Eirik pushed his half-finished plate away, nodded curtly to Olaf and Leif – both instantly alert, sensing the shift – and followed the steward.

  The walk felt longer than it was. Eyes tracked him – nobles whispering behind hands, retainers pausing mid-bite. The heat from the roaring fireplaces pressed against his chilled skin.

  He reached the head table, dominated by Earl Borin Ironhelm's broad frame, Cedric's granite presence, and Ingrid's chillingly perfect smile.

  "Ah! The man of the hour!" Borin boomed, sloshing ale from his tankard. He grinned, ruddy cheeks flushed. "Eirik Stormcrow! Pull up a seat, lad!"

  He gestured expansively to a hastily added stool at the end, conspicuously below Garrick and Rurik. Birgitte sat beside Rurik, her glacial eyes assessing him with detached curiosity. Garrick, nursing his bruised face and arm, glared daggers but stayed silent under Ingrid's invisible command.

  Eirik inclined his head. "Lord Earl. Lord Father." He sat.

  "Heard tales that'd make a Skarl bard blush!" Borin leaned forward, his voice carrying across the suddenly quieter table. "They reached me even before I crossed the Frostfang! Said you beat Leif Fenrir – Your father's best young swordsman! – in a duel? Then you whipped up a mercenary band outta ditch diggers and crushed your brother and Cedric's own Marshal?"

  He chuckled, a deep rumble. "How in the Frost's frozen heart did you manage that, lad? Share the secret! We could use some tricks against those damned raiders!"

  Here it comes. Eirik kept his gaze level. "Necessity, Lord Earl. I used what was available."

  But Ingrid smoothly stepped in. "Oh, Lord Earl, don't let his modesty fool you! My stepson is far too humble." She beamed at Eirik with maternal pride. "It was pure genius! Resourcefulness worthy of Stormcrow legends!"

  She's laying it on thick.

  Ingrid continued, her eyes glittering. "He didn't just use the terrain, Lord Earl, he transformed it! He had his men prepare the field beforehand – logs, ropes, cunning pitfalls! He lured Garrick's knights and Gunnar's veterans into perfect killing zones using nothing but their own predictable tactics against them!"

  "And the finale! He scaled that sheer ice cliff like a mountain goat! Simply breathtaking! Why, Marshal Gunnar himself was speechless!"

  Eirik felt the trap tightening.

  Birgitte leaned forward slightly. "He scaled a sheer cliff? During a battle?" Her voice held a touch of disbelief.

  "Yes! Lady Birgitte!" Ingrid gushed, turning her dazzling smile on the Earl's daughter. "With nothing but a simple tool he designed himself! Ingenious!"

  She sighed theatrically. "Barely three weeks ago, Eirik was… well, finding his path. Now? He shatters Rurik's own prodigious record entering the Snow Realm at nineteen! He defeats a renowned warrior! He builds a company from nothing and defeats seasoned veterans! It's… miraculous, wouldn't you say, Lord Earl?"

  MIRACULOUS. The word hung in the air, heavy and dangerous.

  Borin's jovial expression shifted. His bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead. "Shattered Rurik's record? Nineteen? Frost's breath!" He looked between Eirik and Rurik. "And you stayed hidden all these years, lad? Why the sudden bloom? Late starter?"

  Eirik's mind raced. Danger!

  He needed an answer that was plausible, boring. "Training, Lord Earl. Focused effort. After… a difficult time." A spark of genuine anger flared in Garrick's eyes, quickly smothered.

  But Ingrid wouldn't let it drop. She leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a murmur just loud enough for the entire table. "His genius knows no bounds, Lord Earl. Why, just yesterday, I acquired something quite remarkable… something else he created."

  Her hand dipped beneath the tablecloth. No.

  She carefully, deliberately, placed a Frostfire bomb onto the polished oak surface.

  Eirik's blood turned to ice water. How?! The smooth, clear ice flask gleamed under the torchlight, the dark, viscous fuel clearly visible inside, the wick protruding innocuously. His design.

  Panic surged, instantly crushed by cold fury and sharpened focus. Who? When? Fisk? Or the merchants? Someone got sloppy.

  Borin's eyes widened. "What in the frozen hells is that? Some kind of fancy lantern?"

  "Far more, Lord Earl!" Ingrid's smile was triumphant, predatory. "This, my lords and lady, is 'Frostfire'. Another of Eirik's astonishing inventions! Crafted with rare alchemy, contained within enchanted ice of his own making."

  She paused, letting the false description sink in. "It delivers purifying flame precisely where it's needed most. Utterly devastating."

  Birgitte's glacial eyes widened, fixed on the bomb. Rurik's gaze snapped to it, then flickered to Eirik. His expression remained perfectly composed.

  Cedric's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking. He clearly hadn't known about this either.

