Fyrion looked at the joyful face of viola, the girl he sees as his sister, "Ah, viola! Where have you been? That's a very cute dress you been wearing today!"
"…"
Viola wasn't enthusiastic at all, she stared him dead in the eyes and said, "Brother! Why are you changing the topic-!?"
Before she could finish her words, Fyrion bend down and swopped her up into the air, "My cute little sister! Don't you worry, your brother here is a very competent man and will take care of everything okay?"
Viola pouted and said, "Yea, yea! Like I ever believe you!"
Fyrion laughed, "Haha haha", then looked at the girl his memories flashing back from his past life, in these same arms he held her corpse cold and lifeless, frozen to death in her room.
'Don't worry, Viola. I will protect your smile this time around.'
He smiled and moved towards the dinning table, "Let's go viola! Let's stuff that mouth of yours with some cookies."
For two days, the castle was filled with a furious, rhythmic thud... thud... thud.
Fyrion had moved his alchemy lab from the forge to a sealed, windowless cellar. He worked day and night, his 19-year-old body screaming in protest, his new Aura Core burning with the unfamiliar strain of constant, low-level refinement.
He had produced over two hundred Sun-Bricks. They were stacked in the corner, radiating a gentle, life-giving warmth.
On the second day, Silas burst into the cellar, his weasel-like face pale with panic.
"Young Master! The envoys... they're spreading rumours in the lower villages!"
"What rumours?" Fyrion asked, not looking up from the batch of paste he was kneading.
"That you're a... a demon-worshipper! That the blue flame in the forge was a dark ritual! They say you've gone mad and are preparing to flee the territory. The men are... they're spooked. They think the house is cursed."
Fyrion paused. He looked at the brick in his hands.
'Good.'
Let them think he was mad. Let them think he was fleeing. A predictable enemy was a weak enemy.
He stood up, his body aching. "They're trying to destabilize our authority before they attack on the third day. Pathetic, but standard Southern tactics."
He grabbed a heavy burlap sack and began to load it with twenty Sun-Bricks.
"Prepare the carriage, Silas. A small one. I'm going out."
"Out?! But, Young Master, the envoys' camp is at the pass! They'll see you!"
"I want them to see me."
"Fyrion!" His father's voice boomed from the cellar entrance. Lord Valdemar looked exhausted, his face torn between a lifetime of dismissing his son and the undeniable, impossible warmth now radiating from his castle's hearths.
"Where are you going? Silas is right. This is no time to... to flee!"
Fyrion hefted the heavy sack onto his shoulder, his thin frame barely able to take the weight.
"I'm not fleeing, Father. I'm going to the Light Tower. To get our money."
Valdemar's face went blank.
"The... the Mages? Son, they are Southerners. They are allied with the Crown. They haven't spoken to our house in a year. They won't even see you."
Fyrion walked past his father, his eyes fixed on the gate.
"They will today."
The Light Magic Tower was a spike of pristine white marble, an insult of Southern wealth and power driven into the heart of the frozen North. It was said that the mages within hadn't felt the cold of the Three-Year Winter even once.
Fyrion, his face raw from the wind, walked up to the glowing, rune-scribed gates. Two guards, clad in gleaming steel plate and holding "heat-glaives"—Relics that steamed in the cold, crossed their weapons.
"Halt. This is not a place for Northern beggars. The charity kitchens are in the lower town."
Fyrion ignored the insult. "I am Fyrion of House Snowrend. I have a business proposal for your Tower Master regarding a new, high-efficiency heat source."
One of the guards laughed, a short, barking sound. "A heat source? From you? Your family burns its own chairs to stay warm. We have Battle-Mages. We are the heat source. Now, get lost before I—"
"You're a guard," Fyrion cut him off, his voice flat.
"You're paid to stand here and look shiny. You are not paid to make economic decisions for your Master. Go and tell her that a Northern 'rubbish' boy is here to solve the single greatest drain on her Tower's mana reserves. Tell her... or I will go to the Earth Tower instead. I'm sure they'd like to know how to save 80% on their magical heating costs."
The guard's smirk faltered. He didn't understand all the words, but he understood the tone. He held Fyrion's cold, calculating gaze for a moment, then paled.
Just then a voice echoed form the highest floor of the tower however, it seemed as if the person was directly talking inside everyone's mind, "Send that boy in."
Fyrion was granted an audience.
He was brought to the apex of the Tower. The room was bright, clean, and offensively warm. Seated on a simple stone chair, looking over a map of the North, was a woman so young probably in her early 20s but her real age was more than 70+.
This was Archmage Elina, the Matriarch of the Light Tower.
Standing beside her was a younger man, Mage Veras, whose fine silk robes were a stark contrast to Fyrion's worn furs.
"I am told you have a... 'heat source'?" Elina asked, her voice dry as dust.
Mage Veras scoffed, stepping forward. "My apologies, Tower Master. I don't know why the guards bothered you. This is the rubbish son of a failing house. What could he possibly offer us? Magic-infused mud? Perhaps he's found a new way to burn furniture?"
Fyrion met Veras's sneer with a look of utter boredom and thought, 'What a pain in the ass.'
"You're right," Fyrion said simply.
Veras blinked. "I... I am?"
"You're a Battle-Mage. You create fire." Fyrion pointed to the massive, glowing crystal in the center of the room that kept the chamber warm. "[Eternal Light Brazier]. An E-Rank Relic, always amplified by at least three Mages, just to heat this one room. Correct?"
Elina's wise eyes narrowed.
Veras looked defensive. "It is the pinnacle of heat-spells! It is pure, clean—"
"It's inefficient," Fyrion said cutting Veras off.
