Chapter 14: The Frozen Crucible

"I want to join the attack force."

The words hung in the air, stark and unexpected, in the sudden silence of the great hall. Liam stood before his father, the newly acquired grimoire heavy in his hands, the weight of his request even heavier on his heart. He hadn't planned to say it like that, so bluntly. But the words were out, and there was no taking them back. He needed to avenge Van. That was his reward.

Brad, who had remained a silent, watchful presence near the entrance to the hall, shifted slightly, but otherwise gave no outward sign of surprise.

Arthur Volgunder, however, did react. He lowered himself slowly into his high-backed chair, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Liam. He didn't speak for a long moment, the silence stretching, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

"You want to join the attack force," Arthur repeated, his voice flat. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Father," Liam said, his voice firmer now. "It's my reward. For winning the tournament. I choose to use it to fight alongside the Volgunder soldiers."

Arthur leaned forward, his gaze intense. "Do you have any idea what you're asking, Liam? This isn't a tournament duel. The Rubaks are brutal, savage killers. They raid, they burn, they slaughter. They show no mercy."

"I know that, Father," Liam replied, meeting his father's gaze.

"You are a one-star swordsman," Arthur continued. "You have no experience in actual combat, beyond a few controlled matches in an arena. This is war, Liam. A very different beast."

"I can learn," Liam insisted. "I have learned. I've been training, improving." He hesitated, then added, "Brad has been helping me."

Arthur's eyebrows rose, but not in surprise. "Brad," he repeated, his voice neutral. "And what, pray tell, has a distant relative been teaching you? I doubt he's qualified to instruct a Volgunder in swordsmanship, especially not for the kind of mission we're undertaking." He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "This attack force, Liam, is not a training exercise. It's a scouting mission. We're going into the heart of Rubak territory, seeking out their camps, their villages. Our purpose is to destroy them. It's dangerous work, requiring experienced warriors. Even Gareth, with all his years of training, would not be considered for such a task."

Liam's jaw tightened. "Van believed in me," he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Arthur's expression softened, almost imperceptibly. He had known about Van's brief mentorship, Liam realized.

"You want to avenge him, don't you?" Arthur said, his voice low and knowing. It wasn't a question.

Liam was stunned. "You… you knew?"

Arthur gave a short, humorless laugh. "Did you think I was blind, Liam? I know everything that goes on within these walls. I knew about Van's… interest in you." He paused. "He was a good man. Brave. But he's gone, Liam. And throwing your life away in a futile gesture of revenge won't bring him back. He wouldn't have wanted that."

Liam stood his ground. "It's not futile," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "I can help. I have to help. It's my right. It's my reward."

Arthur studied him for a long moment. "Very well, Liam," he said finally, his voice heavy. "I will grant your request. But… on one condition."

Liam held his breath.

"You must prove to me that you are not a liability," Arthur continued. "That you can protect yourself, that you won't be a burden to the attack force. You have displayed… unusual abilities. Show me. Show me a magic that can protect you. A magic that can make you an asset, not a hindrance. You have the grimoire. Use it. You have three days. If, in that time, you can demonstrate such a magic to my satisfaction, you may join the attack force. If not…" He let the sentence trail off.

Liam's mind reeled. Three days? To master a protective magic? It was an impossible task. But he couldn't back down now. He wouldn't.

"I accept your condition, Father," Liam said, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands.

Arthur nodded curtly. "Good. Then you are dismissed."

Liam bowed and turned to leave. As he reached the doors, he heard his father's voice again.

"Liam."

He stopped, turning back.

"Don't disappoint me," Arthur said, his voice low.

Liam simply nodded, then left the hall, the heavy doors closing behind him.

Brad was waiting for him outside, leaning against the wall. He didn't say anything, simply looked at Liam with a knowing expression.

"He… he knows about Van," Liam said, his voice still shaking.

Brad nodded. "He knows many things, Liam. More than you realize."

"He's given me three days," Liam continued. "To… to prove I can use magic. To protect myself."

Brad pushed himself off the wall. "Then we have work to do." He started walking down the corridor, and Liam fell into step beside him. "Come."

For the next three days, Liam lived and breathed the grimoire. He barely slept, barely ate, his entire being consumed by the task at hand. He studied the ancient text in the secluded alcove, poring over the cryptic symbols, the faded diagrams, the strange language.

He practiced in secret, trying to decipher the incantations, to replicate the hand movements, to visualize the flow of energy.

He struggled. He failed. He grew frustrated, angry, despairing. The magic was there, he could feel it, a cold fire burning within him, but he couldn't control it, couldn't shape it to his will.

Brad was there, a constant, watchful presence. He didn't offer any direct help with the magic; he couldn't. But he offered encouragement, support, and practical advice. He sparred with Liam, honing his skills with the short sword and shield, pushing him to his physical limits.

"Focus, Liam," Brad would say, his voice calm and steady. "Clear your mind. Feel the steel in your hands. Feel the ground beneath your feet. Anticipate your opponent's movements. Don't just react. Predict." He offered no guidance on the magic, only on the tangible, physical aspects of combat.

Liam tried. He really tried. But the magic was elusive, unpredictable. He managed to create fleeting shimmers of frost, brief bursts of cold air, but nothing substantial, nothing that could be considered a protective magic.

He discovered the spell for the ice sphere, the Orb of Frozen Warding, in a section of the grimoire dedicated to defensive techniques. The diagrams were intricate, the runic descriptions detailed, showing the precise flow of energy required. He practiced it relentlessly, visualizing the sphere forming around him, feeling for the coldness within, trying to draw it out and shape it.

He made some progress. He managed to create a thin, fragile layer of ice, a shimmering bubble that enveloped his body for a few seconds before collapsing. It was nowhere near the impenetrable shield described in the grimoire, but it was a start.

He also discovered the drawbacks of the spell. The longer he maintained the ice, the colder he became, the harder it was to breathe. The air within the sphere grew thin and stale, and he felt a growing pressure in his chest, a lightheadedness that threatened to overwhelm him.

He knew he couldn't use the spell for long in a real fight, but it was the best he had.

As he trained, the keep around him buzzed with activity. Knights from other families arrived, answering the call to arms. The courtyard echoed with the sounds of preparation: the clang of hammers on steel, the shouts of orders, the rumble of wagons being loaded with supplies.

And everywhere he went, Liam felt the eyes on him. The whispers followed him like shadows. He was the "magic swordsman," the "Volgunder anomaly," the boy who had somehow defeated Kael Dergovia. Some looked at him with awe, some with fear, some with undisguised suspicion.

The three days passed in a blur of exhaustion, frustration, and fleeting moments of success. He pushed himself to his absolute limit, driven by a desperate need to prove himself, to avenge Van, to earn his father's respect. To be a person that is worthy.

And now, the time was up.