The chamber he’d chosen for this… negotiation… was one he’d initially carved as a private meeting space – the same room where he’d confronted Varn and Flint.

  It felt painfully inadequate now.

  Carved directly from the bedrock, its only furnishing was the massive granite table he’d absorbed and smoothed himself, surrounded by similarly crude stone benches. A few more lanterns hung from newly installed hooks, their light pooling on the table's surface, which had been surprisingly well-dressed.

  "Not exactly Stormkeep's banquet hall, eh, Chantress?" Borin rubbed his hands together against the lingering chill of the descent. "Bit… earthy!"

  He chuckled.

  Playing the jolly fool perfectly, Eirik noted. But he wants to see how resource-starved I am.

  "The foundations are solid, Earl Borin," Eirik gestured towards the table. "Solid ground for honest talk. And we have sustenance."

  Thanks to Lord Flint's "goodwill shipment," the table wasn't bare.

  Platters held thick slices of smoked venison haunch. Bowls contained steaming root vegetable mash – parsnips and turnips mostly, flavored with wild herbs Fisk had identified. A basket contained coarse barley bread, cut into thick slabs. Clay pitchers held ale, and one other held clean melted snow-water.

  It was rustic but undeniably decent fare.

  "Ha! Venison!" Borin clapped his hands again. "Right then! Let's not let it freeze. Chantress, please, the place of honor! Rurik, lad, sit! Eat!"

  Varina glided to the head of the table, while Rurik flashed his charming smile as he took a seat beside Borin.

  "Far better fare than we expected, brother! A credit to your… resourcefulness." He tore off a piece of bread. "And this chamber! Remarkable work! Truly, you've built a sanctuary beneath the ice." He gestured expansively with the bread. "It speaks volumes to your ambition."

  The food was passed around. Venison was carved, mash spooned onto wooden trenchers. Borin tucked in with gusto, smacking his lips.

  "Mmmph! Tasty! Needs salt, mind, but tasty!"

  Varina took a single small piece of venison and a spoonful of mash. She ate with precise movements.

  The heavy door scraped open.

  Lady Isolde Fenrir entered, and dipped a graceful curtsey.

  "Earl Borin. Chantress Varina. Lord Stormcrow." Her gaze skipped over Rurik. "Forgive the intrusion. Commander, might I have a brief word regarding the… settlement arrangements?"

  "Of course, Lady Fenrir." Eirik rose. "Please excuse me for a moment. Would you see to our guests, brother?"

  Rurik’s smile widened slightly. "Of course, brother. Take your time. We are quite content."

  Eirik stepped into the tunnel just outside the door. Isolde closed it almost completely.

  "Well?"

  "Mara," Isolde whispered. “She’s gone. I searched everywhere. Not in the caverns, not near the healers. Her child too.”

  Eirik’s stomach tightened. Had the Order taken her? Had she fled? Was she a plant? A thousand terrifying possibilities exploded in his mind.

  "Then keep looking. We need her."

  "Understood. What's the situation there?"

  "Varina is preparing for a sentence that determines whether I would be in huge trouble or elevated. I think she's leaning towards the former. Borin wants to see where the wind blows. Rurik…" Eirik glanced back at the sliver of light from the door. "...Rurik would make sure she knows of the danger I pose to the realm."

  Isolde nodded grimly. "Need my help in there?"

  Eirik shook his head as he re-entered the chamber. Rurik was mid-sentence.

  "...simply astonishing, Chantress. The faith here… it’s unlike anything in Frostholme or even the High Temple. So raw and powerful. Almost… independent." He paused. "It flows directly to the source."

  He gestured vaguely towards Eirik as he sat down. "The Commander. The Chosen Vessel. He inspires it." He took a sip of ale. "One wonders what becomes of such pure, unmediated devotion if it spreads? If Abercrombie becomes… not just a holy site, but a new center of faith?" He smiled innocently at Varina. "It presents… unique opportunities for the Order, wouldn’t you say?"

  There it is. Eirik felt the trap yawn open. Rurik was playing around anymore.

  Borin chuckled, wiping grease from his beard with the back of his hand.

  "Ha! Always the deep thinker, Rurik! Faith and capitals! Makes my head spin! Me, I just see a lot of cold people needing walls and stew! Seems young Eirik here is doing a fair job on both counts!" He thumped the table. "Pass that venison again!"

  Rurik seized the opening.