"Your mages are spending 80% of their daily mana just to act as glorified space heaters. Your 'pinnacle' of magic is a pathetic waste of combat resources. You're bleeding power... all to fight a little bit of cold."
"Insolence!" Veras roared, his hand glowing with a [Minor Flame] spell.
Fyrion placed his heavy sack on their pristine white marble floor and kicked it over. Twenty Sun-Bricks spilled out.
"This is my solution."
Veras looked at the bricks. "Dirt. You've brought us... dirt."
"Light it," Fyrion said.
"This is an insult!"
"Light. It." Fyrion was strong in his words, even the tower master Elina was impressed by his guts and waved her hand to Veras.
Veras, snarling, cast his [Minor Flame] spell at the nearest brick.
WHOOSH!
A silent, brilliant, blindingly hot pillar of pure white flame erupted in the centre of the room. It gave off no smoke, no smell. It was just pure heat.
The mages gasped. Veras stumbled back, his own magical flame extinguished by the sheer intensity. The [Eternal Light Brazier] in the corner seemed to dim in comparison, its glow now looking weak and sickly.
Archmage Elina stood up, her elegant hands gripping her staff. She walked to the fire, her eyes wide.
"No... no smoke," she whispered, holding her hand over the flame. The heat was immense, yet stable. "No sulfuric trace. The mana output... it's... it's generating heat, not just transmuting it. This isn't a spell. What is this?"
"Alchemy," Fyrion said. "Carbon, sulfur, saltpeter, and a catalyst. I call it a Sun-Brick. It burns ten times hotter and twenty times longer than the best wood, for a fraction of the cost. And it can be lit by a child."
"A trick!" Veras hissed, his face pale with jealousy. "It must be a one-time enchanted item!"
"I have two hundred more back at my castle," Fyrion lied. "And I can make ten thousand more. Imagine, Archmage. Your mages... their full power, no longer wasted on keeping their fingers warm. Their mana... available for healing. For battle."
Elina turned to him. The polite, distant look was gone. She was no longer looking at a beggar. She was looking at a potential businessman.
"What do you want?"
"Capital," Fyrion said. "I'll sell you the exclusive Northern distribution rights. 500,000 gold marks."
"Five—!" Veras choked. "That is highway robbery! Your family's entire debt is not even half that!"
Fyrion's internal gaze sharpened. 'So she did know. She knew we were bankrupt. She was watching us starve and waiting for us to die so she could take our lands for herself. Just like the Queen.'
He locked eyes with Elina. His smile was gone.
"The price is not for my family's debt, tower master and educate your right hand man to not keep interfering with me. The price is for the lives of your mages, who will be able to spend their power fighting the real threat instead of a glorified winter. This brick will win your war."
Elina stared at the boy. This was not the "rubbish son" she had heard about. This was a merchant-prince. A wolf in sheep's clothing.
She smiled. "You are not your father's son. Very well. The Light Tower does not negotiate on matters of survival."
She snapped her fingers. "Veras. Go to the treasury. Bring our guest his 500,000 marks."
The next morning. The third day.
The Northern Pass was frozen. Envoy Corvus and his men were packed, their wagons loaded. The broken-armed knight was tied to his horse, his face gray with pain.
"Nothing, Lord Envoy," a scout reported. "No sign of Lord Valdemar. It seems the rubbish son was a diversion. They've fled. The house is forfeit."
Corvus smiled, a thin, cruel expression. "Excellent. We will take the castle by force. Prepare the—"
"You're not taking anything."
Fyrion's voice cut through the wind. He was alone, standing in the middle of the pass, blocking their exit.
Corvus's smile faltered. "You. The rubbish son. You're still here? Where is your father? Where is our levy?"
CLINK.
Fyrion tossed a single, heavy bag into the snow at Corvus's feet. It spilled open, revealing a river of gleaming, precious gold.
"There," Fyrion said. "200,000 marks. Your 'debt.' Your business here is concluded. Leave."
The envoys stared at the gold. It was more money than they had ever seen in one place.
"How... how did you...?" Corvus stammered.
He quickly regained his composure, his greed overpowering his shock. He saw Fyrion was alone. He saw the gold. He saw an opportunity.
"This?" Corvus sneered. "This only covers the debt. It does not cover the insult to a Royal Knight. The Queen's honour is not so cheap. The new price is 400,000."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
Fyrion whistled.
On the ridge above the pass, Silas and twenty of the Fyrion household guards appeared. They weren't armed with swords. They were standing next to the ten wagons containing the envoys' supplies for their journey home.
Corvus's blood ran cold. "What... what is the meaning of this?"
"Those are your supplies," Fyrion said, his voice as cold as the wind. "Your food. Your winter gear. And your firewood for the two-month journey back to the capital. A journey, I'm told, that is quite... cold."
Fyrion smiled.
"It's my new terms. You will pay me 300,000 marks for those supplies. Right now."
Corvus's jaw dropped. "You... you DARE extort ME?! A Royal Envoy?!"
"No," Fyrion said. "I'm offering you a sale. You're going to buy 100 of these Sun-Bricks and your supplies. Not at the regular price. At triple the market price. Or...You will travel home... without your supplies. And without your heat, you will die before you reach the capital."
He paused, letting the threat hang in the air, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying, predatory amusement. "...I ensure that my men don't have a clumsy accident with those torches."
He gestured. His men, on the ridge, lit torches. They held them over the envoys' wagons, which were now visibly doused in oil.
Corvus looked at the gold at his feet. He looked at the torches above his vital supplies. He looked at the boy in front of him.
This was no rubbish son. This was a demon.