Chapter 14: Chapter 14 - A Private Session of This House

The great hall of Stormkeep felt different at dawn.

Gone was the bustling warmth of petitioners and servants. Instead, a glacial quiet hung thick in the air, broken only by the sharp crackle of the central hearth-fire and the rhythmic clank of Leif Fenrir’s manacles as he shifted his weight.

“This private session is convened to determine the fate of Leif Fenrir,” Cedric’s voice cut through the silence. “Speak your pieces. Be brief. Be factual.”

Here we go, Eirik stepped forward without preamble, deliberately ignoring Leif and Isolde.

“Father. The facts were simple.” Eirik’s voice was calm, devoid of anger which made it all the more chilling. “Leif Fenrir engaged in a duel, under agreed rules. He lost. Fairly. Marshal Gunnar can attest to the legality of the contest and its outcome.”

Gunnar gave a nod.

“Instead of accepting defeat with the honor befitting his name,” Eirik continued, “he ambushed me as I claimed my lawful prize. He drew a concealed dagger.” He paused. “Worse. He channeled mana and invoked ‘Frostbite Edge’ A spell designed to shatter bone and freeze blood. Aimed at my head and shoulder.” Another pause. “This was not a moment of passionate folly. This was a premeditated attempt to murder a noble of Stormkeep. In your training yard, Lord Father.”

Cedric’s expression didn’t flicker, but the stillness around him deepened.

“He committed treason against your law and your house,” Eirik concluded. “He spat on the sanctity of fair combat and the safety you personally guaranteed me upon my legitimization.”

He looked away at Leif Fenrir, and back to Cedric Stormcrow.

“Lord father, the logic is clear. There is only one penalty befitting such an act. Leif Fenrir must die. By the axe. Immediately.”

Eep!

The gasp wasn’t just from Isolde. It escaped from Gunnar’s lips, too. Garrick’s eyes widened momentarily in shock before settling into a grim satisfaction.

“Prepoterous!” Garrick surged forward. He jabbed a finger at Eirik. “He’s milking this! Look at him! Trying to destroy a whole house over a slip of judgment!” He turned to Cedric. “Father, Leif’s a hothead, yes! He acted foolishly, blinded by shame! But death? For defending his family’s honor after this one,” he spat the words at Eirik, “used underhanded gutter tricks to take their heirloom? It’s excessive! Weakens the barony! Shows our enemies we eat our own for minor slights!”

Cedric’s gaze slid slowly from Eirik to Garrick.

“Minor slights, Garrick? Attempted murder of your brother? With lethal magic? Before half the garrison? Define ‘minor’ for me.”

Garrick faltered, his bluster momentarily punctured. He looked at Ingrid.

Ingrid’s hand came to rest lightly on Cedric’s shoulder.

“My love. Garrick speaks coarsely, but his core point has merit. Fenrir’s levies guard the northern approaches. Their loyalty, however strained now, has been unwavering. Executing Leif publicly…” Her voice was laced with intimate concern. “The other vassals… The Ravenscrofts, the Frostmans will watch. They will note how we treat those who've been nothing but loyal.”

Cedric absorbed Ingrid’s whispered words. He turned his head slightly.

“Marshal. You witnessed both the duel and the aftermath. Give me a clear account. Facts only.”

Gunnar straightened, his deep voice filled the hall. “Aye, Lord Baron. The duel proceeded by standard rules. Three hits or yield. Eirik scored the first hit with a solid body strike. Leif scored the the next two. The third exchange…” Gunnar paused as he recalled the shocking maneuver. “Leif attempted a low strike targeting the lead leg. Eirik deflected the feint upwards, then… seized Leif’s sword wrist bare-handed and subsequently landed a disabling strike to his weapon arm. Leif did not yield and chose to continue with his off-hand. Eirik scored the final hit. Match awarded to Eirik.”

Gunnar’s voice remained flat. “Afterwards, as Eirik approached the forfeit sword, Leif broke free of guards attempting to assist him and drew a dagger while channeling mana. He lunged at Eirik while Eirik defended with dirt and gravel flung into Leif’s eyes, then struck Leif’s dagger arm with the pommel of the sheathed Fenrir blade, disarming him. At which point I restrained Fenrir.”

He fell silent and let the facts hung in the air.

