Chapter 15: Chapter 15 - Let It Be Tested

Eirik kept his head bowed, letting the silence stretch just long enough.

Got you exactly where I want you to be.

The whole performance — demanding Leif’s death, being inflexible about justice, having Garrick and Ingrid fiercely opposing him — it was all calculated. He’d known from the moment he stepped into this hall how Cedric would react. The Baron loved nothing more than the sound of his own voice, loved playing the wise father lecturing his foolish children.

Give a man like Cedric the chance to feel superior, and he’ll take it every time.

“Father?” Eirik pressed, widening his eyes slightly in feigned uncertainty. “Why me? I am… newly elevated. Do I truly deserve the weight of passing judgment on a noble heir?” He lowered his gaze.

Cedric leaned forward slightly. “You are the one wronged, Eirik. By Stormkeep’s laws and by simple justice, the weight of his fate rests upon your shoulders. This is the proper way. Hesitation now serves no one. Speak your mind.”

Eirik took a slow breath, as if gathering courage. He turned his head slowly, deliberately meeting Leif’s glare. He projected a look of sudden, uncomfortable realization.

“Father,” Eirik began, “Upon reflection… seeing him now… hearing your words… perhaps Garrick touched upon a truth I was too blinded by anger to see.” He gestured subtly towards Garrick. “My sudden presence… a legitimized bastard thrust into the heart of nobility… it is jarring. I was too eager to prove myself worthy of your name. In my haste to establish my place, I failed to consider how my choices, my eagerness for victories, might provoke hostility… might feel like a direct challenge to houses long established.”

Garrick’s initial shock at being mentioned turned into stunned disbelief, then a slow dawning of outrage.

Cedric’s expression didn’t visibly change, but Eirik could almost feel the man’s internal satisfaction.

“So,” Eirik pressed on, “I stand before you, Lord Father, not to demand Leif Fenrir’s death, but to request a different path. A path of atonement. For him… and perhaps, for myself.”

He let the silence magnify his next words. “I humbly request… no land. No titles beyond the name you bestowed. No holdings befitting a Stormcrow son.” He saw Garrick’s eyes narrow at the implication — Eirik wasn’t asking for a slice of his inheritance. “I know now that my youthful dream of venturing north alone was folly born of ignorance.”

Here comes the twist. Eirik straightened. “But my desire… my need… to live a warrior’s life, to carve my path away from the silken traps of court, remains undimmed. Therefore, I ask for this: Grant me leave, Lord Father, to join a mercenary company.”

He turned deliberately towards Leif, locking eyes with the bewildered noble. “And I ask that Leif Fenrir stand beside me as my right-hand man.”

The stunned silence shattered. Gasps echoed. Gunnar inhaled sharply.

Leif finally found his voice, “You… you want me… to fight beside you? After… after everything?”

Eirik didn’t flinch from Leif’s glare.

“Exactly, Leif. Beside me. Not against me. Father,” he turned back to Cedric, his voice resonating with the fervor of a newly converted believer, “Your words about Stalwart Arn Fenrir stuck deep. A warrior forged in battle, loyal unto death. Why must animosity define us? Why can’t we channel it? We will fight together, bleed together. Learn to trust each other with our backs.”

He pointedly looked back at Leif.

“Comfortable noble courts breed complacency and hot tempers, Leif. They do not breed warriors like your father. A mercenary company will teach us discipline and survival. You learned a harsh lesson today about acting rashly. Out there, rashness gets you and your comrades killed.”

Leif was utterly at sea. Hatred warred with confusion, and beneath it, a terrifying spark of… possibility? He’s offering a way of execution, out of the mines… but at what cost? Serving the man I tried to kill?

Cedric leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the armrest.

Interesting, he thought, Very interesting. It neatly sidestepped the ugly execution, preserved Fenrir levies, and potentially bound the troublesome bastard and the volatile Fenrir heir into a loyal service… away from his court. Moreover, the redemption arc of it would become minstrel songs that surely would make him look benevolent and wise, capable of turning blood feuds into camaraderie. The appeal was potent… if Leif wouldn’t try murdering his son again.

