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?"

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "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. "Three talons."

  "Three? 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. "One."

  Fisk winced theatrically. "One? 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. One talon covers costs, hazard, and healthy profit. For one hundred units? One hundred talons."

  Fisk's eyes darted. He chewed his lip. One 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. "One Talon. Brutal! Cutting Uncle Fisk to the bone! But for a partner? For the future of controlled combustion?" An oily grin returned. "Fisk accepts. One 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.