Seated behind the desk, Cedric Stormcrow wore a simple tunic of dark wool, the Stormcrow raven embroidered over his heart. To Cedric's right, Earl Borin Ironhelm slouched in a heavy wooden armchair that seemed too small for him. He nursed a large tankard of ale, already half-empty despite the early hour. His face was ruddy, his russet-grey beard slightly damp. He grinned around the rim as Eirik entered.

  To Cedric's left stood Rurik Stormcrow. His half-brother wore impeccable dark blue wool over practical leather armor. His expression was attentive neutrality, but his dark eyes were sharp, scanning Eirik from boots to hairline.

  "You sent for me, Lord Father?" Eirik's voice projected calm he didn't entirely feel. He bowed crisply towards Cedric and then slightly towards Borin. "Lord Earl."

  Cedric didn't offer a seat. "Commander Stormcrow." The use of the title was deliberate, acknowledging Eirik's new position while maintaining distance. "Earl Borin requires details on the deployment of your… Talons." His gaze flickered towards the sheaf of parchment in Eirik's hand. "I understand you intend to leave Stormkeep territory."

  Eirik stepped forward, placing the muster roll and deployment plan on Cedric's desk. "Yes, Lord Father. Lord Earl. I present the muster roll for the Talons and our initial deployment plan, submitted as protocol requires."

  Borin leaned forward, his chair creaking. "Deployment? Already? Bit eager to spend your new coin, aren't you lad?" He chuckled, taking a deep swig. "Or just eager to be away from the nest?"

  Eirik met Borin's gaze squarely. "Eager for practical field experience, Lord Earl. The Talons are green. Drills can only teach so much. They need to face a real threat, learn to work as a unit under pressure." He gestured at the papers. "And we have secured a contract."

  Cedric's eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. He picked up the muster roll, scanning the neatly written names. "Seventy-three men?" He looked up. "And you propose to take them… where, precisely?"

  "North, Lord Father. To the foothills bordering Lord Arcturus Flint's territory" Eirik answered factually. "A significant source of high-grade iron ore has been discovered there, vital for forging weapons against the Skarl raiders. However, the access tunnels and surrounding valleys are heavily infested with Ice Troll dens. Lord Flint's men have suffered casualties trying to clear them."

  Borin slammed his tankard down. "Ice Trolls! Frost's frozen balls, lad! Sending your fresh recruits against Trolls? That's not field experience, that's suicide! Those things peel knights out of plate like walnuts!" He looked at Cedric. "Cedric, surely you see the folly? These… Talons… will be minced meat!"

  Exactly the reaction Ingrid would love. Proof of recklessness. Eirik kept his expression neutral. "Respectfully, Lord Earl, the Talons aren't intended as heavy infantry to meet a Troll charge head-on. That would be suicide. Our approach leverages preparation, terrain, and specialized tools."

  He pointed to a section of the deployment plan. "We will operate in small squads. Utilizing elevated positions, choke points, and natural obstacles. We'll employ extensive pit traps – deep, spiked trenches camouflaged with snow and weak ice. Trolls are powerful but clumsy and predictable in their aggression." He paused, meeting Cedric's gaze. "And we possess a tool well-suited to vermin clearance in enclosed spaces."

  The implication hung heavy in the air. Borin's eyes widened with dawning comprehension.

  "Frostfire," Cedric stated flatly.

  "Yes, Lord Father," Eirik confirmed. "Properly deployed into a Troll den entrance or baited into a prepared kill zone, a Frostfire bomb incinerates the contents within moments. It bypasses the need for protracted melee against superior physical strength. Efficient. Relatively low risk to my personnel… compared to conventional assault tactics. Lord Flint's Master-at-Arms, Captain Torvin, has approved the contract. He sees the value in our… method."

  Borin whistled low. "Using those fire jars on Troll dens… Frost's teeth, that is clever. Nasty business, but clever. Smoke the bastards out and roast 'em alive in their holes!" He stroked his beard. "Flint gets his mine. You get paid and blood your pups. Efficient indeed. How many jars you taking?"

