Dawn broke grey and sullen.

  Eirik stood in the outer courtyard, breath fogging in the bitter cold, watching servants loading provisions onto pack mules and armored soldiers forming into marching columns.

  Cedric and Ingrid were gone.

  They'd departed before first light, according to the bleary-eyed gate guards. Eirik wasn't sure if their sudden departure was retreat or regrouping.

  He suspected the latter.

  Borin Ironhelm emerged from the keep's main doors. A massive fur-lined cloak hung from his shoulders, clasped with an iron brooch. He looked ready for war rather than a tournament.

  "STORMCROW!" Borin's bellow echoed off the walls. "Stop brooding like a pregnant she-wolf and mount up! We've leagues to cover!"

  Ser Konrad materialized beside Eirik. "The combined column will maintain formation. Lord Borin's men take the van and rear. Your retinue rides center, with Lord Borin and yourself."

  "And you?" Eirik asked.

  "I ride ahead. As always." Konrad's tone brooked no argument. "The Duke expects timely arrival. We cannot afford anymore delays."

  The Duke's messenger swung onto his horse and cantered toward the open gate, not waiting to see if anyone followed.

  The North stretched before them in endless monotony.

  Snow-covered plains gave way to frozen forests. The road wound between low hills and across frozen streams.

  Eirik rode near the center of the column, Isolde on his left, Olaf's massive bulk dominating his right. Behind them, Harkin. Fisk rode further back.

  The Ironhelm soldiers maintained rigid formation, a stark contrast to Eirik's smaller, more informal retinue. Borin himself rode at the head of the column, while Birgitte rode in a covered wagon near the center.

  She hadn't spoken to Eirik since her unexpected intervention at the feast. He wasn't sure what to make of that.

  As the morning wore on, Eirik turned his attention inward.

  Status.

  The familiar blue text materialized in his peripheral vision:

  [EIRIK STORMCROW]

  [Realm: Frost Rank 1]

  [Mana: 50/50]

  [Abilities: Ice Conjuration, Ice Shaper, Ice Rune, Gelu Honestus]

  [Special Ability: Ice Genesis (1/day)]

  He dismissed the personal status and called up the Kingdom Core interface:

  [ABERCROMBIE - KINGDOM CORE STATUS]

  [Lord: Eirik Stormcrow]

  [Population: 2,847 (↑312 since last check)]

  [Mana Fragments: 3,247]

  [PASSIVE GENERATION:]

  - Sindri (Construction): +1,000 MF/day

  - Yorick (Economics): +500 MF/day

  - Isolde (Diplomacy): +1,000 MF/day

  - Leif (Military): +1,000 MF/day

  [Total Generation: +3,500 MF/day]

  [Daily Costs: -2,794 MF/day]

  [Net Daily: +706 MF]

  The numbers were encouraging, but Eirik's mind immediately began calculating the implications. The daily costs are more than he was comfortable with, but it came mostly from Sindri’s much needed projects. Like it or not, with a constantly expanding base, the people’s needs will always be something that requires his resources.

  At seven hundred Mana Fragments per day, he'd accumulate roughly five thousand over the week he'd be away. Enough for construction projects, but still nowhere near sufficient for the larger ambitions brewing in his mind.

  The positions for Faith as well as Intrigue were still empty. Maybe it’s time to proactively seek out some talents before waiting on someone to knock on his doorstep. Sister Mara said she’d send someone soon from the Order, but he still needed someone as a spymaster. These two positions combined, even without great candidates, would give him at least another 1,000 MF daily.

  He wanted to rebuild the keep, and expand the grounds to have people live above ground instead of staying in caves forever. Moreover, he’d love to see the commencement of the Cathedral that he’d promised to the faithful of Abercrombie.

  That would require significant investment.

  His hand drifted unconsciously to the spatial ring on his finger, where the Hail Realm Advancement Crystal waited.

  The temptation to use it immediately was burning.

  But he thought better of it.

  The Duke's tournament was a stage. Every lord in the North would be watching. If Eirik arrived radiating power that exceeded his nominal station, it would confirm every fear and suspicion.

  The crystal would wait. Let them see the reserved, measured lord.

  But when? The Skarl would inevitably come back. After that, the raids would resume. Worse, the demon manifestations. He needed the power before then.

  Perhaps on the return journey.

  "Oi, you ever notice how nobles never carry their own gear?"

  Olaf's rumbling voice pulled Eirik from his calculations.

  "I try not to notice things that might get me killed, Lieutenant," Fisk adjusted his grip on the reins with white-knuckled intensity. "Observation leads to opinion. Opinion leads to expression. Expression leads to dungeons. Very poor return on investment, dungeons."

