Since Rurik left, Eirik'd tried to lose himself in his daily grind—checking the sawmills, inspecting the quarry, absorbing fragments from every scrap of debris he could find. But they only worked to amplify the problem: He was moving too slowly.

  "Commander."

  A voice interrupted him. The scent of pine needles told him who it was. Eirik turned.

  Isolde Fenrir stood a few steps behind him, wrapped in her cloak.

  "Lady Fenrir."

  "You seemed... worried," she said. “Even though the fortress stands and could last. It really was a miracle, thinking about it."

  "It could last, Isolde," Eirik replied. "It could also die."

  "True. But it is a base. One built on dying." She nodded. "Too much dying, Eirik. Ignored dying."

  “What do you mean?” Eirik frowned. "The food? The work shifts? I know it's hard, but—"

  "Not that," she stopped him. "The dead, Eirik. The men and women who paid the price to take back this rock, and to bring us here. Helga. The Talons who fell retaking this gate. The people lost on the wagon trail. Their blood soaked this earth. And they lie without markers."

  Her words struck a chord Eirik hadn't known was shaking.

  "Death needs memory, Eirik. Not just for the dead, but for the living. For us." Isolde stepped closer. "They need to see their dead being acknowledged by their commander. By the Lord of Abercrombie."

  "Forgive me. It's been... too much. But yes. It must be done. Right.” Eirik said. "You understand ceremony. The way Houses do these things. Would you... watch over it? Plan the memorial? Work with Yorick for the names?"

  "I... yes," Isolde agreed. "I can do that. A ceremony, at sunset tomorrow. A pile of stones, perhaps, near the south wall. It doesn't need riches." She searched his eyes. “But you seem worried before I even talked about the dead. Rurik's visit upset you. What did he say?"

  Eirik sighed.

  He looked around. Guards walked nearby. People huddled near fires. No privacy here.

  "Walk with me," he said. He signaled the Talons on duty. "Opening the small door." The door within the main gate groaned open just wide enough for two. "We won't go far."

  Isolde waited only a moment before falling into step beside him, pulling her hood tighter against the wind beyond the walls.

  Eirik led them along the base of the ice wall, towards a group of rocks that offered shelter from the wind. The shadow of the wall itself gave cover from eyes on the stone walls.

  He stopped, leaning back against the largest rock. The cold seeped through his layers. He looked at Isolde.

  "Rurik came with an invitation. Or an order hidden as one. Borin wants me in Stormkeep. Right away."

  Isolde's eyes widened. "To reward you? Publicly? That's... surprising. And likely false."

  "False," Eirik agreed. "It's a trap. Get me away from here, surrounded by his people, then they can get rid of me quietly.”

  He pushed off the rock, walking in the snow. "I said no. And then he threatened me with the Order of the Everwinter."

  Isolde's breath caught.

  "The... the Order?" Her voice was filled with dread. "Frost preserve us. Rurik threatened with them?"

  "Yes. Said if I didn't come willingly, Borin would send word to the Order." He stopped walking, facing her. "What do you know of them, Isolde? Beyond the temple songs.”

  "They are the highest power in the Northern Kingdom, Eirik," Isolde wrapped her arms around herself. "They serve the Frost Mother, reading her will, tending the shrines... but their power goes far beyond faith. They think of themselves as the guardians of the true Frost, the keepers of its secrets. Anything outside their teaching... especially a self-taught wielder like you, building fortresses from nothing..." She shook her head. "They won't see potential. They’ll see an oddness to be controlled and silenced."

  "Silenced. Meaning..."

  "Meaning they have the power, and the right from the Crown itself, to enforce their decisions," Isolde finished. "Chanters are capable of breaking mountainsides. Eirik…"

  She met his eyes, her look stark. "You cannot fight them directly. Not with what you have now. Not with Talons and ice walls. They command ice, on a scale and with a depth you cannot match."

  Eirik leaned back against the rock again.

  "So, what's your advice, Lady Fenrir?" he asked. "Give up? Hand myself over to Borin before the Chanters arrive? Hope for a quick killing instead of long cutting apart?"

