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.

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  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.