"In," Konrad said. "The Archmage has authorized the requisition. Do not dawdle. We depart in ten minutes."

  Eirik walked in, followed closely by Olaf, Kael, and seven of his Talons.

  The chamber was vast. Racks of weapons lined the walls—pikes, halberds, broadswords, and axes, each gleaming with a mirror finish that spoke of enchanted, self-cleaning oils. Mannequins stood in disciplined rows, draped in armor.

  This was the Duke’s personal reserve. Gear reserved for the elite city guards and high-ranking officers. Nothing here was cheap.

  "Frost be damned," Olaf muttered, his eyes wide as he ran a calloused hand over the hilt of a greatsword. "I think this hilt has more gold in it than my entire yearly stipend."

  "Put it down," Konrad snapped from the doorway, blocking the exit like a bouncer at a tavern that didn't want their business. "This is a military supply depot, not a bazaar. Choose your kit and form a line."

  The Talons, however, were frozen in a moment of overwhelmed awe. They were men used to scavenging, to patching leather with rawhide and hammering out dents in cold iron. To be surrounded by such excess was intoxicating.

  They began to drift.

  Not in a military formation, but like shoppers at a festival market. One of the younger Talons, a recruit named Jory who had joined only three months past, drifted toward a rack of throwing axes. He picked one up, balancing it in his hand, testing the weight with the critical eye of a man buying a melon.

  "Too light," Jory said to himself, setting it down and reaching for a heavier one.

  "Hey," Kael said, inspecting a set of vambraces. "This has frost-steel reinforcement. Look at the blue tint."

  Eirik had wanted two dozen men, but Velthan had been firm. Nine. That was the limit for his personal retinue. These nine had to be the best.

  He recognized them all. Some from the skirmish against Garrick and Gunnar, back when the Talons were just numbered prisoners in a muddy pit.

  "Talon Four," Eirik said, addressing a grizzled veteran named Brenn. He was inspecting a heavy shield. "You prefer the tower?"

  "Keeps the arrows off, my Lord," Brenn grunted, not looking up. "And good for knocking the frost-wolves back when they get too close."

  "Take it," Eirik said. "And find a helmet that covers your neck. You twitch when you hear wind howl. I don't want you losing your head because you were distracted."

  Brenn nodded. "Aye, Lord Commander."

  Ser Konrad let out a loud, exaggerated sigh from the doorway.

  "We are on a schedule," the old knight announced. He looked at the Talons as if they were children playing in a smithy. "Pick a sword. Pick a breastplate. Move. I have better things to do than watch peasants play dress-up in the Duke's armory."

  The young recruit, Jory, was currently holding two different helmets, turning them back and forth, clearly undecided. One had a narrow visor for visibility; the other offered full face protection but limited peripheral vision.

  "The narrow one," Jory muttered to himself. "No, the full one..."

  "Boy," Konrad barked. He stepped into the room, his boots clacking sharply on the stone floor. "Pick a helmet and put it on your head. You are holding up the departure."

  Jory flinched, nearly dropping the headgear. "I... Ser, I'm just trying to think—"

  "Thinking is for officers," Konrad shot back, looming over the young man. "You are a soldier. You take what is issued and you thank the Duke for his generosity. You have thirty seconds before I pick for you, and I guarantee you won't like my choice."

  The other Talons froze, their hands hovering over the racks.

  Eirik moved.

  He stepped between Konrad and the recruit, inserting himself into the old knight’s personal space with a calmness that bordered on insolence.

  "He will take as long as he needs, Ser Konrad."

  Konrad’s eyes narrowed to slits. "Excuse me?"

  "These men," Eirik said, "are walking into a frozen hell at the edge of the world. The Archmage himself has approved their presence on this expedition. Do you really believe His Grace would want his assets—assets I personally vouched for—wielding gear that doesn't fit them because you were in a hurry to get back to your post?"

  He turned to Jory, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  "Take the full helm," Eirik advised gently. "The visibility is poor, yes, but in the Sunless City, you won't be seeing enemies with your eyes anyway. You'll be feeling them. Protect your face."

  Jory swallowed hard and nodded, grabbing the full helmet with trembling hands.

  Eirik turned back to Konrad. He didn't adopt a fighting stance, but his posture was unyielding.

  "Let them choose, Ser Konrad. We are representing the Duke’s interests. Showing gratitude to the Duke means ensuring we survive long enough to be useful. If my man dies because a strap was too loose or a visor didn't close, that is a failure of supply. Do you want to explain that failure to the Archmage?"

  Konrad stared at him. The muscles in the old knight’s jaw worked rhythmically, grinding teeth that had likely seen their share of conflict.