“What say you, Leif?” Cedric asked, his voice caring genuine curiosity.

Leif opened his mouth, shut it, looked desperately towards his mother. Isolde, seizing the moment Eirik had orchestrated, stepped forward and sank into a grateful curtsy.

“Lord Cedric,” Isolde’s voice was clear and strong, “Young Stormcrow’s words… they ring with unexpected wisdom.” She lifted her head, meeting Cedric’s gaze. “As Leif’s mother, I see this not just as mercy, but as a profound gift to House Fenrir. An opportunity to repay Stormkeep’s forbearance not with words, but with deeds. In recognition of this great clemency, House Fenrir pledges its resources to establish this Mercenary Company honoring Eirik Stormcrow. Let it stand as a testament to our renewed, prolonged devotion to the Stormcrow line.”

Masterstroke, Isolde, Eirik thought, impressed despite himself. She’s playing her part flawlessly.

The hall erupted in a fresh wave of murmurs.

“WHAT?” Garrick couldn’t contain himself. “Father! This… viper,” he stabbed a finger at Eirik, “demanded Leif’s head just moments ago! Now he wants him as a shield-brother?” He turned to Isolde. “Have you also lost your mind? Or is this some twisted joke? You heard what he said about your son! He wanted nothing but Leif’s RUIN! And now all of a sudden you are just trusting him with men and coins? Father, this is madness! Utter madness!”

“Why the sudden hostility, brother? Weren’t you the one reminding father of Fenir’s value to the Northern defenses?” Eirik’s response was deceptively mild. “You and father helped me see the flaws in my former judgment, and so now I propose a new path that achieves both mercy and justice while doing service to our realm. A path that, dare I say, aligns exactly with your stated concerns for loyalty and stability?”

Garrick spluttered, momentarily speechless as Cedric held up a hand, stopping any further exchanges. His gaze rested on Isolde.

“The gesture is noted, Lady Fenrir,” Cedric said. “Your humility and loyalty in this dark hour do you credit. It comforts me greatly that such ugliness can find resolution that strengthens, rather than shatters.” His gaze shifted back to Eirik. “...this Mercenary Company notion. Eirik, you are young. Barely stepped into the Snow Realm. What experience do you have leading men? Real men. Your advancements surprised me pleasantly, but leading desperate cutthroats and sell-swords require much, much, much more. It requires proven skill. You are not ready for such a burden. I’d rather you and Leif learn from a try-and-true mercenary captain first.”

Eirik met his gaze.

“Lord father, I acknowledge this is unprecedented. But unprecedented conditions forge unprecedented men. Lady Fenrir’s proposal would make me walk your path. Lord father, you weren’t afforded comfort and pleasures when you rebuilt this barony. Yet it was precisely those challenges that turned you into such a great warrior today. Challenge hardens one true. I desire nothing less than walking the path you once treaded.”

Isolde saw the opening. “Then let his readiness be tested, Lord Baron! To allay your concerns and to honor the bond between our houses, let us put it to a trial.” She interjected smoothly. “What if… what if we stage a wargame?”

Cedric raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“You could appoint a seasoned commander,” Isolde gestured to Marshal Gunnar, “with a small force — perhaps a contingent of your garrison. Young Stormcrow could command another. A skirmish in a controlled environment. If Eirik demonstrates the tactical acumen to lead by winning… then House Fenrir’s pledge stands, and the company could move forward with your blessing.” She paused. “If he fails… then the funds shall instead be donated directly to bolster your personal retinue and Stormkeep’s defenses.”

“I accept the trial.” Eirik didn’t hesitate. “What do I have to lose, father? If I lost, I would be joining a mercenary company with Leif, with your blessing. But if I win, I would be leading one, and House Stormcrow’s name, your name, will be further boltered.”