  "No," she said firmly. "Giving up gains you nothing but a quicker end. And giving up?" She almost smiled. "That doesn't suit you, Commander Stormcrow."

  "Then what? Run? Leave Abercrombie? Leave these people to starve or face Borin's anger? Or the Skarls' revenge when they realize the ‘ice-wielder' is gone?" He shook his head. "Not a choice."

  "Agreed," Isolde said. "Running leaves you alone, hunted, and Abercrombie undefended. It solves nothing." She began to walk, copying his earlier restlessness, her boots crunching on the snow.

  Then, she stopped.

  "You cannot fight their power head-on, Eirik. But you might... redirect it."

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  Eirik straightened and became interested in what idea just formed in her head. "Redirect it how? Send them a letter explaining my good intentions?”

  "In a way. But written in ice, not ink." She pointed back towards the fortress, towards the blue walls visible above the rocks. "Look at what you've built, Eirik. Not just ice walls, but ice workshops. Ice stables. Ice sawmills. To the common folk – the people huddled inside, the miners and farmers who fled Frostholme – what does that look like?"

  Eirik frowned. "Basic Infrastructure?

  "To some," Isolde agreed. "But to others? The faithful? Those raised on stories of the Frost Mother's breath shaping the mountains? Could it not look like... a blessing? A miracle? A sign of the Mother's favor?”

  Her voice grew excited. "The Order claims control over ice magic, but when was the last time they built something? Built, not just kept a shrine? They chant rituals, keep traditions... but you create. You make shelter from the elements they worship."

  "You're saying... I lean into it? Claim it is the Frost Mother's blessing?"

  "Exactly!" Isolde's eyes sparked with the fire of her idea. "Don't hide your power. Show it. But show it in service to the faith. Give them something they cannot damn without damning the goddess they serve!”

  She pointed towards the highest point within Abercrombie – the central keep.

  "Build Her a temple, Eirik. A cathedral. Of ice. The grandest building this land has ever seen. Right here, in the heart of the fortress you took back by Her grace."

  Eirik stared at her, speechless. The boldness was staggering.

  "Are you crazy?" he finally managed. "The supplies... the time... the Order will arrive long before I could lay the first foundation! And even if I could, why would they accept it? Why wouldn't they just call it wrong worship? A bastard playing at godhood?"

  Isolde stepped closer again.

  "Because you won't just build it, Eirik. You will dedicate it. You will set up Abercrombie not just as a stronghold, but as a new center of the Frost Mother's faith. A beacon.”

  She pointed towards the south, towards Frostholme and the scattered settlements. "Call the faithful. Open the gates to pilgrims. Let them feel the power you use as a show of the Mother's will."

  She pressed on.

  "Think! The Order gets its power from the faith of the people and the backing of the Crown. If the people start coming here, seeing Abercrombie not as a rebel stronghold, but as a holy site blessed by the Frost Mother herself... how can the Order move against its creator? How can Borin justify sending troops against a pilgrimage center? It would be political suicide, and wrong worship in the eyes of the masses. They would be forced to engage with you, Eirik. To acknowledge you. Perhaps even... to try and use you, rather than crush you."

  The vision unfolded in Eirik's mind, dizzying in its scale. Abercrombie transformed into a sanctuary. The Order, bound by their own teaching and the will of the people they cultivated, unable to strike without turning away their base.

  It's brilliant. It's terrifying. It's... possible?

  "The cost, Isolde," he said. "I'm grinding myself to dust just to patch walls and build sawmills. A cathedral? The scale alone…”

  He pictured the Mana Fragments need. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands? He had 132 pieces and a daily cap of 2000. It felt like trying to drain an ocean with a teacup.

  "Does it have to be finished before they come?" Isolde countered. "Or does it just have to be begun? Spectacularly? Does it just have to be believed?" Her eyes were fierce. "Lay the foundations. Raise the first pillars. Create an altar of ice. Hold the dedication ceremony there. Show the intent. Show the scale. Make it undeniable. The pilgrims will come to see the work in progress. That's where the power lies, Eirik – in the belief."

