Eirik Stormcrow sat bent over a rough table carved directly from the granite. His boots were muddy. Fisk had tried to get him to change, but Eirik had waved him off.

  The air down here lacked the sharp bite of the wind above. It also lacked the stench that made Fisk wrinkle his nose every time he walked past the mushroom growing area. Eirik had set up the first three rooms in a rough line beneath the central keep. The fourth, still unfinished, had been left open to serve as this meeting room.

  Light came from oil lanterns set into iron brackets hammered into the stone.

  It wasn't grand. It wasn't even comfortable. But it was private and hidden. And that made it perfect for what needed to happen now. And, to be blunt, this was a palace compared to what he had just a week ago.

  Across from them sat the two lords. Lord Varn looked like he was sitting on a pile of thorns. Lord Flint looked even more uncomfortable with rage simmering behind his eyes when he saw the bastard that had played him for a fool.

  Fisk hurried in last, carrying a tray with rough clay mugs. He set them down on the table with a clatter that made everyone jump.

  "Tea," he announced proudly. "Made from wild herbs I found growing near the eastern wall. Very... fresh."

  Everyone ignored the mugs.

  "Thank you all for coming. I know it's... unusual." Eirik leaned back in his chair. "Let's make this clear. We're not here to discuss theology or philosophy. We're here because Abercrombie now represents the single biggest money-making opportunity this region has seen in decades."

  He let that sink in.

  Flint scoffed. "Opportunity? You call being mauled by religious fanatics an opportunity?"

  Eirik's gaze turned cold. "Yes, I do. Because when people are willing to risk getting trampled for a chance to touch ice, that's worth something. And I plan to make money from every bit of it."

  Varn was intrigued. "Make money?"

  "From the pilgrimages that would soon come."

  Flint's lip curled. "This is blasphemy."

  "No," Eirik corrected, "this is business. We're not scamming anyone. We're talking about logistics and make money from them honestly. We feed three hundred mouths right now. Word of the statue will bring thousands. Thousands need food, shelter, safety. Safety costs money. Food costs money. Shelter costs money. All of that money can be made, by us, right here."

  Varn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You're talking about tourism."

  "Tourism with divine branding," Eirik replied. "Think about it – where else can pilgrims go to touch an actual showing of the Frost Mother? Where else can they pray beside ice that was literally made by Her chosen vessel?"

  He gestured toward the statue behind him.

  "The religious establishment will eventually try to take over this," Eirik continued. "The Order of the Everwinter will want to claim authority over the site. But if we build our money framework first, if we create needs that benefit us, then even they'll have to work through our systems."

  "What kind of systems?" Varn asked, genuinely curious now.

  Yorick looked up from his ledger. "Well, sir, I've been calculating some numbers based on what we saw outside..."

  Eirik gestured for him to continue.

  "The crowd today was roughly five hundred people. If word spreads as we expect it to, within a month we could see numbers in the thousands. By spring, tens of thousands."

  Flint made a choking sound. "Tens of thousands? You're talking about feeding an army!"

  "Not necessarily," Eirik said quickly. "Many pilgrims are expected to bring their own food. We don't need to feed everyone – just provide services and collect fees."

  "That's easier said than done," Varn muttered. "How exactly do you plan to charge people for touching a statue?"

  "Entry fee," Isolde interjected smoothly. "A small charge just to enter the courtyard where the statue stands. Say, one silver talon per person. Five hundred people today would have generated five hundred talons. Tens of thousands..."

  She let the math speak for itself.

  Eirik was already working the numbers in his head. One silver talon per person was low. People desperate enough to risk being trampled were likely desperate enough to pay more. But starting low built trust.

  "Good," he said aloud. "But entry fees are just the beginning. What about places to stay? Food? Souvenirs?"

  "Souvenirs?" Flint looked confused.

  "Religious items," Eirik explained. "Small ice sculptures blessed by the Frost Mother's chosen vessel. Pieces of shaved ice from the statue itself. Pilgrim tokens."

  He could see the gears turning in Flint's head. The man wasn't stupid – he was just unused to thinking about money in terms of services rather than land and taxes.

  "Wait," Varn said slowly, "you can't actually sell pieces of the statue. That would be..."

  "Unholy?" Eirik finished. "Not if we're careful about framing. We're not selling pieces of the Frost Mother – we're selling blessed items made in Her image. There's a difference."

  Isolde clapped her hands together softly. "Isn't it brilliant, lords. You take ice that can be reformed at the commander's power – and create 'blessed' versions that pilgrims can take home. That'd be a hit."

  "Exactly," Eirik said. "We can also create small statues, charms, even simple jewelry. Charge premium prices because of the felt blessing. Most of it can be mass-produced using my abilities, so the production costs are minimal."

  Varn looked skeptical. "Won't people notice the difference between genuine divine showing and mass-produced trinkets?"

  "What people see is reality," Isolde said smoothly. "We control the story. The real statue – that one back there – serves as proof that divine power exists here. Everything else is extension of that power. We don't lie – we just don't clarify the small details."

  Flint snorted. "This is madness."