Cedric looked between Isolde and Eirik, then at Gunnar, who merely grunted.

A slow, almost indulgent smile touched Cedric’s lips. The boy’s right. He has nothing to lose, while I have everything to gain. Not only would this mercifully solve the Leif’s situation without making him lose face, but also he would gain a hefty sum for the treasury, or, frost forbid, a new force directly led by his bastard son.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

But…

Cedric steepled his fingers. A low rumble started in his chest, building into a dry chuckle that held no warmth.

“Lady Fenrir. I appreciate the spirit of your suggestion. Truly. But let us be realistic.” He shifted his gaze fully onto Eirik. “You, boy? Commanding men against Marshal Gunnar? The man who held the Iron Pass against a Skral warband twice his number? Who broke the Frostman rebellion with nothing but grit and garrison troops?” He shook his head slowly. “It’s… quaint. Adorable, even. But you haven’t the foggiest notion of what you’re proposing. This is a recipe for humiliation. Yours. And by extension, mine.”

Eirik kept his face carefully neutral.

“Father. I understand your doubts. They are… grounded. Marshal Gunnar’s legend is well-earned. Compared to him, I am nothing.” He lifted his gaze. “But how does one cease to be a novice, Lord Father? Wasn’t the Marshal himself once tested? Didn’t you, my Lord, learn the weight of command not in lessons, but through fire and blood?”

Cedric’s brow furrowed as Eirik quickly softened the challenge with humility.

“I do not presume to win, Father. I know I will be crushed. Utterly and decisively.”

“Then why?” Cedric demanded. “Why subject yourself — and my garrison — to this farce? Why waste time?”

“Because I swear by the Frost, I will treat this mock battle as if it were my life!” Eirik pressed. “As if the fate of Stormkeep itself hung in the balance! I will pour every scrap of will I possess into it!” He locked eyes with Cedric again, radiating fervent sincerity. “I will lose, but I will fight for honor. The Honor of the name you gave me.”

Cedric’s eyes narrow fractionally as Eirik continued.

“I will strive to learn, to push, to perhaps… remind the Marshal of what it felt like to face a desperate, cornered foe? Maybe force him to dig deep into his own bag of tricks? If I can do even that… if I can emerge with a shred of respect earned, not given… isn’t that worth the cost? Isn’t that better preparation than polishing boots in the garrison?”

Cedric’s expression shifted subtly. The amusement faded, replaced by a harder, more calculating look. He studied Eirik as if seeing him anew. The raw hunger for something beyond comfort, the willingness to embrace defeat for self-improvement… for the second day in a row, Eirik resonated with the younger warrior Cedric remembered himself being.

“So eager for the taste of dirt, boy?” Cedric murmured. “So hungry to learn what it feels like to have your grand plans shattered like a cheap battery.” He leaned forward. “But understand this, Eirik Stormcrow. The lesson you will be learning won’t be tactical. There’s no learning in being beaten like a tied pig in the slaughter house. The real lesson you will be learning is that ambition without the strength and skill to back it is fatal. That cleverness on the training yard is one thing, controlling men, anticipating an enemy, bearing the weight of command under pressure… that is another entirely.” He lifted his gaze again. “I shall let Marshal Gunnar demonstrate that truth to you. Personally, Brutally, if necessary. Let him show you the depth of your ignorance. That would serve you better than simply denying you the chance. That would truly… temper you.”

Eirik hid the surge of triumph behind grim acceptance. “Understood, Lord Father. I welcome the lesson.”

“Very well. If you’re so desperate to learn, I shall grant your… request.” He emphasized the last word, making it clear this was indulgence, not endorsement.

“And I thank you for the opportunity.” Eirik bowed his head.