  For a moment, Eirik thought the old man might actually strike him. Konrad was loyal, pragmatic, and ruthless. He didn't care about Eirik's status or his speeches. He cared about the job, and right now, Eirik was an obstruction.

  But Konrad was also a professional. Causing a scene in the armory five minutes before departure would complicate the timeline more than letting the peasants play with the swords would.

  "You are pushing your luck, Stormcrow."

  "Perhaps," Eirik said, stepping closer. "But unlike you, I don't have the luxury of being expendable. The Archmage made that very clear. So, we are going to take as much time as we need. We are going to take as much gear as we can carry. Because if my men die due to poor equipment, I die. And I am surprisingly attached to my own skin."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He looked past Konrad to the other Talons, who were watching the confrontation with wide eyes.

  "Load up!" Eirik shouted. "Take extra oil for the blades. Cold-weather greases for the leather joints. If you see a cloak with a thermal lining, take it! Pack rations, spare waterskins, and medical kits. I want every one of you carrying at least fifty pounds of supplies!"

  A cheer went up from the men. They moved again, stripping the racks of the best equipment with efficient speed.

  Konrad looked like a man who wanted to break something very badly but knew it would cost him his job. He marched out of the armory, the heavy doors thudding shut behind him.

  Eirik exhaled slowly.

  "Olaf," Eirik said, turning back to his second-in-command. "The greataxe. You know the one."

  Olaf grinned, a feral expression. "Already found it, Commander." He lifted a massive weapon of blackened frost-steel, the head inlaid with runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light. "Feels like it could split a mountain."

  "Kael?"

  Kael was already strapping on a pair of lightweight, mithral-infused bracers. "Dual blades, Commander. I found a pair that balance perfectly for the close-in work."

  Eirik moved among the others. He spent a moment with each man.

  "Talon Nine," he said to another veteran from the Garrick days. "Your leg still bothering you?"

  "Stiff in the cold, Lord," the man admitted.

  "Take the insulated under-armor from that bin," Eirik pointed. "And strap a dagger to your calf. If you go down, you make them pay for every inch."

  He moved to a newer recruit, a quiet man named Silas who was hesitating near a set of leather armor. "Don't be shy, Silas. Grab the plate. If you die because you were worried about the weight, I'll haunt you."

  Silas blinked, then nodded, reaching for the heavy steel.

  Eirik watched them.

  In a place like Highfrost Keep, where everyone saw them as numbered peasants or bastards, they need people look at them as real men.

  And this was his real armor. Not the steel on their backs, but the trust in their eyes.

  Eirik finally turned to his own rack. He needed something specific. His ice magic was his primary weapon, but if the stories of the Sunless City were true, he would need a blade that could cut things magic couldn't always touch.

  His eyes fell on a short, heavy-bladed sword at the end of the rack. It was ugly compared to the rest—no gold filigree, no elegant engravings. Just a slab of dark, matte metal with a leather grip wrapped in rough sharkskin.

  But it was a killer’s weapon.

  He reached out and took it. The weight was perfect.

  He felt for a sensation he hadn't called upon in ages, pouring mana toward [Identify].

  [CASTING: IDENTIFY]

  [MANA: 49/50]

  Blue text shimmered over the blade:

  [ITEM: GRAVE DRINKER]

  [TYPE: BASTARD SWORD (MASTERWORK)]

  [MATERIAL: VOID-TOUCHED IRON (PRIMARY), FROST-TEMPERED STEEL (EDGE), SHARKSKIN (GRIP)]

  [ENCHANTMENTS:]

  [SOUL SIPHON (PASSIVE)]: Successful killing blows restore a small amount of the wielder's stamina and mana.

  [FROST AFFINITY (PASSIVE)]: Strikes inflict additional frost damage, scales with wielder's cultivation realm.

  [UNBREAKING (PASSIVE)]: Blade is highly resistant to magical and physical damage.

  [ENCHANTMENT TIER: HAIL]

  [ESTIMATED VALUE: 14,200 SILVER TALONS]

  Eirik's breath caught.

  Hail tier. Two full realms above the Fenrir heirloom sword he'd identified back in Stormkeep. The Soul Siphon alone was worth a minor lord's ransom—in a prolonged fight, it would let him sustain himself through attrition.

  How had something like this ended up on an ordinary rack?

  He glanced around the armory. Perhaps "ordinary" wasn't the right word. This was the Duke's personal reserve. What seemed like common supply to Highfrost Keep would be legendary artifacts anywhere else.

  Eirik stepped away from the rack, finding an open space between the mannequins.

  He tested a swing.

  The blade sang through the air with a whisper rather than a whoosh. Light. Fast. The weight distribution was perfect—slightly forward of center, which meant it wanted to cut rather than thrust. A chopper's weapon.