Isolde let out a low, heart-wrenching sob. “My boy…” she whispered. “My poor, foolish boy…”

Cedric’s gaze remained locked on Gunnar for a long moment. Then, slowly, he shifted to Leif. The young noble flinched as if struck, shrinking under the Baron’s icy scrutiny. Cedric’s eyes held no mercy, only a chilling assessment.

Perfect. Eirik thought. The facts are undeniable. Cedric now sees Leif not as a valuable noble heir, but as a liability who is forcing his hand with a politically dangerous position. Executing Leif would be perceived as way too harsh for other nobles under his rule. Sparing him would make him look weak for violating his own words on defending his newly legitimized son.

Time to twist the knife.

“The facts, as Marshal Gunnar confirms, are indisputable,” Eirik stated. “Treachery. Attempted assassination. The use of lethal magic against a fellow noble. The penalty decreed by ancient law for such an act is death. ”

He turned his gaze fully on Cedric now, projecting absolute conviction. “Spare him, Lord Baron, and what message do you send? That the bonds fealty are weak? That the safety of your son is negotiable? That pragmatism, not right-and-wrong, dictates justice? Stormkeep’s strength lies in its unyielding law! Execute him, father. Show the North the price of betrayal.”

Isolde’s head snapped up. She crawled forward a step on her knees, her voice rising in a desperate wail.

“NO! PLEASE! Baron Cedric! Mercy! I beg you! He is my only child! The last of his line! He is young! He lost his mind!” Her hands clawed at the stone floor. “Strike me down! Exile me! Send me to the Ice Trench! But spare his life! Please! He’s broken! Look at him!” She gestured wildly at Leif, who had begun to weep silently, great shuddering sobs wracking his frame. “He is no threat! He is a broken shell! Let him live in disgrace! But do not take his life!”

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

The raw anguish was palpable. Garrick shifted uncomfortably. Ingrid’s face flickered with a hint of distaste, though whether for the display or the plea itself was unclear. Cedric watched Isolde impassively.

Perfect, Eirik thought. Isolde’s performance is wrenching. Genuine enough to sell it, but carefully calibrated to avoid seeming manipulative. Now, let the others take their predictable turns.

As if summoned by his thought, Garrick Stormcrow stepped forward again.

“Father,” he began, “While the facts Marshal Gunnar presented are undeniable… execution feels… disproportionate. Leif acted wrongly, gravely so. But think of the consequences beyond this hall. Fenrir men fight alongside ours. To publicly execute their heir over what many common soldiers might see as… a heated, dishonorable reaction to losing a prized heirloom?”

He shook his head, “Is the momentary satisfaction of strict justice worth potentially weakening our northern defenses when the Thaw brings the Skral raids?”

Ingrid glided forward next.

“The harsh reality is that governing is often about choosing the lesser evil. Executing Leif upholds the law starkly, yes. But sparing him — under strict, humiliating conditions — might ultimately serve Stormkeep better. ”

Even Marshal Gunnar shifted his weight. His voice held an unusual note of deliberation. “Lord Baron,” he rumbled. “I also advocate a… more lenient sentencing.”

Cedric Stormcrow, Baron of Stormkeep, had remained eerily still throughout the pleas. His gaze had swept from Eirik’s cold pronouncement of death, to Garrick’s strained pragmatism, to Ingrid’s honeyed manipulation, to Gunnar, and finally rested on the weeping wreck that was Leif Fenrir.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Cedric stood up.

Eirik met his gaze squarely, letting none of his internal satisfaction show. Here it comes. The crucial pivot. Play it humbled and submissive.

“Eirik Stormcrow,” Cedric’s voice was low, but it carried effortlessly through the quiet hall. “Yesterday. In this very place. I gave you a name. A Stormcrow name. I named you my child. Swore the protection of this house upon you.”

“And today,” Cedric continued, “you stand before me wielding that new status like a blunt axe, demanding blood with a rigidity that chills me more than any northern wind. Justice? Aye, you speak of justice. Cold, hard, unwavering justice. But is that all a ruler carries in his quiver? Is that all you aspire to be?”

Eirik dipped his head slightly, a show of listening, absorbing.

“A ruler who sees only black and white, only transgression and punishment,” Cedric boomed, “that ruler builds a realm of fear, not loyalty. A realm where every mistake is potentially fatal, where no man dares to breathe wrong lest the axe fall. Tell me, Eirik Stormcrow, are you perfect?”

Cedric’s gaze pierced him. Eirik didn’t flinch, but he allowed a dawning realization on his face. He lowered his head further. “No, Lord Father,” he murmured. “I am not.”