“Spare me the gratitude. Earn it on the field.” Cedric waved a dismissive hand and turned to the still-kneeling Leif. “Fenrir. This… scheme hinges on you serving at Stormcrow’s side. What say you? After trying to murder him yesterday, can you stomach taking his orders today? Can you restrain your impulses to disgrace your house further? ”

Leif flinched as if struck. His eyes darted from Cedric’s gaze to Eirik’s impassive face. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His gaze flickered sideways, and found his mother’s eyes. Isolde Fenrir met her son’s panicked look. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

Leif swallowed hard. “I… I will serve… Lord Eirik.” The title tasted like ash.

Cedric grunted, clearly unimpressed but willing to accept the submission. “See that you do, boy. Because what awaits you next time won’t be anything close to the level of mercy I’ve shown you today.”

Leif looked down at the stone floor, then forced his head up. “Understood, Lord Cedric.”

“So be it,” Cedric declared. “Marshal. You heard the proposal. Fifty men versus fifty. You pick your men from the garrison — veterans, solid fighters, no green boys.”

“Aye, Lord Baron.” Gunnar straightened. “And the location?”

Cedric’s gaze drifted towards the narrow windows. “The Blackroot Forest. The old logging trails and the Frostmire clearing.” He looked at Eirik. “Seven days from now. That gives you time to muster your forces, boy.” A cruel glint entered Cedric’s eyes. “Standard rules. Wooden weapons blunted. No live steel. No use of mana. Captures count as kills. Win by rendering the opposing force incapable of fighting or forcing their commander’s surrender.”

Cedric’s words hung in the frigid air in the great hall.

“Good? Now. Go pre—”

Just as Cedric shifted, clearly about to dismiss them, Garrick Storm lunged forward.

“Lord Father!”

All eyes snapped to the golden son.

“This wargame… it’s a brilliant trial, truly! But fifty against fifty? Orderly lines? That’s parade ground stuff, Father!” His voice took on a wheedling tone. “The real battle for mercenaries is never this polite! Raiders hitting from all sides, shifting alliances, treacheries! Let me command a third force!”

Of course.

Eirik almost smiled. Garrick couldn't bear being sidelined. He craved attention, validation, and above all a chance to stomp on Eirik.

“This does not concern you, boy!” Cedric’s voice crackled with impatience. “They have stakes to settle. You have none here. Stand down.”

“Then I will make a stake, Father!” Garrick drew himself up. “I pledge funds! Further funds! One thousand talons! From my personal coffers to help establish my dear brother’s mercenary company… if he wins!”

“And if he loses?”

Garrick seized the opening. “Then Leif Fenrir is with me instead! I will make sure he does not live the life of a lowly sell-sword and find him a post befitting House Fenrir here at Stormkeep! My brother could take on the adventure he so desired all by himself!”

“Don’t think I’m a fool, Garrick.” Cedric leaned back. “If I let you in, you and Gunnar would simply crush Eirik between you like a nut in a vise. This ‘trial’ would become farce.”

“I won’t, Father! I swear by the Frost!” Garrick’s face flushed crimson. “You’ll be watching! I will think only of my own victory!”

Cedric remained silent for a long moment. Finally, he turned to Eirik.

“Son. This… complicates your trial. Do you accept this… expansion?” His gaze flickered to Isolde and Leif. “Lady Fenrir? Leif? Does House Fenrir accept these altered stakes concerning its heir?”

Isolde’s eyes snapped to Eirik.

Eirik met Cedric’s gaze squarely. He allowed a small nod. Garrick’s involvement is a complication, but not entirely unwelcome. It adds chaos, true. But chaos can be exploited. Gunnar will be ruthless. Garrick will be impulsive. Hence, his inclusion might just distract the Marshal, forcing him to split his focus. Besides, one thousand talons would significantly bolster the company’s starting funds… If I win.

“My brother’s enthusiasm echoes my own desire for realism,” Eirik stated. “I see no reason to deny him the challenge.”

Garrick opened his mouth, ready to counter whatever came out of Eirik, only to find it agreeing with him in utter surprise. Isolde spoke in turn. “House Fenrir also accepts the amended terms.” After which Leif gave a jerky nod.