  Borin slammed a fist on the table, rattling plates. "Devastating? Show me! By the Frost, I want to see this marvel!" His earlier joviality was replaced by the warrior's eager curiosity. "Outside! Now!"

  Trapped. Eirik saw the gleam in Ingrid's eyes. This was her masterstroke. Force him to demonstrate his creation, reveal its terrifying power publicly. Make it undeniable. Make him shine. And in shining, cast a long, suspicious shadow.

  How does a broken bastard suddenly create weapons of war?

  "Lord Earl," Eirik began, his voice carefully measured, "the demonstration requires preparation. Open space. Targets. It's not safe…"

  "Nonsense!" Borin bellowed, already standing. "Plenty of space in the main courtyard! Targets? Find some old shields! Barrels! Move!" He started barking orders at his own guards.

  Ingrid rose gracefully. "Of course, Lord Earl. Commander Stormcrow is merely being cautious. Such power demands respect." She shot Eirik a look of pure admiration. "Shall we?"

  There was no refusing. Cedric rose stiffly, his expression thunderous. Rurik assisted Birgitte to her feet, his movements unhurried, his gaze lingering on the Frostfire bomb Ingrid now cradled like a precious trophy.

  Garrick scrambled up, radiating schadenfreude. Finally, the bastard gets his.

  The procession moved through the Great Hall, leaving stunned silence and buzzing speculation in its wake. Olaf and Leif met Eirik's eyes as he passed; he gave them a sharp, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  The frigid air of the main courtyard was a shock after the hall's heat. Torches flared, casting long, dancing shadows. Borin's men efficiently cleared the center space and dragged over a heavy wooden door salvaged from some outbuilding, propping it up like a crude shield wall. Someone brought a moldy straw pallet.

  "Right then!" Borin rubbed his hands together, oblivious to the thick tension. "Let's see what this pretty ice jar does! Commander?" He gestured grandly at Eirik.

  Eirik stepped forward. His mind was cold crystal. Damage control.

  He took the Frostfire bomb from Ingrid. Her fingers brushed his, cold and deliberate. He ignored her. He focused on the task.

  "Stand back, Lord Earl," Eirik warned, his voice carrying authority. "All of you. At least twenty paces." He projected calm confidence. Hesitation now would look suspicious.

  Borin and his entourage shuffled back. Cedric and Ingrid moved with them. Rurik guided Birgitte back, placing himself slightly in front of her, his posture protective, watchful. Garrick lingered closer, his bruised face eager.

  They need to see it's a weapon, not magic. Eirik took out flint and steel. Make it look mundane. A tool. Not sorcery.

  He struck the flint. Sparks flew. He held them to the wick. A tiny ember caught, sizzling softly. He felt every eye on him.

  He drew his arm back. Not a throw. A demonstration. He hurled the bomb underhand, aiming squarely for the center of the wooden door. The ice flask spun through the torchlight.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  CRACK-SMASH!

  It hit dead center. Ice exploded. Thick, sticky fluid splattered across the wood.

  For one frozen heartbeat, nothing. The sizzle of the burning fuse the only sound.

  Then…

  WHOOSH!

  Deep orange flame erupted with shocking ferocity. It didn't just ignite; it clung, spreading with terrifying speed across the wooden surface. Intense heat washed over Eirik even from fifteen paces away. The flames roared, thick black smoke coiling into the night sky.

  Within seconds, the heavy door was a blazing pyre, the wood crackling and buckling violently. The nearby straw pallet caught secondary flames, adding to the inferno.

  Gasps erupted from the Earl's entourage. A soldier muttered a curse. Birgitte's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide, reflecting the dancing flames. Not fear, Eirik noted, but stark fascination, perhaps even a hint of awe.

  Borin Ironhelm stared, his mouth slightly open, the boisterous lord replaced by the calculating warrior seeing a new, brutal tool. "Frost's frozen balls…" he breathed.

  Eirik stood motionless, five paces from the blaze.

  Ingrid forced this. Why? To awe Borin? Or to highlight the suddenness, the strangeness? Now Borin sees raw destruction. He's hooked. That's good for selling Frostfire... but terrible for hiding my origins.

  "Contained fire, Lord Earl," Eirik answered, his voice cutting through the crackle. "Alchemy and physics. Not magic. Thickened fuel. A stable vessel." He gestured towards the dwindling blaze. "Effective against fortifications, concentrated troops, or... vermin dens."

  "Effective?!" Borin finally tore his gaze from the flames, rounding on Eirik. "It's bloody terrifying is what it is! A shield wall killer in a bottle!" He stepped closer. "How? How does the ice hold? How do you make it? How many can you make?"

  Before Eirik could formulate a bland answer, Ingrid glided forward, smooth as ice on stone. She placed a gentle, almost proprietary hand on the Earl's massive forearm.