  "Madness that will fill our coffers," Eirik shot back. "Flint, you've spent your entire life trying to squeeze money from peasants. Now you have the opportunity to make honest money from believers."

  That got Flint's attention. His eyes sharpened.

  "We can also charge for guided tours," Yorick added from his table. "Explain the importance of different parts of the fortress. The history of the place. The story of how the statue was created."

  "Precisely," Eirik agreed. "Knowledge is power, and power can be sold. We become the official interpreters of the divine experience."

  "What about buildings?" Varn asked. "If thousands of people are coming, we'll need proper facilities."

  "We build them gradually," Eirik said. "Start with basic needs – clean water, waste cleanup, emergency medical care. Charge small fees for each service. As we grow, we expand."

  He paused, thinking. "But there's another angle we haven't considered. Places to stay."

  Flint perked up immediately. "Inns. Taverns. Merchants."

  "Yes, but also something simpler," Eirik said. "We don't need to build luxury places to stay. We can offer basic shelter – warm beds, food, safety. Position it as part of the spiritual journey. 'Sleep where the faithful have slept. Eat the bread of the blessed.'"

  He could see how this would work. Simple ice huts or underground chambers, nothing fancy, but safe and clean. Charge enough to cover costs and generate profit, but not so much as to price out the average pilgrim.

  "The key is growth," Eirik continued. "We start small and grow based on demand. No point building a grand cathedral inn if only fifty people show up on any given day."

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  Varn nodded approvingly. "That sounds... interesting. What about competition? Other religious sites exist."

  "None of them have a living herald of Frost Mother walking among them," Eirik said bluntly. "We have being the only one. The Frost Mother herself chose this place. That's our edge over others."

  "But being the only one breeds copying," Varn warned. "Other sites will try to copy what you're doing. If it's just an ice statue, they'll just get blocks of ice and try to carve one themselves."

  "Not easily," Eirik replied. "They don't have me."

  Flint was leaning forward now, genuinely interested despite his hatred towards the bastard. "And what does this mean for us? What's the investment opportunity?"

  Eirik felt a familiar thrill. This was where things got interesting.

  "Investment opportunity?" he repeated. "We're not just talking about investment. We're talking about partnership."

  He stood up.

  "Here's how it works. We need money to expand facilities, hire workers, purchase supplies. Instead of borrowing money from banks or lenders, we offer ownership stakes in the operation."

  "Ownership?" Varn looked puzzled.

  "Ownership shares," Eirik explained smoothly. "Invest money now, receive percentage ownership of the pilgrimage operation. As the business grows, so does the value of their investment."

  Flint's eyes lit up. "And we get a cut of the profits."

  "Exactly," Eirik said.

  "What kind of investment are we talking about?" Flint asked.

  Eirik looked at Yorick, who immediately opened his ledger and began flipping pages.

  "Based on expected growth," Yorick said nervously, "we're looking at initial money requirements of roughly ten thousand talons to establish basic buildings. Places to stay for two hundred guests, improved food services, expanded courtyard facilities. In return... each of you will own a five percent stake in this partnership."

  "Ten thousand talons? For five percent?" Flint laughed. He slammed a meaty fist on the table, making the forgotten clay mugs jump. "Are you crazy, bastard? Do you think we piss silver? My money boxes aren't bottomless wells, especially after your little extortion!"

  "Lord Varn?" Flint turned his glare. "You carry that kind of coin in your saddlebags? Maybe tucked in with your fancy handkerchiefs?"

  Varn didn't rise to the bait. He smoothed his fine wool sleeve, his gaze fixed on Eirik.

  "It is a large sum, Commander, especially demanded outright. Even pooled, I doubt Flint and I, and those here," he gestured outside, "could easily produce it without crippling our own holds. Winter is harsh, as you well know."

  "Oh, Lords," Eirik said. "I wouldn't dream of emptying your personal treasury. You misunderstand."

  He swept a hand.

  "You are lords. Men of influence across the North." Eirik's gaze pinned each of the lords. "The opportunity I just laid bare – the pilgrimage, the coin flowing like meltwater – that is what you sell."

  "You sell it to them. Offer them a stake in the... let's call it a Consortium. A slice of Abercrombie's future riches. They give you the coin – a hundred talons here, five hundred there, whatever they can scrape together, lured by the promise of divine profits and closeness to power." He shrugged. "You arrange whatever stake, whatever terms you wish with them. Keep a cut for yourselves as the… arrangers. I don't care. I just need the ten thousand talons delivered. You handle the rest."

  A stunned silence fell. The boldness was breathtaking. Eirik was proposing they become his… sales force? Using their own vassals to fund his venture? And pocketing a commission for the privilege?

  Varn broke the silence. "Impressive. More than once, Commander Stormcrow, you have managed to amaze me. Your practicality is… impressive. But here is the basic flaw in your grand design, Lord Stormcrow. You speak as if you are a King, using unchallenged power. You are not."

  He pressed his fingertips together.

  "The Order of the Everwinter will come. Not pilgrims seeking blessings, but investigators. They will examine your 'miracles', probe your power. And if they decide you are a threat to their control on faith? If they deem you a monster? What then? Your Consortium? Your pilgrims? Your ice trinkets?" He shook his head slowly. "Dust in the wind. You will be dust."