“Lord Father,” Eirik stepped forward again. “Since my brother has so kindly increased the stakes with his pledge… and since Lord Leif Fenrir himself has agreed to stand beside me in this trial and beyond…” He gestured towards the chained noble. “...it seems only right that he, and House Fenrir, should also have something meaningful to gain if we prevail. They too deserve a reward for participating in this… resolution.”

Cedric’s eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued despite himself. “Speak plainly, boy.”

“House Fenrir asks for nothing, Father,” Eirik continued. “But seeing Leif here… remembering his mother’s grief… I recall a burden they carry.” He turned to Isolde, meeting her suddenly alert gaze. “Steward Brynn. Leif’s grandfather. Condemned to the Ice Mines for crimes committed against me.” He saw Isolde’s breath catch, her confusion warring with dawning comprehension.

EIrik turned to Cedric. “I humbly request this, Lord Father: If I win this wargame, securing Garrick’s generous funds for the company and proving myself worthy of command… you release Steward Brynn from the mines. Grant him clemency. Let an old man, whose family has just pledged renewed loyalty, see the sun again.

Silence descended, heavier than before. Garrick looked furious, realizing Eirik had just tied Leif’s loyalty even tighter — freeing his grandfather depended entirely on Eirik’s victory and Leif helping him achieve it. Leif can’t sabotage Eirik without hurting his own family now.

Leif stared at Eirik, the hatred momentarily eclipsed by utter disbelief. Release Grandfather? After he’d lost everything just to get Eirik to say it, and failed? Now he just handed this to him?

Cedric leaned back, steepling his fingers. His gaze shifted from Eirik’s carefully earnest face to Garrick’s obvious frustration. Clever bastard, Cedric thought. He positions it as mercy for House Fenrir, but it’s a masterstroke of control. Secures Leif’s cooperation for the wargame — the boy must fight loyally for Eirik to have any chance of freeing Brynn… and it subtly highlights Garrick’s offer as purely self-serving. All while appearing magnanimous.

A low chuckle started in Cedric’s chest, building into a dry, appreciative rumble. “By the Frost, boy,” Cedric finally said. “You don’t lack for… audacity. Or political instinct.” He looked at Isolde. “Lady Fenrir? Does this… proposed clemency meet with your house’s approval?”

Isolde sank into a deep, trembling curtsy. “Lord Baron… such mercy… I… accept with profound gratitude.”

“Very well,” Cedric declared. “The stakes are amended. If Eirik Stormcrow’s force is victorious in the wargame, Steward Brynn is pardoned and released from the Ice Mines immediately.” He leveled a look at Leif. “A powerful incentive to fight well beside your new commander, wouldn’t you say, boy?”

Leif bowed his head, the chains clanking. “Yes, Lord Baron.”

“Very well.” Cedrifc’s focus sharpened on Garrick. “Garrick Stormcrow. Since you insist on inserting yourself into your brother’s trial, so be it. You shall field a third force. Fifty men. Same rules.” He leaned forward. “And if you win… if you defeat both Marshal Gunnar’s veterans and Eirik’s… whatever he scrapes together… I shall personally fund the recruitment and outfitting of a personal retinue for you. Seasoned. Well-armed.” He looked closer into Garrick. “But heed me, boy. Disappoint me? Show me incompetence, cowardice, or worse, the petty collusion I suspect? Your privileges within these walls will shrink until you have room only to breathe. Am I understood?”

Garrick’s eyes widened, blazing with avarice and the sheer, dizzying scale of the opportunity — and the threat. A personal retinue, funded by the Baron! Cedric’s gesture was clear: he hadn’t offered this to Eirik, but to him. Which means winning it would surely secure his status as heir, with a fearsome reputation that is sure to follow.

Garrick slammed his fist to his chest in a sharp salute, forgetting that his sabotage against Eirik was completely dismantled and was used against him in his newfound excitement. “Understood, Father! Absolutely! I swear! I will not disappoint!”

Cedric just waved a hand, dismissing them all.