  "Oh, Lord Earl, you cut straight to the heart of it!" Ingrid said. "That's precisely what I marveled at! Eirik guards his secrets well, as any true artisan should!"

  She gestured elegantly towards the dying flames, where scorched wood and melting puddles were all that remained. "But look! Look at the ingenuity!"

  She steered Borin closer to the rapidly dissipating remnants of the flask itself – small, irregular shards of ice melting quickly in the heat. "Observe the vessel, my lord. The shape. Perfectly formed. Smooth as glass. No seam, no flaw. It contained that volatile fire until the very moment of impact! Remarkable craftsmanship."

  She's pointing at the conjured ice itself. Not the fire, not the fuel. The ice. The unnatural perfection of it.

  He saw Rurik's dark eyes narrow, his gaze shifting from flames to melting ice shards.

  "And the process!" Ingrid continued, her voice a conspiratorial murmur that carried perfectly. "To mold ice with such precision? To give it strength enough to hold such power until precisely the right moment? Commander Eirik, you must have discovered some extraordinary technique during your studies in that quiet tower! Was it some forgotten lore? A unique blend of salts? Or perhaps…" she let the pause hang, "…a truly revolutionary understanding of the ice itself? It defies ordinary craftsmanship."

  Her eyes met Eirik's, wide with curiosity. "Truly, where did such an idea spring from? It seems almost… born of pure Frost, doesn't it?"

  There it is. The careful phrasing: 'defies ordinary craftsmanship,' 'born of pure Frost.' She couldn't cry 'magic!' outright, not without sounding hysterical. But she was sowing the seed: how a neglected bastard suddenly produced artifacts of such strange, flawless cold.

  She wants them questioning the source, not just admiring the effect.

  Eirik felt the trap closing. Denial would sound defensive. Explanation was impossible. He needed to redirect Borin's enthusiasm into safe channels.

  He forced a chuckle. "Lady Ingrid flatters my humble efforts," he said, turning to face Borin fully, ignoring her. "The flask's shape? Necessity, Lord Earl. A sphere minimizes weak points, holds pressure best. Smoothness? Careful freezing molds and temperature control. Nothing magical about it, just tedious work and understanding basic principles."

  He waved dismissively at the steaming puddles. "It's ice. It melts. The trick is keeping it cold until it needs to not be cold anymore. Simple logistics."

  He leaned toward the Earl, his tone shifting to soldiers discussing kit. "The real marvel, Lord Earl, is the effect. You saw it. A shield wall? Gone. A barricade? Kindling. Imagine lobbing a few of these into a Skarl raiding party holed up in mountain caves. Or onto an Ice Troll barge. Cleanse the nest without risking a single blade."

  The hungry spark ignited again in Borin's eyes.

  He gestured back towards the hall. "My men call it Frostfire for a reason. It's Northern winter's fury, bottled and delivered on command. A tool. One I've developed, yes, but its value lies in what it does." He paused, letting the image sink in. "The how? That's workshop tradecraft. Ask any alchemist or master smith about their best work – they guard their methods closer than their coffers."

  Ingrid saw her subtlety being bulldozed by Eirik's direct pitch and Borin's fascination with destruction. She quickly interjected. "Precisely, Commander! A marvel of Northern ingenuity! Developed right here at Stormkeep! Born from our harsh land!"

  Her smile was brilliant, inclusive, trying to tie the invention back to House Stormcrow as a whole. "It speaks volumes of the potential that has always… slumbered… within Eirik, wouldn't you agree, Lord Earl?"

  Slumbered. Another dart.

  Eirik gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. "My Lord Earl, forgive us. It seems Lady Ingrid is determined to secure you as Stormkeep's first prestigious client for Frostfire. She's been quite the advocate since… acquiring that sample."

  He let a flicker of annoyance cross his face. "Frostfire is effective. But the price reflects the effort and risk." He met Borin's gaze squarely. "Twenty-five silver talons per unit. Non-negotiable. Production is limited, but available… for the right partners."

  Borin's eyes widened, then crinkled. He threw back his head and let out a booming laugh that echoed off the courtyard walls.

  "HA! By the Frost Mother's icy teats! I see it now!" He clapped Eirik on the shoulder hard enough to stagger a lesser man and pointed at Ingrid. "You two! A matched pair of schemers! Cedric!" he bellowed. "Your lady wife and your bastard are trying to squeeze me dry before I've even finished my first barrel of ale! Frostfire indeed! More like Silver-fire!"

  He wiped a tear of mirth from his eye. "Twenty-five talons a pop? For a jar of frozen lamp oil that makes a big boom? That's steep, lad! Steep as the Frostfangs!" He was still grinning, the suspicion Ingrid tried to seed washed away by amusement at the perceived haggling. The sheer ordinariness of a sales pitch was something he understood.