  How much do I reveal? Borin might want some for himself. "A sufficient quantity for the estimated dens, Lord Earl. Production is… intensive. We cannot spare any beyond our operational requirements at this time." Eirik saw the brief flash of disappointment. He wants the toys. "However, upon successful completion and return, scaled production may become feasible."

  "Hmmph," Borin grunted, reaching for his tankard again. "See that it does. Could use a few dozen of those things myself. Skarls love their caves too."

  Cedric had been silently assessing the papers and Eirik's responses. He finally set the deployment plan down. "The muster roll… Leif Fenrir. You list him as a Lieutenant."

  "Yes, Lord Father," Eirik replied, prepared for this. "He commanded the shield wall that held Gunnar's veterans during the war game. He followed orders under pressure. He possesses valuable tactical training and understands Northern warfare better than most recruits. His position… encourages House Fenrir's continued loyalty and investment."

  "And… Olaf?"

  "My senior lieutenant and drillmaster, Lord Father. Experienced. Fiercely loyal. Knows how to forge discipline in raw recruits. He commands the men's respect."

  Cedric leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. "You move with speed and… audacity, Son. Mustering a force, forging weapons of war, securing contracts beyond your station, deploying against dangerous foes barely a month after crawling out of your hovel." He paused, his gaze boring into Eirik. "You exceed expectations. Consistently."

  Is that approval? Or suspicion? Eirik kept his posture rigid. "Survival demanded action, Lord Father. Stagnation was death."

  "Indeed," Cedric murmured.

  Rurik chose that moment to speak.

  "It truly is remarkable, Eirik. The transformation." He offered a smile. "I confess, when news first trickled south, I scarcely believed it. The Eirik I remember… well." He chuckled. "Forgive my nostalgia, but seeing you stand here now, commanding men, forging alliances… it brings back memories. Perhaps not the happiest for you, but memories nonetheless."

  Eirik kept his face neutral. "We all carry our pasts, Rurik."

  "We do," Rurik agreed amiably. He took a small step forward. "Do you remember the pond? Behind the old stables? Where the willow hung low?" He smiled reminiscently. "Garrick always tried to push you in. Poor Harkin nearly drowned trying to fish you out one time when he succeeded. He was always getting into scrapes trying to look out for you." He chuckled again, shaking his head. "He had such a fierce spirit."

  The pond. Eirik's mind raced, sifting through fragmented memories. Flashes. Cold water soaking ragged clothes. Garrick's mocking laughter. Smaller hands grabbing his arm, hauling him coughing towards the bank. Harkin's face, furious and determined. The smell of wet hay and horse dung.

  He held Rurik's gaze.

  "I remember," Eirik said. He deliberately didn't elaborate. "Harkin always had courage."

  Rurik's smile didn't falter. "He did. Still does, I hear." He smoothly shifted gears. "And what about old Hobb? The stablemaster? Gods, he terrified me when I was small. That scar across his nose. Always smelling of liniment and horse sweat. He caught you trying to feed that lame mare sugar cubes once, remember? Roared like a bear. Said you'd make her colic. Chased you halfway to the gatehouse." He laughed softly, inviting Eirik to share the memory. "You were fast, even then. When you were scared."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Old Hobb. The scar. The smell – liniment, sweat, leather. Images surfaced: the warmth of the mare's muzzle, the illicit thrill of the sugar cube, the sudden bellow like thunder, the terrifying sight of Hobb's scarred face looming, the instinctive bolt of fear sending him sprinting across the courtyard.

  He's checking key details. Things only someone who lived here would know. Eirik forced a slight, tight smile. "Hobb's bellow could curdle milk. He had a soft spot for the horses, though. Feared incompetence more than anything."

  "True enough," Rurik nodded. His eyes were still locked on Eirik's, searching for a flicker, a hesitation. "A harsh teacher, but effective. Do you ever wonder what became of him? Retired to his daughter's farm near Frosthold, I believe. Still alive, last I heard."

  It was a casual question, designed to see if Eirik would invent something unknowable.

  Eirik shrugged minutely. "He earned his peace." I don't know where he went. Best I don't pretend to.

  Rurik studied him for another long moment. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Borin shifted, looking faintly bored by the reminiscing. Cedric watched, his face unreadable, but his eyes sharp, observing the interplay between his sons.

