Chapter Eight (TIBK)

The heavy oak door closed behind Eirik, muffling the last echoes of the emptying great hall. He stood just inside the threshold, cataloging his new world. 

Rurik’s old quarters.

Eirik knew the significance immediately. Ceric hadn’t shuffled him off to some minor noble’s spare room. This was a statement. This had been the chamber of the favored son, the one who Cedric had sent to the Earl’s court because he had much bigger ambitions for him than Garrick. 

The sheer scale of the favor Cedric was trying to buy, even now, was staggering. And infuriating. 

It was also… warm.

After just waking up in a freezing, draughty shack masquerading as a room, the warmth hit Eirik like a physical force. He hadn’t truly felt warm since transmigrated into this frozen world. Heat radiated from not one, but two large hearths crackling merrily at opposite ends of the spacious common area. 

The stone floor was covered in thick, intricately woven rugs depicting hunting scenes — wolves, stags, bears locked in eternal, frozen pursuit. The furniture was heavy dark wood, polished to a deep sheen, cushioned with thick velvet. A massive oak desk sat near one window, overlooking a snow-dusted inner courtyard. The were actual glass panes in the windows, clear and intact, keeping the biting cold at bay while letting in the pale northern daylight. 

In a smaller adjoining chamber, likely intended as a study or solar, Yorick hunched over a small writing desk. Two stony-faced Stormcrow guards in full armor flanked him. His fingers trembled as he dipped a quill into an inkpot, scratching furiously at a fresh piece of parchment.

Eirik hadn’t needed to lock him in a cell; he’d locked him in the gilded cage with him. The punishment was exquisite. 

Satisfied York was effectively contained and working, Eirik walked deeper into the main room. He ran a hand over the back of a plush armchair, feeling the rich texture. He stopped before one of the roaring hearths. The heat seeped into his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment. 

Finally… quiet. 

For the first time since his consciousness had slammed into this weak boy in a freezing shack, the relentless pressure eased. There was no immediate threat of starvation, freezing, or a beating. He was nominally safe, warm, fed, and recognized. He had a silver of power, resources beginning to trickle in. 

Eirik stared into the hypnotic dance of the flames. 

A visceral craving hit him, sharp and sudden. A cigarette. The acrid bite of smoke filling his lungs, the calming ritual of the inhale-exhale. The smooth burn of good whiskey, single malt, warming his throat. The simple, grounding vices of a life lived on the edge. He could almost smell the leather of his favorite dive bar booth, feel the weight of a glass in his hand. 

His goal hadn’t budged an inch: the Northern Wastes.

But Cedric had slammed that door shut. Trying to argue now, especially after the public humiliation of having his grand gesture of paternal acceptance thrown back in his face, would be useless. Pleading would be seen as weakness. Defiance would probably lead straight to the Ice Cells.

Escape? Eirik considered the option coldly. 

Just slipping away into the night. It was tempting, the simplicity of it. But it was impractical. Six personal guards, sworn directly to him? That sounded like protection, but it was also surveillance. Cedric wouldn’t give him freedom to roam. Those guards would report his every move. Trying to sneak out would be difficult, probably involving violence against his own sworn men. 

And even if he succeeded… where would he go? He had minimal resources. No allies beyond the shaky loyalty of Harkin, Jens, and the terrified Yorick. The Northern Wastes weren’t a stroll in the park; they were lethal. Arriving there weak, alone, and pursued as a fugitive son of Stormkeep was a death sentence waiting to be served by frost giant, barbaric tribesman, or blizzard. 

He paused by the window overlooking the snow-dusted inner courtyard. Guards patrolled with lit torches. The night was already deep. 

The Earl. A thought surfaced. 

If Cedric couldn’t be convinced, could he be circumvented? Eirik frowned, mentally sifting through the scraps of information the original host possessed. The Baron ruled Stormkeep Barony, but answered to the Earl of Frostfang Province. The Earl held more power, but he knew nothing about him, especially his temperament, ambitions, and relationship with Cedric. 