  “Fair job indeed, Earl Borin. And growing busier by the hour, fueled by tales of… well, everything.”

  He turned his charming smile towards Varina.

  “One truly wonders, Chantress, how such a fervent, personal devotion, centered so completely on a single figure – the Commander – can be… integrated? The Frost Mother’s grace manifesting so directly here, away from the High Temple… it’s unprecedented. The potential for… misunderstanding… among the less educated faithful is significant, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He was expertly whispering the word ‘schism’ into Varina’s ear without saying it. Eirik felt the trap tightening. He had to diffuse this now.

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  “Lord Rurik speaks of devotion I barely understand,” Eirik returned to his seat. “I build walls, Chantress. But I certainly don’t command their faith. The statue was a symbol of the endurance I thought the Frost Mother represented, while making sure I established an adequate income source to sustain this place. Was I wrong?”

  Borin jumped in, predictably steering towards the coin.

  “Focus! Symbols! Fine things, but let’s talk brass tacks, eh? All these people! Hundreds, Rurik says! Hundreds paying a silver talon just to walk in?” He whistled. “That’s a mountain of silver, lad! Feeding ’em all must cost a pretty penny too! How’s the purse holding up?”

  Eirik seized the lifeline.

  “A constant challenge, Earl Borin. The fee pays for everything, including the very food that we are enjoying. Without it…” He spread his hands. “This sanctuary collapses. The faith you see, Chantress? It’s built on full bellies and safe walls as much as any statue.”

  “A pragmatic view, Commander,” Varina stated. “But the source of the manifestations requires… examination. The energy signature is… Untrained.”

  The pressure returned subtly this time. Not the violent drain, but a chilling probe. Eirik felt it worming against his senses, testing the boundaries of his core, his connection to the ice. He fought to keep his breathing even.

  “Untrained? Yes, Chantress,” Eirik agreed readily. “But when the need is great… when the Skarls were at the gate, when the refugees were freezing… I can… shape it. Channel it into form. I don’t understand the ‘how’. I only know the ‘must’. I’d welcome understanding.”

  He bowed his head slightly. “The Order’s wisdom is vast. Perhaps… perhaps you could guide me? Help me channel this… resonance… more safely? For the good of all?”

  Rurik’s expression flickered.

  “Guidance is a noble offer, brother,” he interjected smoothly. “But guidance requires stability, does it not?” He spread his hands. “Wouldn’t a period of focused study in a more… controlled environment… be safer? For everyone? The Order’s libraries, their sanctums in the Everwinter Peaks… surely that’s where true understanding lies?”

  Borin suddenly looked uncomfortable.

  “Hmm. Libraries. Not sure it suits a lad of action like Eirik here, eh? Got a fortress to run! People to feed! Important business!”

  He tried to inject his booming jollity, but it fell flat.

  “Chantress Varina,” Eirik said. “Lord Rurik speaks of stability. But removing me… the ‘Chosen Vessel’… from Abercrombie now?”

  He gestured towards upwards.

  “The faith here, however misguided you may find it, is tied to this place. If I am taken away… Would that not create the very instability Lord Rurik fears?”

  Varina’s expression didn’t change, but the chilling probe intensified for a fraction of a second. Eirik gritted his teeth against the surge of nausea

  Rurik's voice becoming more intimate.

  “Brother, your concern for the faithful is touching. But surely the Order, with the Chantress’s wisdom, can manage any… transition? A suitable replacement ?” His smile was thin. “The greater good sometimes requires difficult choices.”

  Eirik’s blood ran cold. They wouldn’t just silence him, oh no. They’d replace him and take away everything he’d built. That was their plan all along.

  “The greater good,” Eirik repeated slowly. “A noble concept. Tell me, brother, is the greater good served by dismantling a bulwark against the Skarls? By scattering thousands of pilgrims back into the wilds to freeze or be slaughtered? By destroying the largest source of revenue and hope the North has seen in generations, simply because its origin is… inconvenient?”

  He shifted his gaze to Borin.

  “Earl Borin, you see the numbers. You understand the flow of silver. What happens to your trade routes, your tax base, if Abercrombie falls? If hope dies because the Order feared its shape?”

  Borin looked from Eirik to Varina to Rurik, conflict plain on his face.

  “Well… um… point taken, lad. Disruption… bad for business. Very bad.” He looked at Varina. “Chantress… surely there’s a… a middle path? Temporary?”

  Before Varina could respond, Rurik pressed again.

