The door opened at exactly the one-hour mark.

  Eirik was seated. He had moved the high-backed chair and put it in the middle of the room, turned to face the entrance. His legs crossed, studying his fingernails with an expression of casual indifference.

  Archmage Velthan entered first, followed closely by Lord Caelum and Ser Konrad.

  Before any of them could say anything, Eirik gestured vaguely towards the three empty chairs arranged in a semi-circle before him.

  "Please," Eirik said, not looking up from his hands. "Sit."

  Ser Konrad's weathered face twisted with fury.

  "You presumptuous little—" The knight took a step forward. "Do you have any idea who you're addressing? And you dare—"

  "Ser Konrad."

  The Archmage didn't look angry. In fact, a rumbling sound started in his chest, building until it became a full-throated laugh.

  "Oh, this is wonderful." Velthan moved into the room, waving Konrad aside. "Stand down, Ser Knight. There's no offense here."

  "Archmage—"

  "I said stand down." The warmth didn't leave Velthan's voice. "This, Konrad—this right here—is exactly why I wanted Lord Stormcrow on our team."

  He crossed to the chair Eirik had indicated and sat.

  "The tales I've heard," Velthan continued. "The lord who turned a starving garrison into a blooming beacon of faith through sheer force of personality. The bastard who fended off Skarls, a Chantress, and his half-brother." He leaned back. "And here he is."

  His smile widened.

  "This. This is the Eirik Stormcrow I've been waiting to meet."

  The Duke's son said nothing.

  After a long moment, he crossed to the remaining chair and lowered himself into it. Ser Konrad remained standing by the door, not budging an inch.

  "Well then." Velthan spread his hands. "You've had your hour to consider. May I have your decision?"

  Eirik uncrossed his legs, leaning forward slightly.

  "Forgive my manners, Archmage. Before I inform you of my decision, might I ask a simple question of logistics? Just to clear my mind, of course."

  Velthan's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Ask."

  "Since we are bound for the deep north—and I assume we'll pass through Fort Abercrombie on the way—why did you send people to summon me south to Frostfall first?" Eirik tilted his head. "Only to then travel back up north? Seems rather... time-wasting, really. You could have sent a message, and I'd have welcomed you quite warmly at my own hall."

  Velthan's smile returned.

  "Oh yes." The Archmage nodded slowly. "Yes, that's a great question actually. You see, Lord Stormcrow, for an expedition of this nature, secrecy and cover are paramount."

  "Cover?"

  "To the entire nation—to every noble, merchant, and servant in Frostfall—you are still within the tournament portal as an attending guest." Velthan's fingers steepled before him. "I was also there, naturally. We all were."

  Eirik felt understanding dawn.

  "Illusion magic," he said flatly. "Again."

  "So you see it now." Velthan's voice carried a note of pleasure at having his work recognized. "Lord Caelum is ostensibly recovering from his injuries in Highfrost Keep's medical facilities—no visitors permitted, naturally. A mirror image of myself stands at the Duke's side, providing commentary on the ongoing trials. And a mirror image of you..."

  "...sits in the back row, watching."

  "Just so. I've arranged for attendants to discourage anyone from approaching your simulacrum too closely. The illusion is quite convincing at a distance, but direct inspection might reveal inconsistencies."

  Eirik processed this. The scope of Velthan's planning was staggering. He had created an entire parallel reality—a cover story that would hold up under casual scrutiny.

  "No one," Velthan continued, "and I mean no one except Duke Thorgrim himself, the hundred elite guardsmen already assembled, and the party present in this room—knows about this mission. To the world, we are simply attending a tournament."

  A chill ran down Eirik's spine.

  "But that won't work." He kept his voice level. "Isolde will speak with me—or rather, with the thing wearing my face. She'll see through it immediately."

  "Don't worry about Lady Fenrir."

  The casualness of Velthan's response made Eirik's stomach tighten.

  "I've ensured she's kept company by old acquaintances and nobles throughout the tournament's duration. Quite the social butterfly, your Lady Fenrir—she's already been swept up by Countess Varen and her circle. They'll keep her thoroughly occupied."