  He tried a basic guard position, then transitioned into a lateral slash. The movements came back to him like muscle memory surfacing from deep water.

  Gods, how long had it been?

  The duel with Leif Fenrir flickered through his mind. That desperate clash in the courtyard, before he'd learned to conjure ice walls and freeze the ground beneath his enemies' feet. Back then, his sword had been his only real weapon. He'd fought with nothing but steel, footwork, and the stubborn refusal to die.

  Eirik shifted his stance and executed a feint-into-thrust combination. The blade responded beautifully, the void-touched iron cutting through the air like it was eager to taste blood.

  He remembered the way Leif had moved—all precision and noble training. The Fenrir heir had been better technically, no question. But Eirik had been hungrier.

  He'd won that fight by being unpredictable, by refusing to play the game his opponent expected. Which, was also his plan for this expedition.

  Another swing. A high guard into a downward chop.

  His body remembered this. The way to plant his feet. The rotation of the hips that turned a weak arm-swing into a body-powered strike.

  [SWORDSMANSHIP: (C-)]

  The skill had been sitting at that rank since... since forever, really. After the system quests had started rolling in, after he'd gained his ice abilities and the settlement interface, there had been so little time for direct combat training. His days had been consumed by logistics, construction, diplomacy, and the endless parade of crises that came with leading a fortress on the edge of nowhere.

  Why swing a sword when you could conjure a wall of ice between yourself and your enemy? Why risk a blade fight when you could freeze the ground and let physics do the killing?

  His Frost abilities had made melee combat feel almost... redundant.

  But standing here now, with Grave Drinker humming in his grip, Eirik felt something stir.

  Nostalgia.

  He executed a complex flourish. The blade traced a figure-eight pattern in the air, transitioning smoothly into a defensive position.

  Not bad. Rusty, but not hopeless.

  Still, if his swordsmanship remained at C-rank, there was simply no chance he could best Caelum in direct combat. The Duke's son was Glacier realm. Even if Eirik was clever and unpredictable and willing to fight dirty, the raw gap in ability would crush him.

  The hierarchy was clear: Snow, Frost, Hail, Glacier, Blizzard, Everwinter.

  If Caelum was at the peak of Glacier, he was one full realm above Eirik. He needed more than a rank bump.

  Eirik lowered the blade.

  He understood now why the high lords got fat. It was the nature of the game. Once you reached a certain level, the problems stopped being solved by swords and started being solved by logistics, by alliances, by secrets like this expedition.

  The sword wouldn't help him navigate the political minefield Velthan had laid.

  But... having a hand on a nice sword certainly wouldn't hurt.

  And he wasn't helpless. Not really.

  He touched his storage ring, sensing the other treasures hoarded within. Seven Skill Enhancement Crystals. He hadn't used a single one. The [Ice Genesis] talent—the ability to rewrite the laws of ice for one second. The Ice Runes he’d spent hours practicing in the dark.

  Gods, he was like a dragon sitting on a hoard, letting gold gather dust while he worried about the price of bread.

  He had been saving them for a "rainy day."

  If walking into a demon-infested city at the behest of a tyrant Duke to steal an artifact of mass destruction wasn't a rainy day, nothing was.

  The Grand Tournament in the portal? That was a farce.

  This. This was the real tournament. And the contestants were only just getting ready.

  "Commander!"

  The shout snapped him out of his reverie. It was Olaf, his voice muffled by the new full-face helm he was already wearing.

  "We're loaded! The sergeant is getting twitchy!"

  Eirik turned around.

  The armory, which had been filled with scavengers in mismatched leathers moments ago, had transformed.

  Nine men, including Olaf and Kael, stood in a rough semi-circle behind him. They were no longer ragged Talons. They were encased in the Duke’s finest steel—polished breastplates etched with frost-resistant wards, thick pauldrons that looked capable of stopping a ballista bolt, heavy cloaks of thermal wool lined with white fur.

  Damn, Eirik thought, a smile breaking through his mask of calculation.

  Those are my men?

  These were the prisoners he had whipped into shape in the mud. The survivors of the Skarl raids. The men who had stood behind him when he faced down a demon.

  Now they look like a retinue befitting a king.

  "Ready?" Eirik asked.

  The line snapped to attention. Nine armored gauntlets struck seven breastplates in a perfect, synchronized clang.

  "READY, COMMANDER!"

  The sound echoed through the armory. Eirik grinned, adjusting his own sword belt.

  "Eyes front!" Eirik barked, walking toward them. "We move out!"

  He strode toward the door, his Talons falling into step behind him without a word. The sound of their boots hitting the stone was a single, synchronized thunder.