The heavy stone door clicked shut, sealing Eirik in the chamber.

  For a long moment, he didn't move.

  He let out a breath that shuddered in his chest.

  Gods.

  He had thought—genuinely, foolishly thought—that coming to Frostfall was a break. A relief from the crushing weight of Abercrombie, from hunger, the cold, the constant fear of the next Skarl raid or the next demon appearance.

  He had told himself that this was just a political requirement. Smile at the Duke, watch some men hit each other, put up with a few insults about his bastard birth, and then go home.

  He had thought he was a guest.

  He was so incredibly, stupidly wrong.

  Eirik walked to the window and braced his hands against the cold stone, looking out at the spires of Highfrost Keep. The city looked peaceful from here. Magnificent, even.

  It was a cage. And he was the hamster who had just realized the wheel was actually a grinder.

  The tournament wasn't a test of skill. It was a theater designed to showcase Lord Caelum. That was both propaganda for the masses and a demonstration of power meant specifically for him.

  Velthan’s parting words echoed in his mind. The Duke cannot force you... You have freedom to walk away.

  A lie. It was such a transparent, insulting lie that Eirik almost admired the audacity of it.

  If he walked out that door and tried to leave Frostfall, he wouldn't make it to the city gates. Or if he did, he'd find his name on a warrant for treason, or heresy, or jaywalking. The Duke controlled half the North. He owned the legal system, the army, and the narrative.

  If Eirik refused, he wouldn't be "free." He'd be a fugitive. Or worse, he'd just... disappear. Velthan was an archmage of terrifying power; he could probably stuff Eirik into a crate and ship him to the Sunless City without Eirik ever waking up until it was too late.

  Cooperate and walk, or refuse and be dragged in chains. Those were the options.

  He was going to the Sunless City. There was no escaping that.

  The question was: would he arrive as a sacrifice, or as a player?

  They needed him. That was the only chink in their armor. Velthan had admitted it. They were afraid of what waited in that city—ancient demons, entities like Malakor. They needed Eirik because he was a key. A key that could open doors, or perhaps a piece of meat that the monsters would find particularly tasty, drawing them out while the real powerhouses struck from behind.

  He couldn't fight them. Caelum was Glacier realm. Velthan could warp reality. Compared to them, Eirik was a mouse staring up at the boots of gods.

  But mice, Eirik knew, were notoriously hard to catch when they didn't want to be caught. Mice could hide in walls, gnaw through ropes, and steal cheese right under the nose of a sleeping cat.

  If he was going to survive this, he had to stop thinking like a lord and start thinking like a rodent. He needed to be small. He needed to be exactly what they expected him to be: an ambitious, slightly desperate minor lord dazzled by the promise of power.

  He needed to secure his flank.

  They might be watching. The thought struck him with sudden certainty. Velthan had retrieved that crystal shard from Fort Abercrombie itself. If the Archmage had eyes in his own fortress, he almost certainly had them here.

  Eirik sank to his knees, bowing his head as if in prayer.

  It wasn't entirely an act. The Frost Mother knew he needed divine intervention right now.

  His lips moved, forming words he'd heard from the faithful soldiers in his garrison: "Frost Mother, guide me through the storm. Steel my resolve. Harden my heart against the cold winds of fate..."

  His hand rose to his chest, fingers closing around the ice shard necklace in what would appear to be a gesture of devotion.

  "Leif," he whispered into the prayer.

  He focused, pushing his will into the connection. It took longer than usual—the thick stone of Highfrost Keep seemed to dampen the magic—but eventually, the familiar warmth pulsed against his chest.

  "Commander?" Leif's voice was fuzzy. "Is that... I can barely hear you."

  Eirik's lips moved. "Frost Mother, guide me through the storm that approaches from the north. The Duke has honored me with a sacred duty—an expedition to secure our borders permanently."

  "What? Commander, I don't understand—"

  "Steel my resolve against the coming blizzard," Eirik continued, eyes closed as if in fervent prayer. "Though the way is uncertain, we have the Duke's blessing to handle what lies ahead. Leif, mobilize three hundred Talons within three days."

  There was a pause. "Commander... are you—"

  "Harden my heart, Frost Mother, for I must leave my people behind. Let them not march openly—break them into small groups. Merchants, pilgrims, mercenaries filtering north through the trade routes."

