Chapter 6: Chapter 6 - He’s Mad! Ungrateful! Or Worse!

The revelation hit the gathered nobles, guards, and servants alike.

Eirik had reached the Snow Realm. At nineteen winters. Saying that this is a “miracle” would almost feel too gentle. It was watching a corpse rot for days suddenly sit up, stretch, and take down a powerful brute with one punch.

Garrick’s mouth worked soundlessly. He wanted to scream. He needed to scream — Lies! Cheat! Father, he’s tricking you! — but Ingrid immediately put a hand onto his uninjured forearm. Her nails bit into his flesh through the sleeve.

No, you fool, Ingrid’s mind screamed silently at her son, her own face now showed a mask of carefully composed horror while chaos churned beneath. She saw the shift in Cedric’s glacier-blue eyes. She saw the way the frost patterns on his armor writhed, not with anger, but with something dangerous close… awe? Recognition?

This was a travesty. Ingrid thought.

The servants accusing Garrick were nothing but annoying flies. She knew Cedric well enough to understand that his disappointment from that shitshow came not from the fact that Garrick did what he did, but rather he left dirty traces and got caught in front of everyone. But this? This monstrous display of hidden power and potential? This was an earthquake beneath the foundations of her world. Cedric’s obsession wasn’t merely about power, but it was the future glory of the Stormcrow name. Garrick, her precious, trueborn heir, was suddenly revealed as not just cruel, but utterly, pathetically inadequate next to this… this bastard she had spent nineteen winters despising.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at her throat. What leverage do I have now? What angle can I spin? For the first time in decades, Lady Ingrid Stormcrow felt truly powerless.

Lord Cedric Stormcrow took a single step forward. He looked at Eirik as if seeing him for the first time. Gone was the glacial fury, replaced by a fierce pride that flickered in his eyes.

“My son, you have surprised everyone here today. Truly surprised.” He paused, letting the weight of his words carry across the silent hall. “Such an accomplishment deserves not punishment but celebration.”

Cedric raised his chin.

“Therefore, the sentence I pronounced moments ago — three moons in the Ice Cells, labor in the quarries — it is hereby forfeited!”

A collective breath seemed to be sucked back into the hall. Faces flickered with confusion, then dawning realization. Relief washed over Harkin, Jens, and Yorick. He’s free? After breaking Garrick’s nose? Truly free?

Cedric’s gaze swept the room, landing back on Eirik.

“Eirik Stormcrow.”

The name echoed. Stormcrow. Not ‘bastard’. Not ‘Eirik’. Eirik Stormcrow. The first time Cedric had ever publicly bestowed the family name upon his neglected son. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, louder this time, mixed with awe.

“You are hereby recognized, formally and without reservation, as a true son of this house. Your blood is Stormcrow blood. Your strength is Stormcrow strength.”

He turned to address the assembly. “Hear me, all of Stormkeep! Let no man dare slight his name again!” His glare swept over the guards, the counselors, lingering pointedly on Ingrid and Garrick. Ingrid flinched minutely; Garrick looked physically ill. Cedric turned back to Eirik, his expression softening fractionally, though the fierce pride remained dominant.

“You will receive a stipend befitting your birthright — a hundred silver talons monthly. A retinue of six personal guards, sworn directly to you. And quarters fit for a warrior of your standing.” He leaned in slightly. “Eirik Stormcrow, I will see to it that you receive proper training with the best tutors. I will harness this ice within you, and make sure you become the warrior your birth destined you to be.”

As he finished, the tension broke with a roar.

“HAIL EIRIK STORMCROW!” Harkin, the old guard, was the first. A guttural cheer erupted from this throat. Jens followed instantly, “HAIL!” Yorick, tears streaming his grimy face, joined in, “HAIL THE SON OF STORM!”

THOOM!

THOOM!

THOOM!

The guards who had moments before been ready to drag Eirik to the cells now thumped their spears on the stone floor in a rhythmic, thunderous salute. Counselors exchanged with stunned glances, then hesitant smiles, some even clapping.

Eirik stood unmoved at the center of the acclaim.

The cheers washed over him like waves against a cliff. Inside, his mind was ice. He saw the hope in Cedric’s eyes. He saw the calculation in Ingrid’s stare. He saw the fury in Garrick’s chest. He’s not better off just because he’s all of sudden being showered with praise, nor was he worse off when everyone had despised him as Eirik the Spineless. He had a goal—gaining independence as a Lord—and he shall accomplish it regardless of how everyone else treats him.

Cedric beamed, mistaking Eirik’s stillness for overwhelmed awe. The cheers were music to him, validation of his own magnanimity. That his own blood had yielded, impossibly, a diamond forged in secret hardship.

He places a hand on Eirik’s shoulder.

“Son! Tell me! On this day, your true birth into this house. What do you desire? Name your gift! A blade forged by the finest blacksmith in the Barony? A stallion from the Earl’s own stables? Lands? Name it, and it shall be yours!”