  "You killed a few trolls? Drove off a Skarl warband? Frostbite, boy, Borin's garrison captains do that before breakfast. It proves you are capable, dangerous even. But it does not prove you are untouchable by powers that command mountains. Why do you think Borin hasn't crushed you himself yet? He wants the Order to handle you. Neatly. Quietly. Without him getting his hands dirty with heresy. They will come, they will condemn you, and they will unmake you. Then what becomes of your grand promises to these… investors?"

  A slow, chilling smile spread across Eirik's face.

  "Brilliant point, Lord Varn. Absolutely vital. And this," he spread his hands, "is precisely why I requested the presence of the two most powerful lords in the North. Why I need your wisdom and reach."

  He paused.

  "Here's my answer to the Order. If they choose to force into a situation I deem unacceptable." He made sure his voice dropped to a secretive whisper that somehow carried to every ear in the cold room. "I make sure they can't act quietly."

  Varn stiffened.

  "Or," Eirik continued, "even better. I bait them to deal with me in public. That way, they can’t lay a finger on me. If they did, then the whole North knows that the Order of the Everwinter treated the Frost Mother's Chosen Vessel wrongly because they feared the hope he brought to the common folk."

  He leaned back, watching the dawning understanding mixed with dread on Flint's eyes.

  "For the sake of argument only, let's just say that the Order deems me insufferable and wipes my existence from this frozen earth, what happens?"

  Flint was the first to blurt it.

  "The bastard who rose from nothing… who drove out the Skarls when the lords cowered behind their walls… who built shelter from ice and raised the Frost Mother Herself in stone… murdered? By the very Order that claims to serve Her?" He swallowed hard. "The people… they'd rage."

  Varn didn't speak it out, though he felt deep chills. Yes. The people would rage. Especially after the bastard just packed Abercrombie with pilgrims who witnessed the 'miracle'. It would be fuel for a rebellion.

  "Precisely," Eirik nodded. "Why make me an enemy they have to fight, when they can use me? Why crush the golden goose when they can control the nest? My death – especially framed as their doing – is a disaster for them. My continued existence, under their watchful eye, feeding their treasury through controlled pilgrimage… that's the safe play. The profitable play. The play that maintains their power. The Order likes control, Lord Varn, not chaos. I can give them control."

  Varn stared at Eirik, feeling a deep unease rose inside him.

  "Clever. Wickedly so. I still don't like it, Stormcrow." He shook his head. "The scale… you overestimate your legend. So you killed a few trolls? Broke a Skarl band? Impressive fights, yes. But widespread rebellion? The common folk fear the Order as much as they revere the Frost. Your martyrdom might spark local riots, true. Fury in Frostholme, perhaps. But a fire that swallows the North? Unlikely. Most will huddle in fear, as they always do."

  He looked at Flint.

  "Lord Flint? I suggest we leave. This endeavor is quicksand. I will risk neither my coin nor my neck on this... this blasphemous gamble." He turned towards the exit tunnel.

  "Another brilliant point, my lord! And that's precisely why I need you." Eirik's voice stopped him. "Please, just a little longer, hear my last point, then you will be free."

  Varn afforded him a look.

  "Lord Varn. Who granted me the right of Fort Abercrombie? Who signed the papers naming me Tenant-Lord? You. Your seal is on my right to be here. Lord Flint." He turned his icy gaze on the sputtering lord. "Who paid me twenty-five hundred silver talons publicly, under witness, fulfilling a contract to the letter? You. Who are both here, today, standing beside Lady Isolde Fenrir, witnessing the raising of the Frost Mother Herself?"

  The trap tightens.

  "Now," Eirik continued. "Suppose you decline. You refuse the investment. You refuse to spread the word of this 'miracle'. You offer no coin, no food, no support. And the Order comes swiftly, before my legend grows beyond these mountains. They find a way to silence me. To prevent this from scaling out of control. To put the bastard back in his place." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Guess what I tell them?"

  He paused, locking eyes with Varn, then Flint.

  "I tell them it was you. Both of you. That I was just looking to kill Skarls and grow a little base. But you…" He pointed again. "You, Lord Varn, saw ambition in me. You granted me Abercrombie, feeding my ego. You, Lord Flint, funded my ventures, enabling my 'arrogance'. You planted the seeds of this grand ambition. You guided me. You whispered of power beyond my station. You saw a useful tool… and now look where it led."

  He spread his hands wide, including the underground room, the statue above, the muted chaos.

  "And what will the Order do with that information, my lords? As you so wisely pointed out, Lord Varn, all I've done so far is slay some trolls and wipe out a few Skarls. Basic work. Where, pray tell, did this bold scale, this challenge to their divine authority, truly come from?" His smile was pure frost. "Who guided the Bastard Stormcrow's hand?"

  The silence that followed was absolute.

  The color drained from Arcturus Flint's face instantly. He looked as if he might vomit. Dagan Varn froze rigid by the door, inches from freedom.

  He stared Flint with a look of muted horror, then very slowly, he lowered his hand.