  Ingrid's perfectly composed smile tightened almost imperceptibly. She'd aimed for revelation and landed being painted as a mercenary broker. "Lord Earl," she began, "I merely wished to showcase Commander Eirik's remarkable achievement..."

  "Bah! Showcased it right into my purse, didn't you?" Borin chuckled again, though his eyes, flicking back to the smoldering remains and then to Eirik, held a calculating gleam beneath the mirth. He understood the weapon's value, regardless of origins. "Alright, lad. Impressive bang, I'll grant you that. Makes sieging easier. But twenty-five? We need to talk numbers, logistics, and discounts for bulk orders!"

  He winked, the jovial lord firmly back, but the warrior was already planning deployment. "But later! After Cedric and I settle these Skarl reports. Come!" He threw an arm around Cedric and steered him back towards the hall's warmth. "My throat's drier than a beggar's prayer!"

  The Earl's entourage began to follow. Rurik lingered, his dark eyes moving from Ingrid's pinched expression to Eirik's controlled face, then to the last, rapidly vanishing sliver of conjured ice on the cobblestones. His gaze was unreadable but intensely observant. He offered no comment, simply turned and guided Birgitte back inside.

  Garrick glared pure hatred at Eirik, but Ingrid's sharp glance silenced any outburst. She swept after Cedric and the Earl, posture straight despite the setback.

  Eirik stood alone in the suddenly quiet courtyard, the acrid smell of burnt wood thick in the air. The cold seeped back in, biting through his clothes.

  He had sidestepped Ingrid's trap, turning it into a crude sales opportunity, but the cost was high. The unnatural perfection of the ice flask had been spotlighted. Rurik had noticed. The seed was planted.

  Ten thousand mana fragments, the thought hammered in his skull. And the Crystal. I need out. Now. Before Ingrid sets another trap, before Borin demands another demonstration, before Rurik starts digging deeper. He needed that ascension, and freedom to hunt the Crystal far from Stormkeep's poisonous politics.

  Olaf and Leif materialized from the shadows near the gatehouse, expressions grimly alert. Yorick hovered behind them, looking pale.

  "Commander?" Olaf rumbled low. "That was... tense."

  "Understatement, Olaf," Eirik rasped, scrubbing a hand over his face. He could feel the hollow ache of his near-empty mana core. "Ingrid forced our hand. Exposed Frostfire deliberately."

  "To make you look suspicious," Leif stated flatly.

  "She tried," Eirik said. "Borin saw a weapon. For now. But the risk is higher. We need our first contract. We need out." He focused on Olaf. "Flint's Master-at-Arms. Troll dens. Did you get a name?"

  "Aye, Commander," Olaf nodded. "Captain Torvin. Tough sod. Looked like he'd bite a troll's nose off himself. He's drinking with Borin's captains."

  "Good." Eirik straightened, pushing weariness down. "Leif, find Harkin. Tell him we need final inventory of usable gear – weapons, armor, winter kit. Assume we're moving out within days. Yorick." He turned to the quartermaster. "Payment from the merchants should arrive tomorrow or the next day. Be ready to collect it. We'll need supplies for a hard journey north. Assume... thirty men, two weeks minimum in deep cold. Prioritize rations, medical supplies, climbing gear, cold weather additives for the ale."

  Yorick swallowed, pulling out his wax tablet. "A-at once, Commander. Two weeks... deep north? Where exactly?"

  "Lord Arcturus Flint's territory," Eirik said, his gaze turning towards the distant, unseen peaks. "Specifically, the hills near the Ironvein he's trying to clear. Troll dens are just the cover story, Yorick. There's something else up there. Something I need."

  "The caves?" Leif asked quietly.

  "Deep Ice Caves," Eirik confirmed. "Captain Torvin and his complaints about blocked caves and lost men would be our way in. We offer to clear the trolls. Flint gets his iron mine operational. We get access, information, and pay. And I..."

  He clenched his fist, feeling the faint pulse of his drained core. "...get a chance to find what I need to become more than just a maker of frozen bombs in a locked cell."

  Olaf grinned fiercely. Leif's jaw tightened, but he gave a sharp nod. Yorick just determinedly scribbled notes.

  "Right," Eirik said, turning towards the hall. The noise of the feast spilled out again. "Olaf, find this Captain Torvin. Sound him out. Express the Talons'... interest... in practical field testing against worthy foes. Be polite. Be professional. But make it clear we're the solution to his troll problem."

  Olaf slammed a fist to his chest. "Aye, Commander!"

  "Leif, Yorick, see to your tasks. I need to endure the rest of this farce."

  He took a deep breath of the frigid, smoke-tainted air, steeling himself, and walked back towards the Great Hall's roaring light.