The crowd quieted slightly, eager to hear the newly elevated lord’s first request.

Eirik met Cedric’s expectant gaze. He didn’t smile.

“I want to go to the Northern Wastes.”

Silence. Utter, chilling silence. The cheering died instantly.

The rhythmic spear-thumping stopped mid-beat. Harkin’s triumphant grin froze. Jens’ raised first dropped slowly. Yorick looked like he’d been slapped. Every face turned to Eirik, disbelief warring with horror.

Cedric’s smile vanished.

The warmth in his eyes solidified into glacial disbelief, then flickered towards annoyance. Is he jesting? Trying to seem more daring? He forced a short, dismissive chuckle, squeezing Eirik’s shoulder a little too tightly.

“Hah! Brave words, my boy! Showing that Stormcrow fire, eh?” He shook his head, his tone becoming paternal, placating. “We understand, Eirik. Truly. The years of hardship… the isolation… the injustice. It scars man. Makes him want to prove something, anything, to the world.” He gestured expansively. “But look around you! The proving ground is here now! You have proven it! More than any of us imagined!”

Eirik stood there, expressionless.

Cedric leaned in, his voice lowering. “Put the Wastes out of your mind, son. Stay. Train. Become the champion Stormkeep needs. That is your path. That is the only path now.”

He looked at Eirik expectantly, confident the boy would accept the glorious future laid out before him.

“No,” Eirik stated. “I want to go to the Northern Wastes.”

Stolen story; please report.

What followed was a hollow, ringing silence like a bell struck too hard.

Cedric’s face went utterly still. This wasn’t just defiance. This was an insult. A rejection of everything he offered, everything he was. He had just publicly embraced this bastard, elevated him, forgive him! ANd this… this ingrate refused? Twice?

Garrick’s malicious grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of primal fear. This bastard isn’t just defiant, Garrick realized with dawning horror. He’s utterly unafraid. Of Father. Of anything.

However, for Eirik, the choice was crystal clear. The cheering, the name ‘Stormcrow,’ the promise of tutors and guards and silver… it was a gilded cage. Cedric doesn’t see me, Eirik thought. He sees a warrior he can shape, a new piece for his Stormkeep board. Cedric’s offer promised, at best, the life of a respected Baron’s third son. The baron was forty-three winters old, still in his prime, and likely to rule for decades. Even if — a massive if — he somehow surpassed Rurik, impressed the Earl, and eventually inherited Stormkeep… What then? Baron Eirik Stormcrow?

It was a dead end.

From just a noble-born to a Baron was a chasm few crossed without royal favor or marriage. Baron to Earl would mean another lifetime of intrigue and war. Earl to Duke was practically mythical. And Duke to King? That was akin to scaling the frozen, storm-wracked face of the Gods’ Spine itself. Cedric’s ‘glorious path’ led, at best, to becoming a slightly bigger fish in the same stagnant, feudal pond. He pictured it: endless maneuvering against Ingrid’s poisonous intrigues, Garrick’s pathetic schemes, Rurik’s inevitable meddling. Infighting within Stormkeep, then petty wars with neighboring Barons. All for scraps. The thought was suffocating.

On the other hand…

The Northern Wastes are ripe with opportunities. No titles mattered there. No bloodlines. Only strength. Unadulterated power. It was a crucible where kingdoms could be forged by those strong and cunning enough. The Chaos Tribes, who only bow to strength, could be united with Eirik to become their lord. The monstrous beasts could be tamed or slain for power. The ancient ruins could be explored for powerful magical treasures.

It was a blank brutal canvas. His canvas.

With his education at Blackridge and a System at his side, the Wastes shall become his crucible where a king would be born from nothing but sheer will and raw power.

Nonetheless, he’s not going to share this reasoning with anyone. Announcing the will of becoming a king, even if just as jest, is equivalent to treason and will be punished by death. Even Cedric couldn’t save him as it would escalate to powerful figures much more influential than him.

“Eirik,” Cedric’ voice was dangerously low, the warmth entirely gone. “You speak of the Wastes. You understand what that means?”

Eirik met his gaze, unwavering.

“I understand perfectly, Lord Cedric. It means forging my own destiny.”

The words were a physical blow to Cedric. His grip loosened slightly, replaced by a dawning, chilling realization.

He’s serious. He truly means to throw away everything I just gave him.

Garrick couldn’t contain himself.

“See, Father!” he croaked, blood bubbling faintly from his broken nose. “He’s mad! Ungrateful! Or worse — maybe he is tainted! The Wastes call to their own! Exile him! Send him now!”

Hope surged in him. Yes! Send him to die! Let the frost giants grid his bones!

Lady Ingrid watched. Part of her wanted to cheer Garrick on. But another, colder part assessed the situation differently. This could all be part of another cunning trick that Eirik had pulled time and time again.