  Velthan's smile didn't waver.

  "And even if Lady Fenrir were to notice something amiss, I'm quite certain she'd be wise enough not to cause a stir. Wouldn't you agree?"

  There it was.

  The threat, wrapped in silk and delivered with a grandfather's smile.

  Isolde is a hostage, Eirik realized. They've isolated her, surrounded her with watchers, and made it clear that any disturbance on her part—or Eirik's—would have consequences.

  His expression remained thoughtful, even mildly impressed.

  "Of course," he said. "If no one would see through it, then I suppose it's quite elegant really."

  "So?" Velthan spread his hands expectantly. "Can I have your decision?"

  Eirik rose from the chair.

  He walked to the window, his back to the room, and looked out at the spires of Highfrost Keep. The morning sun painted them gold and silver.

  "My decision," he said slowly, "is that I'm deeply honored by your consideration, Archmage."

  He turned to face them.

  "But my answer is no."

  Caelum's composure cracked as he started to rise.

  Velthan's arm shot out, pressing against the young lord's chest, holding him in place.

  "No," Eirik continued. "I do not think myself befitting what this expedition demands."

  He inclined his head respectfully.

  "My lot is best served at Fort Abercrombie. If I miss the chance to serve the North as High Commander... then so be it. I'm certain His Grace will find someone more worthy of the honor."

  Velthan studied him for a moment.

  "May I ask why, Lord Stormcrow?"

  "Why?" Eirik let a note of self-deprecation enter his voice. "Archmage, I've spent the past hour considering everything you've told me. The Sunless City." He shook his head. "I'm a bastard from a dying fortress. I survived Malakor through luck, not skill. Whatever quality made that creature flee... I have no understanding of it, no control over it. What happens when we encounter something worse, and my mysterious 'gift' fails to activate?"

  He spread his hands.

  "I become a liability. Worse—I become a corpse, and whatever plans you've built around my presence collapse."

  "You underestimate yourself, Lord Stormcrow."

  "Do I?" Eirik's voice sharpened slightly. "Archmage, you've spent decades studying these matters. If the realm's greatest expert on demonic interaction cannot explain what happened, how am I supposed to rely on it?"

  He let frustration bleed into his tone.

  "I appreciate the offer of cultivation resources. Truly. And the position of High Commander..." He shook his head with what he hoped looked like genuine regret. "It's beyond anything I could have dreamed. But I've learned something in my time at Abercrombie, Archmage. I've learned that overreaching kills."

  Velthan's expression had grown thoughtful. His fingers tapped slowly against the arm of his chair.

  "You've given this considerable thought," the Archmage observed.

  "I've had an hour." Eirik allowed himself a self-deprecating smile. "And I've spent most of it realizing how far out of my depth I am."

  Silence filled the chamber.

  Eirik kept his posture relaxed.

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  The Archmage would be analyzing him right now. A minor lord, offered everything he could want, suddenly developing cold feet? No. The Eirik Stormcrow of the reports didn't shrink from danger.

  Which meant the refusal was a ploy for something he hadn't offered yet.

  But here was the delicate part. If Eirik simply waited for Velthan to increase the offer, it would look exactly like what it was—a negotiating tactic. The Archmage would comply, probably add some sweetener to the deal, and file away a mental note that Eirik Stormcrow was predictable. Which also would looks suspicious.

  No. Eirik needed Velthan to think he'd discovered a secret motivation that Eirik was trying to hide.

  He turned back toward the window.

  "I should return to Fort Abercrombie," he said quietly. "My people need me. The spring raids will come soon enough, and without proper preparation..." Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, he added: "There's something... uncomfortable about chasing after relics that might be better left undisturbed."

  "Uncomfortable?" The Archmage's voice. "In what way?"

  "It's nothing, Archmage." Eirik turned and waved a dismissive hand. "Forget I mentioned it."

