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Chapter Thirty (TIBK)
🕑 Added 2025-07-26 12:01:04 +0000 UTCGarrick Stormcrow stared at his reflection in the polished surface of a discarded knight’s breastplate. The blue-and-silver enamel was scratched, the metal dented. Utterly ruined.
Like him.
He barely recognized the face staring back – swollen face, one eye puffed nearly shut, a sheen of sweat and grime making his usually ruddy cheeks sallow.
How?
The word hammered inside his skull. How? He had real knights. Plate armor worth a fortune. Coursers bred for war. Against that? A rabble clutching clay pots and dressed in refuse. Led by the Spineless Bastard.
It wasn’t just the loss. It was the manner of it. The world had tilted on its axis. The thunderous charge, the glorious roar meant to herald his ascension… silenced by cheap jars exploding like peasant festival tricks. His magnificent knights reduced to choking, blinded fools, stumbling into trees, brought low by… seasoning?
"Cheater!" The word escaped his cracked lips in a raspy whisper. He slammed his fist against the dented breastplate. "He cheated! Again! Filthy, underhanded, bastard tricks!"
And Father… Father had allowed it. Cedric Stormcrow, who preached strength and honor above all, who had flogged men for lesser breaches of combat decorum… had sat on his horse like a glacier and watched. He’d seen and heard it all… and done nothing.
Why? The question was a scream in Garrick's soul.
I am the HEIR! Stormkeep, its wealth, its armies, its legacy… it was his birthright! Why wouldn’t Father punish the upstart? Crush him for daring to shame the Stormcrow name with such gutter tactics? Why did Eirik’s defiance seem to earn more of Cedric’s attention than Garrick?
Tears threatened to spill from his good eye. He blinked them back furiously. Weakness. He was not weak. He was Garrick Stormcrow, heir to the Barony. He straightened his spine, ignoring the sharp protest from bruised ribs and the throbbing ruin of his face. He adjusted the sling cradling his sword arm – wrenched during Silvermane’s panicked bucking – striving for a semblance of the noble warrior. The image in the polished breastplate mocked him.
He hadn’t always felt this… precarious.
Once, he’d been the one. The golden son. Strong, boisterous, blessed with the Stormcrow looks. Father’s pride. Mother’s hope. Servants scrambled to please him. Lesser nobles curried favor. His world was woven with threads of certainty: he would rule. He was meant to rule. Strength was his birthright, and it came easily… until Rurik.
His younger brother. Quiet where Garrick was loud, thoughtful where Garrick acted. And terrifyingly capable. Rurik surpassed Garrick in the training yards before he’d even grown his first beard. His intellect was sharp. Father’s gaze, once fixed solely on Garrick, began to linger on Rurik. Pride turned to something sharper, more demanding when directed at Garrick.
Garrick had tried. Gods knew he’d tried. He practiced longer, roared louder, demanded more obeisance. But it felt… hollow. He saw the flicker in Father’s eyes sometimes – not anger, not even disappointment anymore, but a weary sort of resignation. Mother’s expectations, however, never wavered.
Then Rurik left. Called to the Earl’s glittering court. He was secure again. The heir. The focus. The future. He could bask in his imagined superiority, torment Eirik with impunity, and enjoy the trappings of power.
Until the bastard woke up.
How? How? In days, Spineless Eirik had shattered Garrick’s world. He defied Garrick in his own shack. He made him confess, bloodied and terrified, in front of servants. He shattered the Eye of Snow. He stood before Father without flinching.
And now… this.
The public humiliation of the war game. Garrick’s carefully curated image of martial prowess lay trampled in the Frostmire mud beside his shattered knights. He could feel the sneers, the whispers, the pitying glances from the assembled nobility even now, hours later. His position, seemingly unassailable just days ago, felt thinner than ice on a spring pond.
"Failure," he whispered, the taste of the word like ash. He hated that feeling. The crushing weight of expectations unmet. The suffocating knowledge that he’d disappointed. It had been his shadow since Rurik first picked up a sword. And now, Spineless Eirik, the object of his contempt, the victim, was the source of his deepest shame. Daily. Relentlessly.
The tent flap rustled. Garrick stiffened, hastily wiping his good eye with the back of his hand, trying to force his features into a mask of stoic endurance.
He knew who it was. He didn’t want to face her.
Lady Ingrid swept in. Her expression was smooth, unreadable marble, but Garrick saw the slight tightening around her eyes, the rigidity in her posture. Disappointment radiated from her like winter chill.
"Garrick," her voice was devoid of its usual warm encouragement. "You look… unwell."
He flinched. "The bastard… he used poison gas, Mother! On knights! Father just… watched!"
"Your father," Ingrid said, stepping closer, "saw a strategy that defeated superior forces using available means. He saw cunning where you saw only cheating." Her voice dropped lower, sharper. "And he saw his eldest son falter when faced with the unexpected."
Garrick winced. "I… I reacted! I tried to rally them! Kael—"
"—followed your order to charge headlong into an obvious trap," Ingrid finished coolly. "You underestimated Eirik. Fatally. Again."
The accusation hung in the air. Garrick wanted to rage, to defend himself, but the truth of her words were unmistakable. He looked down at his mud-splattered boots, unable to meet her gaze.
She had poured everything into him, and he had failed her.
"Looking at your boots won't change what happened, Garrick," Ingrid said, her voice regaining its usual steel. "Wallowing won't restore your standing. Come. There's work to be done."
She turned towards the tent entrance without waiting for a response. Garrick hesitated, shame warring with a desperate need for her guidance, her reassurance. Reluctantly, wincing as he moved, he pushed himself up and followed her out into the biting air.
