"Shut the door, Olaf."

  Sindri, Yorick, Isolde, Olaf, and Leif stood clustered near the massive table inside the same chamber where he had met with Borin and Varina. This room surely was getting more and more busy by the day.

  The big man slammed the timber shut that made dust sift from the ceiling.

  "The Frost Mother," Eirik began, "works in ways we barely comprehend."

  He locked eyes with Sindri, Yorick, and Isolde in turn.

  "She has bestowed upon you – Sindri, Yorick, Isolde – a fragment of Her clarity. A way to serve Abercrombie more directly. Do you feel it?"

  Sindri raised a trembling hand towards the stone wall beside him.

  "The... the weight... the angles..." he rasped. "I see... stress lines. Like veins in the stone. Here... and here... weak points... "

  Then, a shimmering blueprint of interconnected shafts and mirrored chambers seemed to hover faintly in the space before him for a fraction of a second before dissolving.

  Yorick gasped, stumbling back a step.

  "Precisely," Eirik said. "Sindri. You are now Master of Construction. That clarity is yours to command. Think of it as a blueprint magic of sorts. Build accordingly."

  "Aye... Commander. I... I will. Thank you." A fierce light burned in Sindri’s one good eye.

  Yorick, unable to contain himself any longer, blurted out.

  "Commander! It’s... numbers! Everywhere! But not just numbers!" He waved his quill wildly at his ledger. "Hovering above it! Everywhere! When I look at Fisk... Fisk! It says 'Stall Income: 47 Talons/Daily.' That little ferret! I knew he was holding back!"

  He slammed his ledger shut, breathing hard.

  Isolde took the surprise better than the other two.

  "I also see things that I don't see before. But not in the same way as Master Sindri and Master Yorick. I see a map with relationship status. Is that also your making, Commander?"

  Eirik offered her a small nod.

  Olaf, who had been glowering with increasing confusion, erupted. His massive fist slammed onto the stone table, making Yorick yelp and Sindri flinch.

  "ENOUGH!" Olaf roared. "What in the frozen hells is this?! Glowing! Numbers in the air! Seeing into stones like some Skarl Shaman?!"

  He jabbed a thick finger first at Sindri, then Yorick, then Isolde.

  "They get this... this Mother's Clarity? And us?! Me and Leif?! We held the line against Skarls while this one counted coppers!"

  He pointed at Yorick.

  Leif didn’t shout, but the simmering frustration in his voice was just as potent.

  "Commander. Olaf speaks coarsely, but... he speaks truth. What of the warriors?"

  Eirik pushed himself off the table and walked slowly around it, stopping directly before the two warriors.

  The chamber held its breath.

  He was caught in a vice.

  Leif Fenrir. Noble-born. Educated in the art of war by tutors who'd studied the great campaigns. He knew formations, logistics, the delicate dance of supply lines. Half of Eirik's current fighting force—the Fenrir contingent—would follow Leif into the frozen hells and back. The young man had led an army to victory against the Skarls, proven he could hold steady when blood sprayed and men screamed. He was still raw, but that rawness could be shaped. With Isolde now formally bound to Abercrombie's council, Eirik had leverage there too.

  Leif would be an extension of his will. Strike when ordered. Hold when commanded. A blade that swung steady and true.

  Then there was Olaf.

  The big man had been a prisoner rotting in chains when Eirik first saw him. Eirik had pulled him from that fate. And Olaf had repaid that debt a hundred times over. Uneducated, yes—the man could barely scratch his own name—but possessed of a cunning that formal schooling couldn't teach.

  More than that: Olaf was someone Eirik would trust his life with. Had trusted his life with. The the desperate gambit against Grakk'Thor—Olaf had been there, ready to die beside him.

  When a man offers you that, what more can you ask?

  But appoint Olaf, and Leif would see it as a slight. The noble heir passed over for a former prisoner. His fragile pride would curdle into resentment, and with it, the Fenrir soldiers' loyalty might waver.

  Appoint Leif, and Olaf would view it as betrayal. To him, Leif was just another soft-handed lordling who'd inherited his status rather than earning it. The big man's trust—that precious, hard-won thing—might change.

  A simple mistake here would transform his greatest assets into his greatest liabilities.

  Fuck.

  The System had cornered him into a binary, and each choice was poison.

  Well. Fuck the System then.

  Eirik looked up, meeting first Olaf's blazing glare, then Leif's simmering frustration.

  "You want to know why I left the military position empty?" He didn't try to soften his voice. "Because filling it right now would be the stupidest thing I could do."

  Olaf's scarred face twisted. "Stupidest—? Ye spend all this Mother's magic on them," he jerked his chin toward Sindri and the others, "and we who actually bleed for this place get sod all?"

  "Let me finish." Eirik held up a hand. "Both of you. Sit down."