  "Commander, are you... are you in danger?"

  "I am tested, Mother of Ice," Eirik breathed. "The Duke's will becomes mine. I venture where blizzards reign eternal. Guide my men to follow—scattered and hidden. Let them carry your blessings—rations, medical supplies, cold-weather gear. All that we have stockpiled..."

  "Where are you talking about, Commander, where are they taking you?"

  "The northern paths call to me, Frost Mother. I venture to the Sunless City where light has failed. "

  "Wait—" Leif's voice sharpened with sudden understanding. "The Sunless City? Commander, that's—"

  "Bless also those sisters who tend the Everwinter peaks," Eirik continued without pause. "Sister Mara who serves in those frozen heights. Send her your guidance..."

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  There was a long pause on the other end. When Leif spoke again, his voice was controlled.

  "I understand, Commander. Your... prayers are heard."

  "May you guide my steps through the frozen dark," Eirik finished. "And watch over Abercrombie in my absence. May your wisdom prevail."

  "Sister Mara. And three hundred men." Leif repeated quietly. "I will make the proper... arrangements."

  Eirik released the necklace. The connection snapped, leaving him feeling drained.

  He had bought himself some insurance. If he could signal Leif, he could direct reinforcements or supplies. It wasn't much—not against an Archmage—but it was better than nothing.

  Eirik rose up and turned from the window, his mind sharpening into a weapon.

  He needed to stop thinking like a victim and start thinking like a survivor. And the first rule of surviving a predator was understanding its hunting patterns.

  He looked around the room again.

  If Velthan could create an entire villa, fill it with food that tasted real, and fabricate mortal wounds on the Duke’s son, then sensory perception was useless here. Sight, sound, touch—all of it could be manipulated.

  Discrepancies, Eirik thought. I need to look for the cracks in the world.

  If Velthan was an illusionist, his strength lay in misdirection. That usually meant a weakness in direct confrontation. Illusionists were often like glass cannons—devastating if you fought the phantoms, but fragile if you managed to land a blow on the true body.

  The question was: how to find the real body in a hall of mirrors?

  Velthan wouldn't be casting Illusionis all the time, for that would surely be way too draining even for him. No, he'll cast it subtly and like a thief, and hit Eirik at the most unexpected moments if need be.

  He’d need to watch reality very closely from now on.

  And then there was Caelum.

  If Caelum were truly the god-like warrior he pretended to be, he would have slaughtered everything without a scratch and without needing to execute a script. Dominance is quiet. Insecurity needs a microphone.

  The fact that they felt the need to fake his vulnerability—then fake his miraculous recovery—told Eirik everything. Caelum was powerful, yes. Glacier realm was nothing to sneeze at. But he wasn't invincible. He had limits, and they were desperate to hide them.

  Maybe his stamina was poor? Maybe his durability was lower than a front-line fighter’s should be?

  Whatever the flaw, Eirik would find it. He would watch how Caelum moved, how he breathed, how he reacted when things didn't go according to the script. Moreover, Eirik needed to provoke him. To force him to move in ways a script couldn't predict. And to do that, Eirik needed to be close enough to be a nuisance, but not enough to be squashed.

  He also needed to prepare his own men.

  He needed to leave a message for Isolde, that once the grand tournament was over, she would need to return to Fort Abercrombie immediately with Harkin and Fisk, along with all the alchemy supplies he purchased here. When they're back safely, he can better leverage their abilities rather than having them being held as hostages here.

  Olaf and Kael would accompany him, these were the warriors he trusted, or had to trust, in the latter case. But if Velthan was watching, he wouldn't be able to speak openly. They needed a code. Something simple, but only they knew.

  It was flimsy, but it was better than walking in blind.

  He took a deep breath, centering himself. Now came the most important part. The mask.

  He couldn't play the reluctant hero anymore. That just made them push harder. He couldn't play the loyal servant, they’d never believe it from a bastard like him.

  He had to play exactly what they expected him to be: The Greedy Upstart.

  They wanted him to be a short-sighted minor lord dazzled by the promise of a promotion? He would give them the most greedy, ambitious, power-hungry version of Lord Stormcrow they had ever seen.

  If they thought he was desperate for the High Commander position, they would underestimate his caution. If they thought he only cared about the cultivation resources, they wouldn't expect him to be watching for a knife in the back.