  Finally, Rurik nodded again, his polite smile returning. "He did. Well." He turned slightly towards Cedric and Borin, gracefully stepping back. "My apologies. Seeing Eirik so… capable… brought back the past vividly. The journey he's undertaken is astonishing." He turned his warm gaze back to Eirik. "Truly astonishing. A testament to House Stormcrow's hidden strengths."

  He doesn't have proof. But he's not convinced I'm me. Eirik felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. Ingrid's whispers found fertile ground.

  "Commander Stormcrow's initiative is… notable," Cedric stated, reclaiming control. "The Flint contract serves a useful purpose – removing a pestilence and aiding an allied lord." He tapped the muster roll. "These seventy souls are now your responsibility. Their conduct reflects upon Stormkeep. See they do not shame the raven." His gaze was hard. "You have your orders. Dismissed. Be ready to depart at first light, tomorrow. Report any significant developments via messenger."

  Eirik bowed. "Understood, Lord Father. Lord Earl." He turned crisply and walked towards the door, feeling Rurik's eyes on his back like twin daggers of ice.

  Just before he reached the door, Borin's voice boomed out, thick with ale and sudden thought. "Hold there, Commander!"

  Eirik turned, hand on the iron door handle. "Lord Earl?"

  Borin grinned. "Almost forgot! That Frostfire display… impressive bang! Got me thinking. About those Skarl caves near Deepfrost Pass. Perfect bottle-neck. Three, maybe four of your fancy jars dropped at the entrance as they come charging out at dawn…" He chuckled darkly. "Be a sight cleaner than trying to root them out blade by blade. When you get back… we will be talking bulk orders. Twenty-five talons is steep… but we'll talk. Depend on it!"

  Eirik inclined his head. "As you say, Lord Earl. We will discuss it upon our return." He pushed the heavy door open, stepping out into the cooler, slightly musty air of the corridor. He pulled it shut behind him with a solid thunk.

  ———

  Back to their temporary camp, Eirik spotted Yorick hunched over a makeshift table cobbled together from crates near the central hearth.

  "Commander! The payments! They arrived!" Yoric gestured frantically at a heavy, locked iron chest pushed against the wall. "Mender’s advance! Aksel’s! Stonefist and Knife’s Edge! All here!"

  Eirik’s fatigue momentarily lifted, replaced by fierce satisfaction. Finally. He crossed the stone floor in three strides, the sound echoing in the near-empty hall. Most Talons were likely at their final drill or packing gear. "Excellent, Yorick. The totals? Combined with our reserves?" He knelt, the cold stone biting through his leathers, and inspected the chest. It looked satisfyingly solid. He pulled the key Olaf had given him from his belt pouch. He must be close to that five thousand target.

  He inserted the key. The lock clicked with a heavy, final sound. Eirik lifted the lid.

  Inside, nestled in rough burlap sacks, gleamed thousands of silver talons. The Stormcrow raven stamped on each coin caught the candlelight. It looked like a king’s ransom.

  Yorick shuffled closer, his ledger clutched like a shield. "C-Commander… the sums… they are substantial. But…" He swallowed hard.

  "But?" Eirik’s voice was dangerously calm. He kept his gaze on the coins, sensing the but was about to drop like an anvil. Don’t say it. Not now.

  "It’s… it’s not five thousand, Commander." Yorick’s voice dropped to a whisper. He opened his ledger with trembling fingers. "Allow me… please."

  Eirik straightened slowly and nodded.

  Yorick traced a grimy finger down a column. "Total inflow of the Frostfire advances: Silas Mender’s seven hundred and fifty for thirty units. Aksel’s five hundred for twenty. Stonefist’s seven fifty for thirty. Knife’s Edge five hundred for twenty. That… that totals…" He did a quick mental sum. "Twenty-five hundred."

  Eirik nodded. "And our previous reserve? It should be over two thousand. Combined… four thousand, pushing five?"

  Yorick flinched. "Ah, Commander… our reserve was two thousand three hundred and eighty talons after the feast, yes. But… that was before we became a company of seventy-three men."

  Ah. Eirik closed his eyes for a split second. Soldiers cost money. Especially ones who would risk their life on ice trolls.