  He began to pace.

  "Abercrombie isn't a kingdom. It's barely a fortress. We have—what? One hundred fighting men? Maybe two-fifty if we arm every refugee who can hold a spear without stabbing himself?"

  The stone floor cold beneath his boots.

  "That's not an army. That's a raiding party with ice walls."

  He stopped, turning to face them fully.

  "This gift from the Frost Mother—it presents me with choices like I'm some great king appointing a general to command legions. But I'm not."

  Leif's jaw worked. "Then why appoint anyone at all? Why give Sindri and Yorick—"

  "Because construction and coin don't create the same rift that a military appointment would." Eirik's voice was blunt. "Sindri builds. Yorick counts. Neither threatens the other's position. But you two?"

  He pointed at Olaf, then Leif.

  "If I name Olaf as Master of War, what happens?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Leif, you'd feel passed over. The Fenrir men who make up half our force would wonder if their young lord's been insulted."

  Olaf's massive hands clenched. "And if ye name the pup instead? Ye think I'd—"

  "Yes," Eirik cut him off. "I think you would. Maybe not openly. Maybe you'd swallow it for a time. But you'd see it as a betrayal. The man who you risked your very life for choosing a lordling over you?"

  Olaf's face went through several emotions.

  "The truth," Eirik continued, "is that you both played crucial roles in taking back this fortress. Leif led the main army. Olaf risked his precious arse alongside me in enemy territory."

  He looked at them both.

  "One of you leading while the other follows? That creates a hierarchy that doesn't need to exist. Not yet. Not when our 'army' could fit in a single cavern with room to spare."

  Leif's rigid tension eased slightly.

  "So we remain... what? Co-lieutenants? With no clear chain of command?"

  "You remain my lieutenants. Trusted equally." Eirik's voice was iron. "And I refuse to change that unless one of you demonstrates such overwhelming superiority that the choice becomes obvious—not just to me, but to every man in this fortress. When the soldiers themselves look at one of you and say 'that's our general,' then we'll talk. Until then? The position stays empty."

  Silence stretched through the chamber.

  Olaf broke it with a grunt. He scratched his scarred jaw, eyeing Eirik with something approaching curiosity.

  "This appointment thing," the big man rumbled. "Does it help ye somehow? Like the floating numbers Yorick's blubbering about, or the stone-seeing Sindri's got?"

  Eirik hesitated. Then nodded slowly.

  "Yes. Each filled position generates power for me."

  Olaf's eyes narrowed. "So leaving it empty costs ye."

  "It does."

  "How much?"

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

  "A significant amount. Daily."

  The big man stared at him for a long moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

  "Ye bloody idiot," Olaf said, shaking his head. "Ye absolute sod."

  He stepped forward, looming over Eirik, but there was no threat in his posture. Just exasperation.

  "Commander. If ye think I was after some fancy title—some 'Master of War' horseshit to puff up me chest—then ye'd be the biggest fool in the North." He jabbed a thick finger at Eirik's sternum. "I don't give two frozen teats about what the Mother's magic calls me."

  He turned to Leif, the young Fenrir heir still watching with guarded eyes.

  "Point someone. Get yer power. I don't care which of us it is, long as we're still fighting together when the next warband comes howling over them walls."

  Leif seemed to wrestle with something internal before speaking.

  "Olaf speaks truth." A wry smile touched his lips. "We serve Abercrombie best as partners, not rivals." He met Eirik's eyes. "But Olaf's also right about the cost. If leaving this position empty weakens you, weakens our defenses by extension... perhaps we're being selfish."

  "Sod selfish," Olaf growled. "Commander needs every scrap of power he can get. The Skarls ain't done with us. The Order ain't done with us. That prancing snake Rurik ain't done with us even from his cell." He crossed his massive arms. "Ye want us to prove ourselves? Fine. Give us time. But until then, point one of us. We're grown men. We can swallow our pride for the fortress's sake."

  Eirik looked between them.

  "No," he said finally.

  Olaf blinked. "No?"

  "The position stays empty." Eirik's voice was firm. "I trust you both too much to risk fracturing that trust."

  "Leif! Talk sense to this fool! Don't let 'im do this! It's... it's power! Power for the fortress! For all our sorry hides! We don't need no fancy pretty lights! But throwin' it away like yesterday's slops? That's madness, that is!"

  Olaf's voice cracked.

  "Aye, we pissed and moaned, sure! Like the thick-headed bastards we are! But this? Breakin' what could keep our people breathin'? What could make them better at keepin' us all alive? What could... could maybe save some poor sod's neck out there?" He jabbed a thick finger toward the surface. "Ye'd burn the grain stores 'cause ye can't figure how t' share the bread?! NAY!"