They moved away from the bustling aftermath of the war game – the groans of the wounded, the clank of gear being collected, the low murmur of voices thick with judgment. Ingrid led him through lesser-used corridors of Stormkeep, down narrow servant stairs Garrick hadn't known existed, descending into the fortress's cold, damp underbelly. The air grew thick with the smell of mildew, damp stone, and something darker…
They reached a heavy, iron-bound door guarded by two of Ingrid’s personal retainers – men with faces like carved stone, loyal only to her. A curt nod from Ingrid, and the door was unlocked, swinging open with a protesting groan.
The chamber beyond was a cell. Dank. Dark. Lit only by a single guttering torch in a wall sconce. Straw littered the floor. Chains hung from rusted rings on the wall. And huddled in a corner, chained by one ankle to a stout iron ring, was Marta.
Garrick’s stomach clenched. The cook looked broken. Her face was a tapestry of bruises – purple, yellow, sickly green – one eye swollen shut. Her hands, usually rough but capable, were swollen, knuckles raw. Her grimy dress was torn, stained with what looked like old blood and filth. She flinched violently as the torchlight fell on her, shrinking back against the cold stone wall, whimpering.
"Gods," Garrick breathed.
He hadn’t ordered this. He didn’t want to see it. This was Mother's way. It made him feel… dirty. Weak. Not the strong lord heir dispensing justice, but a spectator to something ugly.
Ingrid stepped into the cell, her fine velvet skirts seeming absurdly out of place amidst the squalor. She moved with predatory grace, stopping just out of Marta’s reach. Garrick hung back near the door, unable to fully enter the oppressive gloom.
"Marta," Ingrid’s voice was soft, chillingly polite. "Look at me."
Marta slowly, painfully, raised her head. Her one good eye, filled with terror, fixed on Ingrid. She tried to speak, but only a choked sob escaped her cracked lips.
"Now, Marta," Ingrid continued, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "We need to revisit our previous conversation. About Eirik."
Marta whimpered again, pulling her knees tighter to her chest.
"Let me refresh your memory," Ingrid said, taking a half-step closer. Marta flinched violently. "In all your years serving in his… hovel… did you ever witness Eirik Stormcrow train? Did you see him practice sword drills before dawn? Lift stones? Run endurance laps? Anything that might explain this sudden… ascension?"
Marta’s good eye darted wildly from Ingrid to Garrick hovering in the doorway, then back. She shook her head frantically. "N-no, m'lady! Never! I swear by the Frost Mother! He was… weak. Always weak! He'd… he'd struggle with the water bucket. Get winded climbing the tower stairs. He just… hid. Read those moldy books. Or stared out the window like a lost lamb! Never trained! Not once!"
Ingrid nodded slowly. "Good. Very good. And the sudden strength? The defiance? The… abilities? When did that start?"
Marta’s voice was a terrified whisper. "After… after Lord Garrick…" she flinched again, glancing fearfully at Garrick, "...after he… woke up. In his bed. Days ago. Like… like a different person crawled into his skin. Cold eyes. Moved… different. Spoke different. Strong… scary strong." She shuddered. "Like… like somethin' possessed him, m'lady."
Garrick felt a chill that had nothing to do with the dungeon air. Possessed? Or just… awakened? But how so fast? It made no sense.
"And you can attest to this?" Ingrid pressed. "You can find others? Servants from his household? Stableboys? Anyone who will swear they saw no gradual change? Only… suddenness?"
Marta nodded desperately. "Y-yes, m'lady! Everyone could attest to it. We all saw it! Eirik weak as a kitten. I’ll give you names! They’ll tell you! He was Spineless Eirik one day, and… and that… the next!" Her voice cracked.
Ingrid smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. "Excellent, Marta. Your cooperation is noted." She turned away dismissively, her gaze meeting Garrick’s. The message was clear: Proof.
As Ingrid swept back towards the door, she paused beside Garrick. Her voice dropped to a whisper only he could hear. "Stop looking like a whipped dog, Garrick. This defeat is a setback, not the end. Compose yourself."
He straightened slightly, trying to mimic her icy calm, though his insides churned.
"The Earl’s entourage arrives within the week," Ingrid continued, her eyes sharp. "Rurik will be with them."
Garrick’s heart plummeted. Rurik. His perfect brother. The last person he wanted to see him like this – humiliated by a bastard.
"Rurik? What can he do? He doesn't hate Eirik! He probably pities the worm!"
A flicker of irritation crossed Ingrid’s face. "We make him hate Eirik, Garrick. Or at least, see him for the dangerous, unnatural threat he is. Marta’s testimony, the shattering of the Eye, the suddenness of his power… it smells of dark arts. Outsider influence. A danger to the realm. Rurik serves the Earl. He understands stability, lineage, the threat of the unexplained."
She gripped Garrick’s arm, her nails biting even through his sleeve. "We lay the case before him. We show him Eirik is not just an embarrassment, but a threat to House Stormcrow… and by extension, the Earl’s domain. Rurik will act. The Earl will act."
Garrick absorbed this. A spark of hope, brittle and desperate, flickered in his chest.
"But," Ingrid’s voice hardened, her grip tightening painfully, "you must play your part. No more bluster. You are the wronged heir. The loyal son. You focus on your recovery. You attend your father dutifully. You show contrition for your… tactical misjudgment in the war game. Do you understand?"
Garrick met her intense gaze. The weight of expectation settled back onto his shoulders. He couldn't fail Mother again. He wouldn't.
He forced a nod, drawing himself up to his full height, ignoring the pain. "I understand, Mother."
"Good," Ingrid released his arm. She cast a final, dismissive glance back at the shivering Marta chained in the darkness. "Our time will come. Until then, be patient. Be smart."
She swept out of the dungeon, leaving Garrick standing in the torchlight flickering over the damp stones.