  Yorick plowed on. "We have seventy-three mouths to feed, Commander. Seventy-three bodies to clothe, arm, and shelter. You declared the Talons a mercenary company. You promised wages."

  He flipped a page. "First week’s wages for seventy-three men, at the standard recruit rate you authorized? Five silver talons per week per man? Three hundred and sixty-five talons. Paid yesterday. As per contract."

  Eirik felt the number with gravity. When he was alone, every copper he scavenged or earned went straight into his pouch. Now? Now he had an insatiable beast to feed.

  Logistics. What makes empires crumble.

  Yorick wasn’t done. "Then… equipment. Commander, we started with fifty street fighters in rags and Fenrir hand-me-downs. We need to be a functional fighting force. Basic gambesons for all? Standard padded armor? Five talons each? Three hundred and sixty-five talons. Ordered and half-paid for delivery before we leave." He paused, seeing the storm gathering in Eirik’s eyes. "Spare boots. Socks. Mittens. Against this cold? Easily another fifty talons." Four hundred and fifteen.

  He tapped another entry. "Weapons maintenance. Sharpening stones, honing oil, leather for grips, spare spearheads for those using scavenged gear… thirty talons. Food for seventy-three men for the week-long journey to Flint’s territory, plus reserves? Another hundred talons. Feed for the four pack mules we just acquired? Twenty talons. Tarps for shelter, extra ropes for climbing, basic medical supplies – honey, clean linen, needle and gut? Forty talons." One hundred and ninety more. Total bleed: Nearly eight hundred talons in a single week, on top of wages.

  The numbers cascaded. Yorick pointed to the chest. "Combined with our previous reserve and the Frostfire advances… total available funds are… three thousand eight hundred and seventy talons."

  Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the frantic flutter of pages as Yorick nervously double-checked. Eirik stared at the ledger, then the chest full of silver that suddenly seemed pitifully small. Three thousand, eight hundred and seventy.

  [Tutorial Quest #3 (Stewardship): Build A Warchest - 3,870 / 5,000 Silver Talons]

  The system prompt pulsed in his vision. So close. And yet… one thousand, one hundred and thirty talons short. Not ‘pushing five’. Miles away.

  Yorick wilted under the oppressive silence. "Commander… I… I apologize. Perhaps I should recalculate…"

  Eirik held up a hand, cutting him off. "No, Yorick. Your numbers are sound. You kept the accounts faithfully." He looked around the dim hall – at the stacked crates of basic gear, the burlap sacks of black bread near the hearth, the faint smell of men and leather and cold stone. This was his creation. His responsibility.

  And it devoured silver like a dragon.

  He slammed the chest lid shut. The heavy thud echoed. What other choice is there? Delay? Staying invites scrutiny, sabotage, stagnation. The system quest could wait. He will find another way.

  He met Yorick’s worried gaze. "Secure the chest. Pack everything essential. We move out at first light, as ordered. The Talons get their boots, their gambesons, and their rations. Everything they need."

  Yorick nodded vigorously. "Understood, Commander! Immediately!"

  Eirik turned away from the chest, his gaze swept the camp, landing on Olaf barking orders, Leif quietly checking spear shafts against a list, Isolde Fenrir directing two Talons packing medical supplies with quiet efficiency. It was great to see his men working with the urgency he always demanded of himself.

  But one piece is missing. One critical piece… and I might not get another chance to secure him.

  The image of the dank cellar workshop, filled with volatile fumes and manic energy, flashed in his mind.

  Fisk.

  He was happy here. He had his dank kingdom. Stormkeep, for all its dangers, was his home. Asking him to leave meant asking him to trade relative security for the unknown dangers of the road, a mercenary camp, and active warzones. It meant trusting Eirik with his life, not just his profits.

  How do you bait a creature of chaos and greed?

  Eirik strode towards inside. "Olaf! Final gear checks. Leif! Rations and water – double the estimates. Isolde! Coordinate with Yorick on the manifests." His commands snapped out, crisp and clear, cutting through the low murmur of preparation. "I have one last recruit to secure before we depart."

  Leif looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "A recruit, Commander? This late? Who?"

  "Our master alchemist." Eirik said, already pulling the heavy door open.