  "Lord Stormcrow." The Archmage leaned forward. "When you encountered Malakor—when you commanded it to leave—did you feel anything?"

  Eirik let himself hesitate.

  This was the crucial moment. Too eager, and Velthan would see through him.

  "I don't know what I felt," Eirik said slowly. "It was terror. The demon was there, and then it wasn't. I thought—I assumed—it was the legitimacy of my lordship."

  "But?"

  Eirik met the Archmage's gaze.

  "The artifact," he said. "General Abercrombie's source of power. I am the current lord of his fortress. I had thought that was where the connection ended. What if—"

  He stood abruptly.

  "Apologies, lords. I digress too much."

  Velthan's expression had transformed. The grandfatherly warmth was gone, replaced by the intensity of a scholar scenting discovery.

  "Lord Stormcrow. Your concerns about the expedition are noted. But I must now insist—for the sake of the realm itself—that you reconsider."

  Eirik kept his expression carefully neutral.

  He thinks I'm refusing because I'm afraid of what I might find. Eirik realized. Of the things he knows but I do not yet know, and the knowledge of which would surely spell trouble for him and Duke's entire plan.

  "Archmage," Caelum's voice cut through the tension. "This is absurd. We're wasting time on a tenant-lord's amateur dramatics. If he doesn't want to come, leave him."

  Eirik seized the chance. "Archmage, I really agree with Lord Cae—"

  "Name your price."

  The words came out matter-of-fact.

  Eirik blinked.

  "I... beg your pardon?"

  "Your price, Lord Stormcrow." Velthan spread his hands. "You've made your reluctance clear. You've established that you have concerns—legitimate concerns, even—about your role in this expedition. But we both know that every man has a price. So tell me: what would it take?"

  "Archmage, with respect—I've already told you my concerns."

  "Sit down."

  The command came not from Velthan, but from Caelum.

  Eirik paused, hand on the door frame. He turned slowly.

  The Duke's son had risen from his chair.

  "You've made your little show of independence." Caelum said. "Very impressive. Now sit down and stop wasting everyone's time."

  "Lord Caelum—"

  "Do you think you're clever?" Caelum took a step forward. "The only reason you're standing in this room instead of rotting in a cell is because the Archmage believes you might be useful."

  "Caelum." Velthan's voice carried a warning note.

  But the young lord continued.

  "Useful. Like a hunting dog or a pack mule. And like any dog, you can be discarded when a better one comes along."

  "I appreciate the clarification, Lord Caelum." Eirik inclined his head slightly. "All the more reason for me to return home, wouldn't you say? Why risk a valuable expedition on a mere... pack mule?"

  Caelum's jaw tightened.

  "Enough." Velthan rose from his chair. "Lord Caelum, please compose yourself. Lord Stormcrow—" The Archmage's voice softened. "Walk with me."

  Velthan moved toward a side door that Eirik was certain hadn't existed moments before.

  Eirik hesitated.

  "Please," Velthan said. "I simply wish to show you something."

  Against his better judgment, Eirik followed.

  The corridor beyond was narrow and lit by floating motes of pale light.

  "You must forgive Lord Caelum," Velthan said as they walked. "He is... passionate. And he has been under considerable pressure."

  "I noticed."

  "The weight of his father's expectations takes a toll." The Archmage's voice was contemplative. "He sees you as a complication in a plan he's spent years preparing for."

  "And you, Archmage? Do you also see me as a complication?"

  Velthan chuckled, but did not reply.

  They reached another door. Velthan pressed his palm against it, and runes flared briefly before the door swung inward.

  The room beyond was a library. But it was the central pedestal that drew Eirik's attention.

  A map.

  "The Sunless City," Velthan said. "Or rather, what remains of it."

  Eirik approached the pedestal slowly.

  "I've spent forty years studying that place," the Archmage continued. "piecing together what happened when General Abercrombie fell."

  "And what did happen?"

  "That's the question, isn't it?" Velthan moved to stand beside him. "The official histories say the city was overwhelmed. That the General's enemies finally breached the walls and slaughtered everyone within. But the official histories are lies."