  He would demand concessions. Not for the good of the mission, but for his enemy's peace of mind, actually. He’d demand better weapons, better armor, specific gear for himself and his chosen men. He’d make it clear that his loyalty was bought and paid for with shiny trinkets.

  The powerful always loved to believe that lesser men could be bought. It fed their ego.

  He looked at his reflection in the darkened window glass.

  He practiced a smile. A greedy, eager smile. The smile of a man who knows he's in over his head but thinks he can bluff his way to the top.

  No. That wasn't quite right either.

  The greedy upstart wanted promotions and cultivation resources. That was believable, yes. Every minor lord in the North dreamed of such things. But it was too clean.

  Men like Velthan didn't survive fifty years as the realm's most powerful mage by accepting the obvious answer. He would probe. And eventually, he would realize that Eirik's greed was too convenient.

  Eirik needed something messier. Something that felt real.

  The artifact.

  The thought surfaced like a bubble from deep water.

  Velthan had described it with barely concealed hunger. The power of armies. The spirits of soldiers and generals who once fought at Abercrombie's side. Even the Archmage—a man who could create pocket dimensions and fabricate reality itself—wanted that thing badly enough to risk an expedition into demon-haunted ruins.

  What would a bastard lord from a forgotten fortress want with such power?

  Everything.

  Eirik let the thought unfold. Not because it was a lie—gods, he actually did want it. An army-commanding weapon could make Fort Abercrombie something more than a glorified speed bump on the road to invasion.

  But more importantly, wanting the artifact would make him look like exactly what they expected: a small man with big ambitions and no understanding of the forces arrayed against him.

  The mantis stalking the cicada, unaware of the sparrow behind.

  They would see him reaching for the prize and assume he was blind to the talons descending toward his back. They would relax.

  And Eirik would be watching.

  He turned from the window and began to pace, his mind racing through the implications.

  Velthan and Caelum hadn't chosen him randomly. They had studied him. Probably dissected every report of his victories at Abercrombie. They knew his strengths.

  Public speeches. Rousing the common folk. Drama and spectacle. The ability to conjure ice structures that could turn a battlefield.

  And they had systematically stripped him of every single one.

  Out there, in the frozen wastes beyond the Icefang Pass, there would be no crowds to inspire. No walls to build. No desperate soldiers to rally with pretty words. He would be surrounded by the Duke's men—a hundred elite guards who answered to Caelum, not to him. His ice magic, impressive by provincial standards, would be child's play compared to an Archmage who could reshape reality itself.

  They had calculated everything. In their minds, Eirik Stormcrow was already neutralized. A useful tool to be pointed at demons and discarded when the real prize was secured.

  That was why they were so confident. That was why Caelum could barely hide his contempt. They genuinely believed there was no scenario—none—where Eirik could threaten their plans.

  Which meant they were wrong.

  Because Eirik had survived too many impossible situations to believe in unwinnable games. There was always a move.

  He didn't know what it was yet. But it existed.

  And in the meantime, he would play the mantis.

  He would make his interest in the artifact obvious. Not overt—that would be suspicious—but clear enough that Velthan could feel clever for noticing it. He would ask questions about its powers. He would let his eyes linger a moment too long when they discussed its location. He would be exactly greedy enough, exactly foolish enough, that they would pat themselves on the back for seeing through his transparent schemes.

  Let them think they were the sparrow.

  Eirik would be the eagle circling high above, waiting for the perfect moment to dive.

  He stopped pacing and stood in the center of the room, breathing slowly.

  Strange. For the past few days, he had wandered through Frostfall like a tourist in some vast, empty museum. The architecture had been impressive. The food had been exquisite. Even the violence of the tournament had been entertaining, in its way—at least the parts that weren't carefully staged propaganda.

  But through it all, he had felt... displaced. A minor character stumbling through scenes meant for greater men.

  Now, standing in this stone chamber with enemies on all sides and no clear path to survival, Eirik felt something familiar kindle in his chest.

  Exhilaration.

  There you are, he thought. There's the bastard.

  The plotting, scheming, never-say-die son of a whore who had clawed his way from nothing to lord commander of a fortress. The man who turned every disadvantage into a weapon.

  He had been sleeping. Lulled by good food and pretty buildings and the false comfort of being someone else's guest.

  No more.

  He took a deep breath, letting the mask settle over his face.