“No!” Cedric thundered the agreement. “None of us are! Not I, not Marshal Gunnar, not even saints! We make errors of judgment. We act in anger, in pride, in fear. Does that mean all transgression are equal? Does that mean the only answer is the headsman’s block?”

Eirik kept his gaze downcast, letting this chastisement wash over him.

Cedric slammed his fist lightly on the arm of his chair. “Yesterday, you showed me resilience. Stubbornness formed in hardship into a blade that could cut through false accusation. I saw potential. Today?” He shook his head. “Today you showed me only the other side of that stubbornness — cruelty masquerading as righteousness. You wield the law like a child swings a heavy sword, heedless of the damage beyond the immediate strike. That is not strength, Eirik. That is folly. Dangerous folly.”

“I… see, Father,” Eirik said, his voice tight with carefully modulated contrition. “Forgive my… haste. My anger clouded my judgment.”

Garrick couldn’t suppress a tiny, triumphant smirk. Quickly disappeared as Cedric’s gaze swept away from Eirik and landed on him.

“And you, Garrick. Your childish reflexive opposition to your brother needs to end. Now.”

Garrick flinched as if struck. “Father, I only sought—”

“Silence!” Cedric cut him off. “I know what you sought. You saw an opportunity to undermine Eirik, to champion the side opposing him simply because it opposed him. If Eirik declared the sky blue today, you’d argue for green! This wasn’t about the realm’s stability, Garrick, not truly. It was about your petty rivalry, your inability to accept that this hall now holds two of my sons!”

Garrick’s face flushed crimson as Cedric leaned forward.

“Your brother faced death yesterday from a damned assassin’s blade, and again today from magic in my own yard! And your first instinct? Not concern for his life, not fury at the violation of our laws, but ‘How can I use this against him?’ ‘How can I protect the interest aligned against him?’” Cedric’s disgust was palpable. “That is weakness, Garrick. A different kind than your brother’s harshness, but weakness nonetheless. Pettiness. It stops. Today. Or you will find your own privileges considerably curtailed. Am I understood?”

Garrick’s jaw worked, but no sound emerged. He managed a stiff, jerky bow. “Understood, Father.” Ingrid’s face was a mask now, carved from pale marble. Only the whitened knuckles of the hand resting on Cedric’s chair betrayed her fury at this public rebuke of her golden son.

Finally, Cedric’s relentless gaze settled on Leif Fenrir. The young noble had stopped weeping, frozen by the terrifying shift in the Baron’s attention. He looked like a rabbit facing a direwolf.

“Leif,” Cedric began. “I knew your father. Stalwart Arn Fenrir. Fought beside him on the Frozen Plains when the Skral poured through the pass your family was sworn to guard. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me, his shield taking blows meant for mine. He died well. Died buying time for our retreat. He left behind a widow…” Cedric’s gaze flicked almost imperceptibly to the still-kneeling Isolde, “... and a boy. You.”

He let the memory hang heavy. “Your parents poured coin, time, hope into you. Trained you. Polished you. Hoping you’d be worthy of Arn’s legacy. Worthy of the Fenrir name. Worthy of Stormkeep.” Cedric’s voice hardened again, like frost forming on stone.

Leif made a small, broken noise, tears streaming anew, from utter, soul-crushing shame.

“Instead? You proved yourself a spoiled, treacherous brat. A coward who couldn't stomach defeat. Who turned to murder rather than face dishonor. You spat on your father’s sacrifice. You spat on your mother’s devotion. You spat on the oaths of fealty your house swore to mine. Your life carries meaning, boy, meaning bestowed by blood and sacrifice. And today, you tried to throw it all away in a fit of childish rage.”

The truth of Cedric’s words, delivered with the weight of his father’s ghost, was a hammer blow. He slumped further, chains rattling, and wept.

Cedric let him marinate in that feeling for a long moment. Then, he turned back to Eirik.

“This is not a formal trial, Eirik.” Cedric stated. “It is a private session of this house, convened to prevent this… ugliness… from escalating further than it already has.”

Eirik stood perfectly still and nodded.

“Settle this. Now. ” Cedric’s eyes bored into Eirik’s. “Recall what I have just said. Do not let me down again. Determine Leif Fenrir’s fate. But remember, the consequences — for Stormkeep, for House Fenrir, and for yourself.”