  Eirik looked up sharply.

  "The city was breached yes," Velthan said. "But a part of it was sealed, to this day."

  "Sealed? By whom?"

  "By General Abercrombie himself." The Archmage's voice dropped. "In his final days, the General performed a ritual of binding."

  Eirik's mind raced.

  "The artifact," he said slowly. "It's still inside. That's why no one's retrieved it."

  "Precisely." Velthan's eyes glittered. "The barriers have weakened over the centuries. Enough that... things... have begun to leak out. The demons that plague your fortress, Lord Stormcrow. The Thaw Blizzard that devastates the north every year. These are symptoms of a seal that's failing."

  "And you believe you can break through."

  "I know I can." The Archmage's voice carried absolute certainty. "I've spent decades preparing for this moment. The barriers will be at their weakest right before the Thaw Blizzard itself. That's why the timing is so critical."

  Eirik absorbed this.

  "But there's a problem," he said. "Isn't there? Otherwise you wouldn't need me."

  Velthan smiled.

  "You're quick. I appreciate that." He turned back to the map. "I can weaken the barriers. Lord Caelum can fight through whatever guardians remain. But to actually open them, that requires something I cannot provide. Something that, until your encounter with Malakor, I believed had been lost to history entirely."

  Eirik felt the pieces clicking together.

  "You think I'm connected to General Abercrombie," he said slowly.

  "I think," Velthan said carefully, "that there are something about you that neither of us fully understands yet."

  He's essential.

  They didn't just want him along as demon-repellent or cannon fodder. They needed him to actually access the artifact.

  Caelum had been lying. Or rather, Caelum had been desperately trying to convince Eirik of a lie that'd keep him in his place.

  "That's..." Eirik shook his head slowly. "That's a considerable theory, Archmage. But it's still just a theory. What if I reach the final seal and nothing happens?"

  "Then we'll retreat. And I will be standing beside you, Lord Stormcrow. As will Lord Caelum and a hundred of the finest soldiers in the realm. Whatever happens, you won't face it alone."

  The words were meant to be reassuring.

  They weren't.

  Eirik turned away from the map, pacing slowly along the rows of glass-enclosed books.

  He had leverage now.

  "You said something earlier," Eirik said, keeping his back to the Archmage. "About the artifact allowing its wielder to command the power of armies. To call upon the spirits of soldiers and generals."

  "Yes."

  "And General Abercrombie sealed it behind barriers keyed to his bloodline." Eirik paused. "But I'm not his descendant. The Stormcrow name is barely two generations old. My father was a minor noble who happened to be granted the fortress as a punishment posting."

  He turned to face Velthan.

  "So how could I possibly have any connection to a thousand-year-old general?"

  The Archmage's expression shifted—just slightly, but Eirik caught it.

  There it is, he thought. The thing you're not telling me.

  "Bloodline was one possibility," Velthan said slowly. "But the nature of your connection is... perhaps more flexible than simple genetics."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning that the fortress itself may be the key." Velthan's voice had grown careful. "When you assumed command of that fortress—when you defended it, bled for it, established your authority—you may have inherited more than just a title. "

  "And what is it, exactly?"

  "You are correct to press on this point," Velthan said. "And I will not insult your intelligence with further obfuscation. The truth is—I do not know."

  "Then you're gambling," Eirik said.

  "Everything is a gamble," Velthan replied. "But here is the crucial difference, and I beg you to consider it carefully. Artifacts of this magnitude—objects that bind the souls of armies, that anchor demons and weather alike—are not simple tools. They are not swords to be picked up and wielded by whoever has the strength to lift them."

  The Archmage's voice dropped to a near whisper.

  "They choose."

  Eirik felt a cold certainty settling in his chest. "You believe if I enter that city—if I touch that artifact—it will claim me. Regardless of your intentions or the Duke's plans."

  "I believe," Velthan said carefully, "that General Abercrombie designed his final working to recognize something specific. If that is the case, and if you are the one the artifact recognizes..."

