Two days on the road had taught Eirik a new form of exhaustion.

  Their party was small by Isolde’s counsel. Eirik, in grey wool and black leather, rode at its head with Isolde at his side. Flanking them were Olaf and Harkin. The alchemist Fisk brought up the rear with ten Talons in polished armor.

  And then there was Ser Konrad.

  The Duke’s messenger rode a hundred paces ahead. He never spoke, never rested unless they did, and never looked back.

  The landscape was monotonous with snow-dusted plains and bare forests with a sky that felt perpetually pale grey. The vast, empty space made Eirik feel small, a feeling he was unaccustomed to.

  It started on the second day. A farmer by his fence dropped to his knees as they passed, pressing his forehead to the snow. An hour later, a merchant caravan pulled over. The drivers chanted his name.

  “Storm-Crow! Storm-Crow!”

  The words were carried on the wind. By midday, it was a chorus.

  “Commander! Commander Eirik! Bless us!”

  Harkin returned at a gallop. “Commander,” he said urgently, reining in his horse. “There are people ahead on the road. A lot of them.”

  “How many is a lot?”

  “Hundreds, Commander,” Harkin said. “Maybe more. They’re blocking the road with banners and shrines. Children are holding ice figurines. They’re chanting your name.”

  Olaf swore under his breath.

  “Wonderful,” Eirik muttered. “Any sign of Ironhelm patrols?”

  “None,” Harkin reported. “This is Borin’s land. He should have men clearing the roads.”

  Eirik looked at Ser Konrad. The Duke’s man showed no sign of slowing. He kept riding, as if the reception was expected.

  “Olaf,” Eirik said calmly. “Talons, form a wedge. We’re going through.”

  As they crested a rise, they saw the scale of it. The main road was lost in a mass of people. Hundreds of people—peasants, merchants, knights, and families—pressed against each other. They had built shrines of snow and rock with offerings of meat, coin, and ice carvings. A merchant sold small wood carvings of Eirik holding on an absurdly large two-handed sword.

  The air thrummed with one sound.

  “STORM-CROW! STORM-CROW! FROST MOTHER’S VESSEL! SHOW US YOUR MIRACLE!”

  When his figure appeared, the chant became a roar. The sound and emotion washed over them. Hands shot up, reaching for him. People wept, screamed, and fainted. A woman tore a strip from her dress and held it up.

  “Frost preserve me,” Fisk whispered. “They think you’re a god.”

  Eirik straightened in his saddle into a calm posture. He fixed his gaze on Ironhelm Keep on the horizon and rode forward.

  The Talons formed their wedge and pushed into the crowd. They moved into a turbulent mass of people. Nevertheless, hundreds of hands reached out to touch. Fingers brushed his boot, stirrup, and horse.

  “Bless my child, Commander! She has lung-sickness!” a woman screamed, thrusting an infant towards him.

  “A sign! Give us a sign!” a one-eyed man roared.

  Olaf roared.

  “BACK, YE SODDING BEGGARS! GIVE THE LORD ROOM! YE WANT A BLESSING? I’LL BLESS YE WITH THE FLAT OF MY AXE!”

  His ferocity created space, but it was temporary. The crowd flowed back once they passed.

  Eirik kept his eyes forward. He ignored the pleas, offerings, and tears. He ignored a man with a flower and a woman who threw herself at his horse’s feet.

  They were halfway across when they heard marching and a war horn.

  Fifty Ironhelm soldiers appeared on a rise, a contrast to the mob. They moved together, their plate armor gleaming, their shields bearing the sigil of Ironhelm. At their head rode a rugged man.

  He wore no helmet. A scar ran from his temple to his jaw, pulling one eye into a squint. The Ironhelm soldiers moved down the slope, forming a phalanx and driving into the crowd, which melted as spears and shields pushed people aside with force.

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  The commander guided his horse to Eirik’s party.

  “Lord Eirik Stormcrow,” his voice rumbled. “I am General Halvor of Earl Borin’s guard. He welcomes you to his lands and apologizes for this mob. The people's fervor is difficult to control.”

  Eirik nodded. “General Halvor. The crowd is enthusiastic.”

  “Aye,” Halvor grunted, his gaze sweeping over Eirik’s retinue, lingering on Olaf and the Talons, then on Isolde. He glanced at Ser Konrad. “They came from all over the Earldom. Some from beyond. They seek miracles.”

  “Only the Frost Mother works miracles, General,” Eirik said.

  Halvor’s eyebrow twitched. “My men will clear a path to the Keep. Follow me. His lordship awaits.”

  He turned his horse and barked an order. The phalanx reformed around Eirik’s party, creating a corridor of steel. The crowd roared its disappointment but was pushed back by the soldiers.

  As they were escorted through the path, the scale of the spectacle became apparent. Eirik saw the stalls selling trinkets, the preachers on crates recounting his deeds, and pilgrims pressing cloth to the ground he passed. The procession moved on.

  The road widened, paved with stones.

  Ironhelm Keep dominated a hill with curtain walls eighty feet high. The main gatehouse was a fortress with two towers, an iron portcullis, and a drawbridge over an ice-choked moat. Large banners hung from the towers. The roofs were clad in iron plates to shed snow and resist fire.

  The place exuded strength as the seat of a warrior lord.

  General Halvor led them across the drawbridge and into the inner keep.