He did remember that Cedric had sent Rurik to the Earl’s court, but couldn’t be sure if that was the Earl helping Cedric expanding Rurik’s influence, or the Earl being suspicious of the ambitions of the Baron of Stormkeep. 

Either way, Eirik had no real contacts there. Walking in cold and begging for permission to be sent to the Northern Wastes would sound like madness. Worse, Cedric would see it as a direct challenge. Treasonous even, bypassing him. The risk of escalating to figures beyond Cedric, as of where his status and power stood now, would be too dangerous. 

Nevertheless, going to the Earl may still be the best option if he could find a less confrontational, more strategic approach. But this would require him to gather more intel. 

His eyes narrowed slightly as he focused inward, mentally summoning the System’s blue text.

[Complete the Quest Chain to Earn a Special Reward!]

His first priority, he decided, was to complete the tutorial quest chain, and find someone resourceful and reliable enough to help him get into touch with the Earl or his court. The “Special Reward” could provide leverage, power, or even something that changes the board. It would hopefully help him slice through an opening even Cedric can’t block. 

Eirik turned his gaze to the window, watching the winter night deepen outside. Snow fell in lazy spirals, coating the courtyard in fresh white. The torches of patrolling guards created small pools of orange light against the darkness.

Harkin hasn’t returned yet, he noted. Finding Marta might take time. She’s probably hiding somewhere she thinks Garrick won’t look.

Behind him, he could hear the steady scratch of Yorick’s quill on parchment. He turned from the window and walked to the study doorway. 

“You’ll continue tomorrow.” Eirik turned to the guards. “Escort him to the servant’s quarters and see to it that he does not leave without my permission.”

Yorick scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking over the inkpot. “Y-yes, my lord!”

The guards escorted the trembling scribe out as Eirik watched. The heavy door closed behind them with a solid thud. 

Alone at last. 

He moved through the common room to a door he hadn’t yet explored. 

The bedchamber. 

A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, draped in heavy furs and thick blankets. More than big enough for three people. The mattress looked soft—actual down, not the straw-stuffed sack he’d woken up on this morning. Another fireplace crackled here too, keeping the room warm enough that he wouldn’t need five blankets just to avoid freezing. 

He lied on the bed, testing it. The mattress gave way perfectly, supporting without being too soft. His hand ran over the fur blanket—wolf, from the texture.

First night in a new world, was his last coherent thought. Let’s see what tomorrow brings. 

———

The training grounds of Stormkeep were a sprawling expanse of packed earth and stone, partially sheltered by high wooden walls and flanked by weapon racks bristling with practice swords, axes, shields, and spears. 

Snow had been swept aside, leaving a treacherous layer of frost glittering under the weak morning sun. The air bit sharply at exposed skin, carrying the familiar scents of sweat, leather, metal polish, and woodsmoke from braziers set around the perimeter.

A surprising number of figures were already present, stretching, running drills, or clashing wooden practice swords in controlled pairs. 

Eirik recognized the uniforms of the regular guards, but also a distinct group: younger men, perhaps twenty in number, wearing finer, practical gear — tunics embroidered with less noble house sigils or high-quality leather armor. The barony’s noble sons, likely required to train under Marshal Gunnar. 

As Eirik entered with Harkin a respectful step behind, conversation dipped. Heads turned. Eyes — curious, assessing, wary, hostile — followed his approach to where Gunnar stood near a large stone slab used for demonstrations. Gunnar himself, a mountain of scarred muscle in worn, functional armor, barely glazed up from sharpening a practice sword. 

Interesting. 

Most glances slid away after the initial assessment, returning to their drills or muttered conversations. But one pair of eyes locked onto him with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. A young nobleman, perhaps a year or two older than Eririk, with sandy hair and a face that would have been pleasant if not contorted by a simmering, suppressed rage. His knuckles were white around the hilt of his practice sword. He wore the silver wolf head sigil of House Fenrir, a minor but respected vassal house loyal to the Stormcrows. 

Fenrir. Leif Fenrir? Or Torvald? Eirik sifted through fragmented memories. Leif. 