Cedric is shaken. She observed. Truly shaken by this bastard boy. His pride is wounded, but… he sees potential now. Pushing for exile might make Cedric dig in his heels, deciding to keep his newfound ‘diamond’ close. She needed a different angle. Moreover, she needed to stop whatever Eirik’s determined to do, even if it went against her own common sense.

Her tears had dried, replaced by a mask of worried authority.

“Lord Cedric,” she said, now her voice is as smooth as honey. “The boy speaks from pain, clearly. The years of hardship… they twist the mind.” She took a step closer, radiating false concern. “Look at him. Nineteen winters of suffering. It’s the rambling of a traumatized child, desperate to prove something… anything… to the father who finally acknowledges him.” She turned leading eyes on Cedric. “He needs guidance, my lord. Firm guidance. Not indulgence in suicidal fantasies.”

Clever. Eirik thought coldly, watching her performance. Her words had just spun his courageous choice into a child crying for attention.

The council murmured. Some nodded hesitantly. Ingrid’s narrative of a child acting out was easier to swallow than a son willing to choose exile and death over the Baron’s favor.

Marshal Gunnar stepped forward, head bowing.

“Young Lord Eirik. I knew the Wastes. I’d lost plenty of fighters there. Even though you have reached Snow Realm, you’d still only last a week, maybe a moon, there.” He raised his head, looking at Eirik. “Yet with proper training, under my watch, I will make sure you can not only survive but also score victories for House Stormcrow at the Wastes after just a few winters.”

For Eirik, this could be a tempting offer except for one fact: he didn’t have a few winters to spare. He wanted to leave. Soon. He switched his focus back on Cedric. He was not going to back down unless he got what he wanted.

“Lord Cedric. I—.”

Cedric raised a hand, interrupting him as Eirik felt a sudden sense of intense coldness deep in his throat.

“You will not speak unless I grant you the privilege, and now this privilege is revoked.” He stepped back, putting a small distance between them. His expression hardened back into the familiar mask of the Baron of Stormkeep. “You are my son,” Cedric declared with finality. “Blood of my blood. Recognized before this court. That means you carry responsibilities that you must honor.”

Here it comes, Eirik thought. The cage bars clang shut.

“Your request,” Cedric continued, pacing slowly before the throne, frost crackling faintly under his boots, “is born of ignorance and youthful arrogance. The Northern Wastes are not an escape. They are oblivious. What glory is there in being devoured by a frost troll? What legends can you build frozen solid in a blizzard? Your strength, Eirik, is a gift — to this house, to this Barony, to me. It will not be squandered.”

He stopped pacing and faced Eirik directly, his glacier eyes boring into him.

“You will remain. You will accept your stipend, your guards, your quarters. You will train under Marshal Gunnar. You will learn discipline, tactics, and statecraft. You will learn your duty to your family and your people.” He paused, letting the absolute command settle over the hall. “The matter of the Wastes is closed. Speak of it again, and the punishment I revoked will be reinstated and doubled.”

It was a declaration, not a discussion. The Baron had spoken.

Garrick’s look of furious disappointment twisted into something ugly. He gets to stay? After humiliating me? After refusing Father? The unfairness choked him.

Eirik didn’t argue. Arguing now would be pointless. Cedric wouldn’t listen, not in front of the court, not with his pride freshly bruised. Fighting would only lead to punishment, perhaps even being thrown into the Ice Cells right now. That would delay everything.

Patience, he told himself. The seed is planted. Cedric knows I want to go. He knows I refused comfort and titles for the Wastes. It seems insane to him now. But when I grow stronger, when I prove my strength again, when a more suitable opportunity rises up again… Then, he will remember this refusal. He will see it not as madness, but as the ambition he respects.

Or… if he refuses even then… Eirik’s gaze hardened imperceptibly. I will find another way out.

“As you command, Lord Cedric.”

Eirik lowered his head, but his voice was devoid of emotion.

Relief, cold and pragmatic, washed over Cedric. He hadn’t lost his diamond. It was just… recalcitrant. Training and discipline would fix that.

“Good,” Cedric nodded. He turned to Marshal Gunnar. “Gunnar. Begin his training at dawn. And find him a proper steel.”

Gunnar thumped his fist against his armored chest. “It will be done, my lord.”

Cedric looked back at the assembly.

“This audience has concluded. Take Garrick to the infirmary. Steward Brynn’s duties will be handled by his deputy until further notice. All of you, return to your duties.”

He didn’t look at Eirik again, turning instead towards the door leading to his private chambers. He needed solitude, ale, and time to process the impossible son he had both neglected and now unexpectedly prized.

As Cedric swept out, the hall began to empty.

Counselors muttered amongst themselves as they filed out. Garrick was half-led, half-dragged by two guards towards the infirmary, sputtering protests that no one listened to. Ingrid followed, and shot a final, venomous glance at Eirik. Guards ushered whoever remained away.

Eirik remained standing where he was, in the center of the emptying great hall.

Blue light enveloped him.

[Tutorial Quest #2 (out of 7): The Baron’s Wrath —— Completed!]

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