Outside, the wind cut like knives.
Snow fell in thick sheets across the courtyard. A covered carriage sat waiting, horses stamping and snorting, their breath steaming in the cold. Two drivers huddled on the front bench, wrapped in furs.
Rylen climbed in first. The interior smelled like old leather and mildew. Bram settled across from him, and Thorne swung up to ride with the drivers—his bow and quiver making the inside too cramped.
The carriage jerked forward.
Storm Keep's walls passed by the window—thirty feet of solid stone, battlements lined with guards. Then the gates, massive iron-bound oak that took six men to open. Then they were through, and the keep fell behind.
Rylen stared at the iron box on his lap.
"My lord." Bram's voice was rough, weathered by years of patrol duty. "Your mother made me promise something before she died. She made me swear that no matter what happened, I'd protect you. That I wouldn't abandon you, even if the house did."
Rylen looked up. Bram's face was serious, scarred, honest.
"I keep my promises," Bram said. "Thorne does too. We're with you. Whatever comes."
From above, Thorne's voice drifted down through the carriage roof. "Frosthold's a shithole, though. Just so we're clear. I did a patrol near there once. Small town, maybe a thousand people. Walls have gaps. Mine's failing. Mayor's corrupt as hell—guy named Krell. Fat bastard who skims everything."
Rylen's mind started working despite the numbness in his chest. "Tell me everything. Layout, resources, weaknesses."
Bram leaned forward. "Manor in the center—that's where Krell lives. Mine entrance to the south, three shafts I think, but at least one's collapsed. They pull iron and low-grade mana ore when they can. Town wall's maybe fifteen feet high, but there are gaps in the north section. Guard force is maybe twenty men, probably less. Lazy types who take bribes."
"Food situation?" Rylen asked.
"Bad," Thorne called down. "Merchants avoid the place unless they're desperate or getting paid extra. Fields around the town are frozen half the year. They import most supplies, which means prices are high and quality's shit."
"Beast attacks?"
"Sometimes in deep winter," Bram said. "Nothing major—frost wolves mostly, occasional ice bear. But if the walls aren't maintained and guards are lazy, even low-level beasts can cause problems."
Rylen absorbed it all. A dying town with a corrupt leader, failing infrastructure, scarce resources, and minimal defense. His father had basically sentenced him to administrative hell.
Or... an opportunity?
The thought was almost funny. Almost.
The carriage rolled on. Snow piled against the windows. The horses struggled against the wind.
"How long to get there?" Rylen asked.
"Month, give or take," Bram said. "The continent's massive. We'll cross the frozen plains, skirt the borderlands, stop at villages for supplies. Thirty days if weather holds."
Thirty days to plan. Thirty days to figure out how a sixteen-year-old exile with trash talent and 150 gold coins was going to take control of a failing mining town and not die in the process.
Rylen closed his eyes and leaned back.
In his old life, he'd been nobody special. A university student. Twenty years old, studying business management of all things. He'd died alone in his apartment—heart failure or aneurysm, probably. Last thing he remembered was reading some webnovel about reincarnation.
He'd woken up as a baby in this world. Spent years thinking this was his second chance. His golden ticket. All those protagonists got systems, cheat abilities, special powers. He'd waited for his to appear.
It never did.
Just trash talent and a broken core that barely functioned.
But he wasn't dead yet. And he wasn't giving up.
The carriage hit a bump. Rylen opened his eyes.
"Bram. Thorne. When we get to Frosthold, first thing we do is assess the actual situation. Not rumors—facts. Then we figure out how to remove Krell without causing chaos. Then we secure the mine, fix the walls, and establish supply lines."
Bram raised an eyebrow. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," Rylen said. "I don't have talent. Fine. I'll use everything else."
Thorne laughed from above. "Kid's got balls. I'll give him that."
The carriage rolled on through the snow.
Thirty days to Frosthold.
Thirty days to plan.
And somewhere in those thirty days, something would change.
But for now, there was just the road, the cold, and the grim determination not to let his father be right about him being worthless.