Eirik recalled him clearly now. Leif wasn’t just another Garrick sycophant, but the heir of House Fenrir, a minor but proud vassal house loyal to Stormkeep. To nobles like Leif, Eirik’s bastard status meant that he was filth, a stain barely worth acknowledging, let alone standing near. 

But today, that sneer was twisted with rage. Why the special hatred? Eirik wondered briefly, then realized: he was the grandson of Steward Brynn, who was exiled to the Ice Trench mines on Eirik’s testimony. Of course he hates me.

His eyes flickered to the System prompt glowing faintly in his mind:

[Tutorial Quest #4 (out of 7): The Duelist]

[Win a Duel Against a Snow-Realm Combatant in the Barony.]

He needed that duel. He needed it soon, before Cedric tightened his leash. Leif, furious and underestimating him, was the ideal target. He just needed to make Leif snap first, publicly, forcing the Marshal's hand. He met Leif Fenrir’s glare unflinchingly for a moment, then deliberately looked away, focusing on Gunnar. 

Garrick arrived a few minutes later, sweeping into the yard flanked by two companions. One was a hulking brute with a vacant expression. The other… this was the dangerous one. 

Taller than Garrick, leaner, moving with the quiet precision of a stalking predator. Dark hair, cold grey eyes that scanned the yard with unsettling calm, missing nothing. He wore no overt sigil, but his bearing screamed mercenary or a knight from a lesser house seeking advancement. 

Garrick preened under the immediate attention, several noble sons offering respectful nods or murmurs. His nose was still swollen and discolored, a purple bruise blossoming across his cheekbone. His gaze flicked to Eirik, hatred flashing pure and hot before he masked it with a sneer, turning to exchange a quiet word with his dangerous companion, who merely inclined his head slightly. The companion’s eyes, however, lingered on Eirik a fraction too long, assessing him with the detached interest of a hawk observing prey. 

That one screams trouble. Eirik realized. 

Gunnar finally finished sharpening the practice sword, its edge gleaming wickedly even on blunted training steel. He slammed the tip into the frost-hardened earth, the impact echoing. 

“Enough chatter! Line up!” His voice, gravelly and commanding, cut through the morning air. 

Immediately, the guards and nobles snapped to attention, forming ragged lines. Eirik moved to stand slightly apart, at the end of one line. 

Gunnar’s gaze swept over them, pausing briefly on Eirik. 

“Eirik Stormcrow. You haven’t trained with us. Today, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.” 

He said as he shoved a practice sword into Eirik’s hands, then moved to face the whole cohort.

“Weapons down.” 

Gunnar grunted as wooden blades clattered on the packed earth. 

“Last week, we began working on the basic channeling pattern for Frostbite Edge. Simple Mana-infused ability. Core for any Stormcrow fighter.” He gestured towards the large stone slab. 

“This ability allows you to infuse your weapon with killing cold. Makes a cut bite deeper, slows a foe, and shatters weaker armor. Your first true step beyond just swinging a stick.”

He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, holding the practice sword loosely at his side. 

“Recap. To cast this ability, you need to visualize the flow and draw the cold from your core. Not your muscles. Your mana. Feel it.” He closed his eyes for a second, a visible ripple passing through him. The air around the blade grew hazy, shimmering with cold vapor. “Guide it. Down your arm. Into the grip. Through the steel.” 

Frost began to visibly crawl up the wooden blade, sparking in the weak sunlight, forming intricate, shifting patterns. The temperature around Gunnar plummeted noticeably. 

That’s… efficient. Brutal elegance. Eirik quickly absorbed the details: Gunar’s posture, the slight tension in his forearm, the absolute focus in his eyes. He mentally mapped the flow Gunnar described.

Core… arm… grip… weapon.

Gunnar snapped the blade up in a blur of motion. It struck the stone slab with a sharp CRACK! Not a thunderous blow, but precise. Where the frosted wood impacted, a spiderweb of ice exploded across the rock surface, radiating outwards a full foot before stopping. Shards of ice and stone fragments pattered onto the ground. A collective intake of breath sounded from the trainees. 