  "Then Lord Caelum doesn't get his prize," Eirik finished. "I do."

  "Precisely."

  "Which brings us to the High Commander title," Eirik said slowly. "A leash, if your hypothesis was true."

  Velthan's smile returned. "A partnership. If the artifact binds itself to you—if you become, effectively, the heir to General Abercrombie's power—then the North requires assurance that your interests align with the realm's. The position of High Commander is... a pre-emptive allegiance."

  "So if I become a demigod in your eyes," Eirik said, letting a dry edge creep into his voice, "I do so as a vassal of Highfrost Keep. Bound by oaths and titles before I even touch the thing."

  "It is the only way the Duke will permit you to enter that city," Velthan said flatly.

  Eirik turned back to the map, his mind racing. It was elegant, in a terrible way. They weren't offering him command because he deserved it. They were buying insurance against the possibility that he might become uncontrollable. And if he refused the title, he refused the mission—and likely signed his death warrant, or at least a lifetime of imprisonment to ensure he never became a rival power.

  Worse still, if he accepted and the artifact did bind to him, he would spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, wondering when the Duke decided that a bound High Commander was too dangerous to keep alive.

  It was a trap wrapped in an offer wrapped in a threat.

  But it was also access.

  "You're placing a great deal of faith in my honor, Archmage," Eirik said quietly. "Assuming I would accept such power and remain... docile."

  "I'm placing faith in your intelligence," Velthan corrected. "The High Commander title gives you legitimacy, resources, and protection. Without it, you are merely a bastard lord with a mysterious artifact that every major power in the realm would kill to possess."

  He stepped closer, lowering his voice further.

  "And let us be clear about something else. Caelum does not know the full extent of my suspicions."

  Eirik absorbed this. So there were layers within layers. Velthan was playing his own game, using Eirik as a check against Caelum's ambitions, and by extension, the Duke's. Perhaps by ensuring that if the artifact did bind to someone, it bound to someone the Archmage could influence.

  "I need something else," Eirik said.

  "Name it."

  "If I do this—if I accept your title and enter your city—I want Fort Abercrombie removed from the Duke's direct jurisdiction. I want it declared a sovereign holding, answerable only to the Crown, not to Highfrost Keep."

  Velthan's eyebrows rose. "That is... ambitious."

  "It's non-negotiable," Eirik said. "You want me to risk becoming a vessel for ancient power? Fine. But my people—my actual people, not the soldiers you assign to me—remain untouchable. Whatever happens to me in the Sunless City, Fort Abercrombie stands independent. Its garrison swears to the realm, not to Duke Thorgrim."

  "You ask for the impossible."

  "I ask for the practical," Eirik countered. "If I become what you fear I might become, then you need me to have roots that run deeper than Duke's patronage. Otherwise, Archmage, I am simply a mercenary. And mercenaries are bought by the highest bidder."

  Velthan studied him for a long moment, and Eirik saw the calculation behind those eyes.

  "Very well," Velthan said finally. "I will speak with the Duke."

  Eirik nodded slowly.

  The Archmage had shown him a card—perhaps the only card that mattered—that Eirik's connection to the artifact was direct and necessary. But Velthan wouldn't just hand the prize to a bastard lord from the frontier. No, they would use him as a probe first, a key second, and only resign themselves to his ownership if every other option had been exhausted.

  The request for Fort Abercrombie's sovereignty had been theater. Eirik had counter-offered because a man who simply rolled over would have looked like he was playing a deeper game; a man who haggled for his own fiefdom looked realistic. And Velthan's acceptance had come easily. Which meant the Archmage had already accounted for this possibility, or the promise itself was hollow—words on paper that could be revoked by a stroke of the Duke's pen once Eirik was buried in the Sunless City.

  But for now, the Archmage would be relieved to see the cicada taking the bait, and that would buy Eirik some time.

  "Then I accept," Eirik said.

  "Excellent." Velthan's smile widened. "Welcome to the expedition, Lord Stormcrow."