  Silence stretched between them, filled only by the wind and the thudding of Eirik's heart. The weight hadn't lifted, but it had shifted.

  He looked at Isolde. Standing there among the desolation, her cheeks flushed with cold and the fever of her plan. The noblewoman bound to him by threats and need was gone. In her place stood an ally, intelligent, daring, and willing to gamble everything on his survival. Is this trust? The thought was unsettling.

  Isolde tilted her head, waiting for Eirik's decision.

  "Clever enough to work?"

  "Maybe," Eirik murmured. "Maybe not. But it seemed to be the best answer we have right now."

  "You did not seem as enthusiastic as I had hoped." Isolde observed.

  "Well..." Eirik started. "I seem to recall, someone telling me, not so long ago, that hiding behind faith would be the worst kind of hypocrisy. That I lacked the piety, that it was transactional. Unpious, I believe was the term?"

  Isolde’s composure settled back into place.

  "And I wonder how this kind of moral qualm is coming from your mouth, Commander Eirik." Her tone was dry. "You are strange today. Since when do you care about the nuances of piety and exploitation? Isn’t it plain to everyone that you operate on a simpler principle: Does it serve your goal?"

  Eirik felt off-balance. "I... uh." He fumbled.

  Isolde watched him, amusement touching her lips.

  "Lost your tongue? Fine. Allow me to help you put into words the conflict you're wrestling with.”

  She took a step back, her posture straightening into the Lady Fenrir he'd first encountered. "You're saying that building this cathedral, this symbol, as a shield against the Order feels wrong? Like taking advantage of true faith? Exploiting something sacred for political gain?"

  "Yes," Eirik admitted. "Because it is."

  Isolde nodded. "Then that brings us to the question, Commander. The one you need to answer, not just for this plan, but for yourself." She paused. "What kind of Lord are you trying to be, Eirik?"

  He stared at her, caught off guard by the directness of the question.

  Isolde continued.

  "When I first saw you in Fenrir Hall, I saw two potential men. One version was what most believe you to be: a bastard. A predator. Cloaked in Stormcrow shadows, taking whatever he wanted from people without a second thought. My son's future. My father's freedom. My house's treasures." Her gaze didn't waver. "That man cared for nothing but his own gain. Own ambition. Own survival. That man deserved hatred. I gave it to him."

  Eirik shrugged. "And I couldn't care less about being liked, Isolde."

  "I know," Isolde said, quieter now. "But then… I saw something else."

  She gestured back towards the fortress. "You gave Leif responsibility. You trusted him with lives, even after his failures. You broke him down, but you also gave him a path back, a purpose. Your purpose, yes, but you saw something in him he didn't see in himself.”

  A smile touched her lips. "You changed him. From a spoiled boy clutching his wounds into... well, into a commander who led the bait group against trolls. Who stood against Skarls. Who brought men back from Flint's Hold." Her eyes searched his face. "That was... shaping."

  Eirik snorted dismissively. "I delegated. Pure pragmatism, Isolde. Leif was willing and semi-competent. Why wouldn't I use him? It saved me effort."

  "Whatever convenient lie you tell yourself to sleep at night, Commander." She held up a hand before he could object. "Answer me this fundamental question: which version of a Lord do you choose to become?"

  She took another step closer. The space between them vanished. He could see the fine frost clinging to her dark lashes, the determined set of her jaw.

  "If you choose the first path – the ruthless pragmatist who sees faith only as a shield, people only as tools – then building this cathedral is just manipulation. Taking advantage. And it makes you… predictable. Basic. A player in the same cynical game as Borin and Cedric and every grasping lordling. It makes you…" she paused, searching for the word, "...disappointing."

  The word landed with surprising weight. Disappointing? The unexpectedness of it momentarily silenced his usual retorts.

  "But," she continued, "if there’s a sliver of the second version – the man who saw potential even in a spoiled Fenrir heir and gave him purpose, the commander who shelters refugees despite the burden…" Her gaze challenged him to deny it. "...then building this cathedral might be something more. And that," she finished, "that version offers some hope. For Abercrombie. For the North. Perhaps… even for you."

  She turned to leave.