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  Olaf snorted. "Ye talk like a merchant counting beans."

  "I am a merchant. Of sorts. I trade in solutions." Fisk managed a thin smile despite his obvious equestrian distress. "Problems go in, answers come out. The markup is considerable."

  "And what problem are ye solving now, little man? Looking like ye might piss yerself every time the horse sneezes?"

  "The problem," Fisk said with wounded dignity, "is thermodynamic. Specifically, how to prevent my posterior from freezing solid before we reach this tournament. I've calculated the rate of heat loss through standard riding trousers and the results are... concerning."

  Olaf laughed, making several Ironhelm soldiers turn their heads. "Thermody-what? Just sit on yer hands, ye daft alchemist!"

  "Barbaric. Absolutely barbaric." Fisk shook his head. "I've designed a solution. A small heating compound, embedded in the saddle leather. Sustained exothermic reaction. Quite elegant, actually."

  "Ye set yer arse on fire?"

  "Controlled thermal emission," Fisk corrected. "The flames were entirely incidental. And quickly extinguished." He paused. "Mostly."

  Olaf's laughter redoubled. "Frost's balls, alchemist! Ye burned yer own backside trying to keep it warm?"

  "Science requires sacrifice," Fisk sniffed. "Ibn al-Farabi failed a thousand times before—"

  "Who in the frozen hells is Ibn al-Farabi?"

  Fisk blinked. "I... have no idea why I said that. Ignore it. The point remains: the next iteration will be far more refined."

  "The point remains that yer sitting on a burned arse riding into a tournament of the greatest warriors in the North!" Olaf wiped tears from his eyes. "Oh, this is beautiful. The Commander's secret weapon: a man who can't even warm himself without catching fire!"

  Despite himself, Eirik found his lips twitching.

  The column made camp as dusk painted the sky.

  Ser Konrad had selected a sheltered hollow between two hills, partially protected from the biting wind. Fires bloomed across the hollow. The smell of cooking meat and woodsmoke filled the air.

  Eirik walked the perimeter of his section, checking on his men. The Ironhelm soldiers gave him a wide berth. He was an unknown quantity, and unknown quantities were dangerous.

  That suited him fine.

  ———

  Sleep refused to come.

  The camp had quieted. A figure sat near one of the smaller fires, wrapped in a fur cloak. Isolde.

  She looked up as Eirik approached. "Couldn't sleep either?"

  "Too much noise in my head." He settled onto a camp stool across from her. "You?"

  "Similar affliction." She stirred the fire with a stick, sending sparks spiraling upward. "I was thinking about the Duke."

  Eirik leaned forward. "Tell me about him."

  Isolde was quiet for a long moment.

  "Thorgrim Frostgrip is... ruthless." She met his eyes. "More than ruthless, actually."

  "Sounds like half the lords in the realm."

  "No." Isolde shook her head. "You don't understand. Most lords maintain pretenses. They might scheme and murder, but they do so through the acceptable channels of intrigue." She paused. "The Duke doesn't bother."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning he treats nobles like peasants. Lords who displease him don't suffer mysterious accidents or convenient illnesses. They're simply... removed. Legally. He finds cause—and there's always cause—and he destroys them utterly. Lands stripped, families scattered, names erased from the rolls." Isolde's voice was flat. "He's done it dozens of times that I know of. Probably more that I don't."

  Eirik absorbed this. "Is that good or bad?"

  "Depends on your perspective." Isolde's smile was thin. "For the common folk, it's arguably beneficial. The Duke enforces law equally, or near enough. A lord who abuses his peasants will answer for it just as surely as a thief who steals bread. For the nobility..." She shrugged. "They live in terror. Constant, grinding terror."

  "Guess I better behave, then."

  "If you give him legitimate cause?" Isolde's eyes were hard. "He'll destroy you. Abercrombie, your people, everything you've built—gone. Righteously. With the full backing of the realm's laws." She leaned forward. "The Duke doesn't need assassins, Eirik. He has something far more dangerous: justice. Twisted to his purposes, but justice nonetheless."

  The fire crackled between them.

  "You said he's ambitious," Eirik prompted.

  "Deeply. The King is old, Eirik. Old and tired and, frankly, too merciful for the realm's good. He's spent decades trying to hold things together through compromise and concession, and it's cost him. The great lords grow restless." She paused. "The Duke sees this."

  "He wants to be King?"