  ———

  Massive iron chandeliers hung from a smoke-darkened, vaulted ceiling. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting hunts, battles, and the Ironhelm lineage. A large fire roared in a hearth.

  At the head of a long table sat Borin Ironhelm on a massive oak chair.

  “EIRIK STORMCROW!” Borin’s voice roared as he stood. “BY MY BEARD, BOY, YOU CAME! I WAS AFRAID YOU'D DECIDE YOUR FORTRESS WAS TOO COMFORTABLE!”

  He strode forward and clapped Eirik on the shoulder. Eirik met Borin’s clap on the shoulder with practiced ease, absorbing the impact without flinching.

  "Lord Borin. Your lands are... vibrant. The journey offered a unique perspective on Northern fervor." He subtly acknowledged the chaotic reception without assigning blame.

  Borin’s laughter boomed again. "Vibrant! Ha! That’s one word for a mob trying to tear your boots off for luck! See?" He gestured broadly at his hall, encompassing the wary, curious faces. "The boy’s got spine and wit! More than most of you leather-faced lumps!"The forced chuckles from his men were brittle.

  The Earl’s gaze slid past Eirik, landing on Isolde with a veneer of paternal warmth. "Lady Isolde! A sight for winter-weary eyes! Where's that fierce cub of yours? Hacking his way through Skarls?"

  Isolde’s curtsy was a model of grace. "My Lord Earl honours us. Leif serves his Acting Commander at Abercrombie."

  "Good lad! Good lad!" Borin boomed, pivoting smoothly. His eyes found his daughter near the roaring hearth. "Ah! Birgitte! Stop lurking by the fire, girl! Come greet our family guest!"

  The word 'family' hung heavy in the air. Lady Birgitte Ironhelm detached herself from the shadows. She was impeccably dressed in deep crimson wool that emphasized her pale beauty, her honey-blonde hair intricately braided with silver pins catching the firelight. Her glacial eyes, however, held no warmth as they met Eirik’s. They scanned him with detached appraisal – resentment? Resignation? – passing through them before settling into cool neutrality.

  This was the woman betrothed to Rurik, the polished court flower promised to the golden heir, now being presented to the bastard who had broken her intended and usurped his place.

  "Lord Eirik," she offered a precise, shallow curtsy.

  Eirik bowed with formal correctness. "Lady Birgitte."

  Borin, oblivious or willfully ignorant, threw a massive arm around Eirik’s shoulders, steering him forcefully towards the high table.

  "Enough standing about! Formalities later! You smell of horse and cold, lad! We need mead and meat in you! The boar won’t carve itself!" He propelled Eirik towards the seat of honour at his right hand, a position traditionally reserved for a son, heir, or favoured ally.

  Isolde was smoothly guided to Eirik’s right by a steward. Olaf and Harkin were directed to places lower down the table but within sight. Ser Konrad took a seat further down. Fisk and the Talons were ushered towards the lower tables near the Ironhelm guards.

  As Borin heaved himself onto his great oak chair, bellowing for the feast to commence, a flurry of servants bearing platters appeared. The Earl carved the massive boar himself, grease spattering his tunic, shoving enormous portions onto Eirik’s plate.

  "Eat! Eat! You look peaky! Building ice castles must burn the energy! Ha!"

  Eirik picked up his knife and fork.

  Across the table, Birgitte picked delicately at her food.

  He’s playing the boisterous fool, Eirik thought, but the moves are calculated. Forcing me beside Birgitte. Calling me ‘family’. He needs this alliance to solidify after the Duke’s snub, and he needs to present a united front. Birgitte won’t break publicly, but she’s resenting everything underneath.

  Ser Konrad’s voice cut through Borin’s anecdote about skewering a troll.

  "Lord Borin. Lord Eirik. The Duke's schedule is demanding. Our departure for Highfrost must be timely. I trust the night's rest will suffice?"

  Borin’s jovial mask slipped for a fraction of a second, irritation flashing in his eyes at Konrad’s reminder of the higher authority that had bypassed him. He recovered quickly, slamming his tankard down.

  "Plenty of time, Ser Konrad! Plenty of time! The boy’s barely tasted his boar! And besides—"

  The massive doors at the end of the hall groaned open, cutting him off. Cold air swept in, carrying snowflakes and silencing the hall.

  Framed in the doorway, cloaked in travel-stained furs, stood Lord Cedric Stormcrow and Lady Ingrid.

  A collective breath seemed to be sucked from the room. Eirik froze, tankard halfway to his lips. Isolde's gaze snapped to the newcomers, a flicker of genuine shock breaking her composure.

  The timing was impeccable – or planned.

  Cedric’s eyes swept the hall, dismissing the Ironhelm retainers, bypassing Borin, and locking onto Eirik like twin bolts of winter lightning. Ingrid stood beside him, her eyes burning coals of hatred fixed unwaveringly on Eirik.

  "Lord Earl," Cedric cut through the silence. "We received... word." His gaze never left Eirik. "We came to see this... alliance... for ourselves."

  Borin slammed his tankard down, ale sloshing. "Cedric! Ingrid! Frost's breath, didn't expect you so soon! Welcome! Join the feast! Plenty of boar!"

  Ingrid ignored the Earl. Her voice pierced the air, aimed solely at Eirik.

  "Where is he?"