  “Stability is the middle path, Earl Borin. True stability, under the Order’s firm guidance. Uncontrolled power, especially power that draws devotion away from the established channels, is the disruption.”

  He turned his intense gaze back on Varina.

  “Chantress, the risk of delay is too great. The Commander’s unique abilities demand the Order’s most rigorous study, for his own safety and the realm’s. Everwinter Peaks will groom my brother into a true asset for the North. This, and only this, is the stabilizing choice.”

  Eirik felt the tide turned against him, yet he was not a man to give up so easily.

  He stood up.

  "A worthy goal, Brother. The most worthy goal."

  Borin blinked, momentarily surprised by the apparent agreement.

  "But true stability," Eirik continued, "isn't just about removing a perceived threat. Abercrombie works. It feeds hundreds, shelters them, guards them against the Skarls. Removing me creates a vacuum that'd soon be filled by Skarl arrows. Is that stability?"

  He saw Borin nodding slowly.

  "You wish to study my power, Chantress? What better place than here?" He spread his hands. "Where its effects – the walls, the statue, the people drawn to it – can be observed in their natural context?"

  He leaned further in.

  "Right here, Chantress. I will cooperate fully. You guide my ‘untrained’ power, as you put it. We understand its limits, its sources… And Abercrombie thrives under your watch. The Order’s wisdom applied directly to a miracle. Is that not the ultimate control?"

  He saw the tiniest flicker in Varina’s glacial eyes.

  "By the Frost Mother, he’s got a point, Chantress!" Borin boomed. "Much better than stuffing him in a library! And the coin keeps flowing! Win-win, eh?"

  "My brother speaks smoothly," Rurik’s charming facade cracked. "But the risk is too great. For my brother's own protection, Chantress. For the protection of the faithful here, who might be harmed by..."

  "Harm?" Eirik’s voice remained calm. "The only harm done here, Rurik, has been inflicted by Skarl raiders, which I drove off. By freezing refugees, whom I sheltered. Show me one pilgrim harmed by my ‘surges’."

  He addressed Varina again.

  "I offer you full cooperation, here. Remove me, and you risk turning this place of burgeoning faith into a beacon of resentment against the Order. Is that stability, Chantress?"

  Varina moved.

  One slender hand lifted from the table. Not dramatically, but with the terrifying precision of a viper striking. Her lips parted.

  "Gelu... Statum."

  The two simple words slammed into Eirik.

  He had braced for another mana drain. This was worse.

  An instant, paralyzing cold that locked every fiber of his being. His breath caught in his throat, frozen mid-inhale.

  His eyes remained wide open, fixed on Varina, but he couldn’t even blink. Panic flared white-hot in his mind, instantly smothered by the sheer, unnatural cold encasing him.

  "The debate is concluded. The Commander will receive an immediate examination within the High Temple."

  Varina glanced at Borin.

  "You will oversee the orderly transition of temporal authority here, Earl. Appoint a suitable replacement."

  Borin swallowed hard.

  "Aye, Chantress. Of course. Rurik here knows the place… and the people," he mumbled.

  Rurik bowed his head. "I serve the Order and the North, Earl Borin. Your approval humbles me."

  Varina’s gaze returned to Eirik.

  The crushing cold released him as suddenly as it had struck.

  Eirik collapsed forward as his lungs desperately pulled in air. He braced himself against the granite table, fighting the urge to retch as his body remembered how to function.

  "Commander," Varina gave him a look. "What say you? Shall we proceed with unnecessary difficulty, or do I have your complete cooperation?"

  Eirik's vision swam as he lifted his head.

  He had not hoped it would come to this. He had wished either the order or his brother would display a sliver of appreciation and grace for what he had achieved here.

  He had overestimated the humanity left within them. No more.

  It was time to give them what they’re due.

  His shoulders sagged, and he assumed the posture of a beaten man—head bowed, hands trembling slightly as they gripped the table's edge.

  "I... I understand, Chantress. Full cooperation. Whatever the Order requires."

  "Splendid!" Rurik clapped his hands together. "Truly, brother, this wisdom does you credit. The Order's guidance will serve you well."

  Varina rose from her seat with fluid grace.

  "Excellent. Lord Rurik. Ensure he addresses the populace and makes clear that authority now rests with you. I trust this can be accomplished before dawn?"

  Rurik bowed deeply. "Of course, Chantress."

  "Then we are concluded." Varina moved toward the door without another glance at Eirik's hunched form.