  He wheeled back to face Eirik, chest heavin' like a bellows.

  "Sod it! If that... that 'clear-sight' helps Yorick fill another belly, helps Sindri keep the roof from crushin' some babe... ye do the damn thing! Ye use every bloody tool the gods give ye, Commander!"

  The chamber fell silent after Olaf's outburst.

  "Sod it all," Olaf muttered, dragging a hand across his face. He turned to look at Leif with an appraising gaze that held none of its usual disdain.

  "Pup."

  Leif stiffened slightly. "Olaf."

  "Ye know supply lines, aye? All that horseshit about how many sacks of grain feed how many swords for how many days?"

  "I... yes. I was trained in—"

  "Good." Olaf cut him off with a wave of his massive hand. "Because I don't know none of that. Don't want to neither."

  He stepped closer to Leif, and for a moment the young Fenrir heir tensed, as if expecting a blow. Instead, Olaf jabbed a thick finger at Leif's chest.

  "Ye take it."

  Leif blinked. "What?"

  "The position. Master of War. Whatever fancy title the Commander's magic wants to slap on it." Olaf's voice was gruff. "Ye worry about the boring arse logistics. How many arrows we got. Which poor sods get the shit patrol duty." He cracked his knuckles. "That frees up real men like me to do what we do best—stick sharp things into Skarl bellies."

  The chamber seemed to hold its breath.

  Leif's mouth worked silently for a moment. "Olaf, I... you don't have to—"

  "Aye, I don't have to do sod all. But I'm doing it anyway."

  He turned back to Eirik, crossing his arms.

  "There. Problem solved. Give it to the pup, Commander. Let him have his floating numbers and his pretty title. Long as ye point me at something that needs killing, I'll be satisfied."

  Eirik stared at Olaf.

  Damn.

  Anyone with a political sense could see what Olaf had just done. By publicly, willingly, enthusiastically ceding the position to Leif, the big man had accomplished something no amount of Eirik's careful maneuvering could have achieved. He'd shown—not just to Eirik, but to everyone in this room—that he cared more about Abercrombie's strength than his own advancement.

  He's willing to give up this title for a much better reward—Eirik's, and the inner circle's approval, including that of his very rival. He's willing to play the long game like a true strategist would.

  This is the moment, Eirik thought. If he hesitates further, he'll undo everything Olaf just accomplished.

  He straightened.

  "Olaf speaks wisdom," Eirik said. "And I'll honor his offer."

  He turned to face Leif fully.

  The young Fenrir heir stood rigid. His eyes darted to Olaf—searching for deception, perhaps, or mockery—and found neither.

  "Leif Fenrir." Eirik's voice rang against the stone walls. "You have led men into battle and brought them out alive. You have held lines when others would have broken. You have proven yourself worthy of greater responsibility."

  He reached out, placing a hand on Leif's shoulder.

  [MILITARY]

  [Appoint Councilor?]

  [Selected Candidate: Leif Fenrir]

  [Aptitude: Great]

  [Projected Daily MF Generation: 1,000]

  [Realm Advancement: Snow → Frost]

  [Confirm? Y/N]

  "I name you Master of War for Abercrombie. Will you accept this duty?"

  The System interface pulsed at the edge of Eirik's awareness, awaiting confirmation.

  Leif swallowed hard.

  "I accept, Commander."

  [Y]

  The effect was instantaneous.

  "Mother's mercy!" Leif gasped, doubling over as frost spread across his armor in intricate patterns.

  [Leif Fenrir Appointed: Master of War]

  [Passive MF Generation Active: +1,000 MF/day]

  [Realm Ascension Complete: Snow → Frost]

  The young noble straightened slowly.

  "Commander," Leif's voice came out rough. "I... I see them. Every Talon. From here. I see everyone's... experience... Their equipments. Morale. Aptitude for fighting for every army type... And possible formations. It's..."

  "That's the burden," Eirik said quietly. "Get used to it."

  Olaf watched the transformation with an unreadable expression.

  "Congratulations, pup," he rumbled. "Try not to let all them numbers drive ye mad in a fortnight."

  But Eirik wasn't finished.

  "Lieutenant Olaf."

  "Commander?"

  He pulled up the interface only he could see:

  [MILITARY MERIT SYSTEM]

  [Current Merit Pool: 8,742 MF]

  [Transfer Personal MF to Merit Pool?]

  [Current Personal MF: 9,200]

  [Amount to Transfer: ?]

  He locked eyes with Olaf.

  "You were the first, Olaf. First to infiltrate the Skarl camp with me. First to drive an axe into their skulls. First to stand when the Order drew steel against your commander."

  [Transfer 2,000 MF to Merit Pool]

  [Personal MF: 9,200 → 7,200]

  [Merit Pool: 8,742 → 10,742]

  Olaf's scarred face twisted in confusion. "What're ye—"

  "Kneel."

