

“Sheathe that steel.” Eirik’s command was quiet, flat, and utterly terrifying. He jabbed the dagger point down Garrick’s cheekbone, drawing a thin line of blood that mingled with the gore from his nose. “Your lord’s life hangs on my mercy—and right now, you’re irritating me.”
The guard froze, sword half-raised, trapped between orders and fear. 

Eirik locked eyes with each guard in turn, then he hissed into Garrick’s ears again. 

“My dear brother, I offer you two options. Think wisely now.”

Garrick whimpered, trying to shake his head, causing fresh agony.

“Option one: you confess that you framed me with that dagger. Loud and clear.”
“Option two…” Eirik twisted the dagger slightly against the tender skin below Garrick’s eye. “I take your both eyes and leave this hell with your pupils as my lucky charm. Then I let the guards explain that to Father.”

“LIAR!” Garrick screeched, a surge of defiant fury momentarily overriding his terror. “YOU’D NEVER DAR——”

Eirik didn’t hesitate. He pricked the eyelid.

A tiny bead of bright red blood welled up at the very edge of Garrick’s left eyelid. It trembled, then slid down his cheek, stark against the paleness of his skin below the mess of his nose. Garrick’s eye beneath the blade twitched violently. He felt the cold, sharp point. He saw the blood.

The room held its breath. Harkin looked like he might faint. Marta made a small, strangled sound. 

HORROR. Pure, unadulterated horror flooded Garrick’s face, washing away the rage. He wasn’t facing the Spineless victim anymore. He was facing a predator who meant every word. Death, he might have risked in a trial. But blindness? Mutilation? The thought was a chasm of pure terror. 

“OPTION TWO! I PICK OPTION TWO!” Garrick screamed, the words distorted by blood and panic. “I’LL CONFESS! JUST STOP! STOP!”

Eirik kept the dagger steady, pinning Garrick’s torso with his knee. “Announce it. Now. Loud.” 

Garrick sniffled blood and snot. He lifted his head slightly, his one visible eye wide with terror, scanning the shocked faces of his guards, Harkin, Marta. He had no choice. His voice, thick with pain and humiliation, croaked out:

“I… I planted the dagger! Eirik’s innocent!”
The words hung in the frigid air like execution bells. Everyone knew Garrick framed Eirik—it was practically tradition. But hearing him confess? Under duress, yes, but confess nonetheless? It was unprecedented. 

“Good brother.” Eirik’s voice was devoid of triumph. He tossed the fish-gutting dagger onto the floor with a clatter while releasing Garrick entirely. 

Garrick scrambled backward like a crab, scrambling to his feet, clutching his ruined face. Pure, venomous hatred burned in his eyes through the blood and tears.
“YOU’RE DEAD! DEAD!” he spat while staggering through the doorway, the guards scrambling after him like chastised puppies, their earlier arrogance utterly shattered. 

Marta stood rooted to the spot like she’d been transported to a nightmare realm. She looked at Eirik, then at the blood on the floor, then back at Eirik.

Eirik turned his gaze fully on her. The intensity of it made her flinch violently.

“I’m hungry.” His voice was conversational, utterly at odds with the violence that had just occurred. “Bring me meat this time.”
That broke her paralysis. With a strangled gasp, she whirled and fled, vanishing down the corridor without a backward glance. 

Eirik’s eyes fell on the bloodstained floor. His ribs ached fiercely now that the adrenaline was fading. The repercussions of what he’d just done — humiliating and severely injuring the Baron’s heir — loomed like an avalanche. Garrick would run straight to Cedric, spinning lies, demanding blood. What would Cedric, the ruthless, strength-worshipping Baron, do?
Doesn’t matter, Eirik thought, a fierce defiance settling in his core. Living like Spineless Eirik was a slow death sentence anyway. He’d rather embrace the danger and pain that came from living by his own will and choices. 

Still, he needed to prepare. Garrick’s confession wouldn’t suffice. He’d need proof, leverage, something to counter the inevitable storm Cedric would unleash. His mind raced, cataloging the room… 

A sharp ping echoed inside his skull, impossibly clear. 

[LOADING SYSTEM…]