  "King? Probably not. Kingmaker? Certainly. The real power behind whatever person that sits on the throne." Isolde's voice dropped. "That's why your invitation is so significant, Eirik. The Duke doesn't waste time on minor players. If he's brought you into his orbit, it's because he sees potential use for you in his grand design."

  "As a tool."

  "A tool is all we can pray for, because it's better than an obstacle to be removed. The tournament will reveal which." She brushed snow from her cloak. "Best to be rested, Commander."

  She left Eirik alone with the dying fire and his thoughts.

  ———

  The next morning brought a visitor.

  Eirik was checking straps and buckles before the day's ride, when Olaf's roar shattered the camp's routine bustle.

  "HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, YOU SKULKING BASTARD!"

  Eirik looked up to see Olaf with his massive hand clamped around the arm of a tall, dark-haired figure. Kael.

  The dangerous one who'd stood at Garrick's side during that first training session at Stormkeep. The man who'd demonstrated Frostbite Edge with terrifying precision while Eirik struggled with basic sword forms. The man who'd fought against him in the skirmish that felt like a lifetime ago.

  Interesting.

  "Says he wants to speak with ye, Commander." Olaf growled. "But I know this snake."

  Other Talons gathered, hands on weapons.

  Eirik walked forward slowly.

  "Release him, Olaf."

  "Commander—"

  "Release him."

  Olaf's jaw tightened as he shoved Kael forward roughly. The mercenary stumbled slightly but recovered with that grace Eirik remembered.

  "Speak," Eirik commanded.

  Kael straightened. "Lord Eirik Stormcrow. I've heard much of you since our last... encounter."

  "Is there a point to this reminiscence?"

  "A simple one." Kael's gaze was level. "I wish to serve you."

  The words hung in the cold air.

  "SERVE? Ye tried to kill him! Ye stood at Garrick's side! And now ye want to serve?"

  "I stood at Garrick's side because he paid well and promised advancement," Kael replied coolly. "Neither payment nor advancement materialized. Lord Garrick is... diminished." He turned back to Eirik. "I follow strength, Lord Stormcrow. I always have. You possess it."

  "Lying snake!" Olaf stepped forward. "Commander, this is obviously a plant! How are we supposed to believe—"

  "Olaf." Eirik's voice was quiet, but the big warrior fell silent.

  Eirik circled Kael slowly, studying him from all angles. The mercenary stood perfectly still, accepting the scrutiny.

  "You demonstrated Frostbite Edge during that training session," Eirik said. "Better than anyone else there, including Marshal Gunnar. Where did you learn?"

  "Various places. I'm good at what I do. Better than most. I simply chose poorly in my last patron."

  "And you believe I'm a better choice?"

  "I believe you're the only choice that matters anymore." Kael met his gaze squarely. "The North is shifting, Lord Stormcrow. A man of my talents needs to position himself correctly."

  Harkin spoke up from behind Eirik. "Commander, with respect—this could easily be a trap. Cedric has every reason to plant an agent in your retinue."

  "Could be," Eirik agreed. "Probably is, honestly."

  The admission seemed to surprise everyone.

  "And yet?" Harkin prompted.

  "And yet I find I don't care."

  Olaf's face went through several shades of purple. "Commander—"

  "Think about it, Olaf." Eirik turned to face his lieutenants. "What can Kael tell Cedric or Garrick that they don't already know? That I'm building Abercrombie? Everyone knows. That I have ice powers? Demonstrated publicly, multiple times. That I imprisoned Rurik? Shouted across Borin's great hall." He spread his hands. "The bastard son of Stormkeep has risen so far above his starting point that whatever secrets Kael might carry back are... irrelevant."

  "But—"

  "If he's a spy, he learns nothing of value. If he's genuine, I gain a highly skilled warrior." Eirik shrugged. "The calculus favors acceptance."

  Kael's expression flickered—surprise, perhaps. "You're not concerned I might try to kill you? Garrick would pay well for your head."

  "Garrick couldn't afford a loaf of bread without his father's purse. And you're too smart to attempt assassination with my Talons surrounding you. No, Kael, if you wanted me dead, you'd wait for a better opportunity. This isn't it." Eirik nodded to Olaf. "He rides with us."

  Olaf clearly wanted to argue further, but he recognized a final decision when he heard one. "Aye, Commander. But don't come crying to me when this snake bites ye."

  "Noted." Eirik turned back to Kael. "You'll earn trust the same way everyone else does—through action. Until then, you're a probationary asset. Understood?"

  Kael inclined his head. "Understood, Lord Stormcrow."

  "Good." Eirik glanced at the lightening sky. "We ride soon."

  The horn sounded, signaling the column's departure. Eirik mounted his horse and took his place in formation.