  Olaf, who'd never knelt willingly in his life except when forced by Skarl captors, stared at Eirik in shock.

  "I don't kneel to—"

  "You do. To what you've earned." Eirik interrupted. "Kneel, Lieutenant, and rise as something new."

  The room held its breath.

  Grudgingly, like a mountain deciding to bow, Olaf lowered himself to one knee.

  "This is bloody stupid," he muttered.

  Eirik placed his hand on Olaf's shoulder.

  [MERIT SYSTEM PROMOTION]

  [Promote Lieutenant Olaf to Frost Realm?]

  [Cost: 10,000 MF]

  [Confirm? Y/N]

  "Lieutenant Olaf. For service beyond duty. For loyalty beyond reason. For standing tall when lesser men would flee." Eirik's grip tightened. "Rise, and claim your due."

  [Y]

  A scream.

  Power slammed into Olaf. His muscles seized, expanded, contracted.

  "GRAAAAAHHHHH!"

  Ice exploded from the point where Olaf's knee touched stone, spreading in jagged patterns across the floor.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ceased.

  Olaf remained on one knee, breathing in shuddering gasps. Steam rose from his body.

  [Lieutenant Olaf Successfully Advanced to Frost Realm]

  He pushed himself to his feet, and everyone in the room took an involuntary step back. His eyes had changed. The brown was shot through with veins of pale blue.

  "Frost's hairy teats," he breathed.

  Eirik swept his gaze across his newly appointed council.

  "Right then. That's settled."

  He moved toward the heavy door, then paused.

  "We'll meet weekly. Same chamber, same time. Each of you will report on your domain's progress. What's working, what isn't, what resources you need. I expect detailed assessments, not platitudes."

  "What about me?" Olaf rumbled.

  "You?" Eirik turned back slightly. "You do what you've always done. Don't let any title scare you."

  Olaf grinned. "Aye, Commander. That I can do."

  "Good. Now get out. All of you." Eirik's voice carried finality. "I have matters to attend to that require... solitude."

  They filed out, each lost in their own transformations.

  Finally alone, Eirik slumped against the stone table.

  He pulled up the Settlement interface:

  [Settlement Progress: Tutorial Quest #7]

  [Time Remaining: 1 day, 11 hours]

  [Goals:]

  [- Defined Borders - COMPLETE]

  [- Habitable Structures - 58.5% Complete]

  [- Population 1,000 - COMPLETE]

  [- Income Source - 91.3%]

  [- Basic Defenses - COMPLETE]

  [Current MF: 7,200]

  [Daily Generation: 2,500 MF]

  The habitable structures needed immediate attention. With his current MF and the daily generation, he could push through the remaining percentage easily. But rushing meant sloppy work, and sloppy work meant dead refugees when a ceiling collapsed.

  No. Better to consult Sindri's proposals first, approve the critical infrastructure, then—

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  The chamber door shook under desperate pounding.

  "Commander! COMMANDER!"

  Eirik straightened, irritation flashing across his features. "Enter!"

  A Talon guard burst through, his face sheet-white, eyes wild with panic. Snow still clung to his cloak, suggesting he'd sprinted down from the surface.

  "Commander! Bad news! Terrible news!" The man gasped for breath, doubling over.

  "Breathe, soldier. Report."

  The guard straightened, gulping air. "The Frost Mother! She... she BLEEDS, Commander!"

  Eirik's blood turned to ice. "What?"

  "The statue! Your statue! Blood runs from her eyes! From her hands! Commander! Hot and red and... and it won't stop!"

  Bleeds? The ice statue bleeds? A chill ran down Eirik's spine that had nothing to do with the underground cold.

  "When did this start?"

  "Minutes ago! Maybe five! People started screaming, pointing! The pilgrims are going mad! Some say it's a curse! Others say it's a miracle! They're fighting! The Talons can barely hold them back!"

  Eirik was already moving, shoving past the guard and sprinting up the tunnel. His boots slammed against stone, echoing like war drums in the confined space. The guard scrambled to keep pace.

  "Who else knows?"

  "Everyone in the courtyard! Word's spreading like wildfire! Some pilgrims are trying to collect the blood in bowls! Others are fleeing, saying the Mother's been defiled!"

  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

  Eirik burst into the main tunnel, nearly colliding with Yorick who was rushing down with his ledger.

  "Commander! I was just—"

  "Move!" Eirik didn't slow, leaving the confused Master of Coin spinning in his wake.

  The tunnel seemed endless. Each step brought new sounds from above—screaming, wailing, the clash of metal. His mind raced through possibilities. Sabotage? Some delayed curse from Varina?

  He hit the final ascent at full speed, taking the carved steps three at a time.