“That,” Gunnar stated, lowering the sword, the frost already receding from the blade, “is Frostbite Edge applied correctly.” He scanned the trainees. “Who remembers the pattern? Show me. On air. No channeling yet. Just the visualization.”

Hands went up, mostly among the guards and a couple of nobles. Gunnar pointed at a guard. The man stepped forward, holding a practice sword, and slowly went through the motions. Gunnar grunted and pointed to another noble son. The noble performed the motion with more flourish but less precision. Gunnar just shook his head. 

His gaze landed on Garrick. “Lord Garrick. Demonstrate.”

Garrick preened, stepping forward. He adopted a dramatic stance, took a deep breath, closed his eyes dramatically, and swept his wooden sword through the air as if wielding a relic. Frost flickered weakly around his hand for a  second, then sputtered out. He opened his eyes, looking expectant.

Forceful but uncontrolled. Eirik thought coldly. He’s trying to push the mana out through muscle effort, not guide it. 

A few sycophantic nobles murmured, “Well done, Lord Garrick!” and “Strong flow!” Gunnar’s expression remained impassive, but a flicker of something — annoyance? Disappointment? — crossed his face.
“Passable visualization, Lord Garrick,” he rumbled, “But you need to practice more.” 

“Now,” Gunnar pointed abruptly to the dangerous man beside Garrick. “Kael. Show them.”

So that’s his name. 

Kael stepped forward. He held out his hand, palm down, his expression was utterly focused, almost serene. 

The air around his hand visibly chilled. Frost condensed instantly, not just coating his skin but forming complex, sharp-edged geometric patterns miniature ice crystals — dancing around his palm. It lasted only three seconds before winking out, but the precision and control were undeniable. 

“That,” Gunnar said, “is how you do Frostbite Edge.” He glanced at Garrick, whose smug expression had tightened slightly. “Remember, mana isn’t endless. Especially in the early Snow Realm. You might have enough for two, maybe three solid Frostbite Edge applications in a real fight. Use it strategically. A sudden burst to finish an opponent, shatter a shield, slow a charging beast. Leave it on constantly?” He snorted. “You’ll be dry before the fight truly starts, and then you’re just a man with a stick.” He thumped the frost-free practice sword onto his shoulder. “Comprehension?”

A chorus of “Yes, Marshall!” echoed. 

“Good. Pair up. Practice forms. Sword and shield drills. Focus on footwork and defense.” He started pointing, assigning partners among the guards and nobles. His gaze fell on Eirik, then scanned the line. His eyes lingered for a moment on Leif Fenrir, still radiating simmering anger. An idea seemed to form.

“Eirik Stormcrow,” Gunnar called. “You’ve never drilled with us. Forget about practicing Frostbite Edge or any mana-infused abilities for now. You’ll need to learn the basics first.” He pointed towards the far end of the yard where straw dummies stood. “Dahl.” He indicated a younger guard, barely out of his teens, who looked terrified at being singled out. “You pair with Eirik. Stick to basic attacks and parries. Teach him the guard stance first.”

Eirik moved towards Dahl, deliberately putting himself on a path close to Leif Fenrir. As he passed, he met Leif’s burning glare, holding it for a split second longer than necessary. He didn’t sneer. He just looked. Calm. Unimpressed. Like looking at a barking dog.

Leif stepped forward abruptly. “Marshal Gunnar!”

Gunnar paused, eyes narrowing. “Fenrir?”

Leif kept his fiery gaze locked on Eirik, ignoring Dahl completely. “If the Bastard requires instruction… perhaps someone of proper standing should provide it.” He spat the word ‘Bastard’, emphasizing Eirik’s old title, rejecting his new name. “Allow me to assist.”

Gunnar looked between them, his expression unreadable. He sighed. “Fine, Fenrir. You pair with Eirik. Practice. Basic forms. Sword and shield drills. Focus on footwork and defense. Understood?” His tone carried a heavy warning. This was to be disciplined training, not a grudge match.

“Understood, Marshal,” Leif ground out, not taking his eyes off Eirik. 

“Understood,” Eirik echoed, his voice level. Good. You took the bait, Leif. Now let's see if I can make you bite hard enough for the duel.