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Gamble King Chapter 12. The Tower
🕑 Added 2025-06-07 13:01:03 +0000 UTCMax floated in that perfect space between sleep and wakefulness where everything made sense and nothing mattered. His mind drifted lazily through half-formed thoughts, each one slipping away before it could fully materialize. The bed was soft, the warmth perfect, the weight of the blankets exactly right.
Something wasn't adding up about that last part.
His IKEA mattress had never felt this good. And his apartment definitely never smelled like woodsmoke and... was that lavender? His brain sluggishly suggested that these inconsistencies warranted investigation, but his body voted to remain exactly where it was, thank you very much.
The gentle crackling of a fireplace finally did it. His apartment didn't have a fireplace. Unless someone had done some very ambitious renovations while he slept.
Max opened his eyes to find himself staring at an elaborately carved wooden ceiling. Medieval Gothic, his mind supplied unhelpfully, as if he were a tour guide pointing out architectural features to disinterested tourists.
"Well," he muttered to the ceiling, "this is new."
He sat up slowly, taking in his surroundings. The room was larger than his entire apartment had been, with stone walls hung with tapestries depicting bears doing heroic things. A fire crackled cheerfully in a hearth big enough to roast a small cow.
Morning light streamed through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced through the air like tiny stars. The bed he lay in could have comfortably slept four people, though Max suspected that hadn't been Harek's primary use for it.
"Huh," Max said, sniffing his arm experimentally. "Oranges and lavender. Someone's been playing dress-up with the unconscious noble."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, noting that he was wearing a clean linen nightshirt that probably cost more than his entire former wardrobe. His muscles ached pleasantly, like after a good workout, rather than the bone-deep exhaustion of the past week.
Someone had laid out clothes on a nearby chair - all rich fabrics in deep blues and grays, with the Frostfang bear sigil of House Vanheim embroidered subtly here and there.
"Home sweet home," Max said to no one in particular. "Or at least, someone's home."
Max padded across the cold stone floor, curiosity drawing him to the window. Bright sunlight streamed in, but something wasn't right - he couldn't see anything beyond the opening, just a wall of light. More oddly, he couldn't hear anything either. No wind, no distant sounds, nothing.
"Well, that's not normal," he muttered, reaching out cautiously. His hand met... something. Not glass, not anything solid, but a resistance like pushing through thick honey. The instant his fingers breached it, a cold sensation hit them full force.
"Magic," he said, pulling his hand back.
Unable to resist, he stuck his head through the barrier. The rush of cold air made him gasp, but the view - the view made him forget about the cold entirely.
Frosthold sprawled beneath him, massive and ancient and alive. People moved through snow-covered courtyards far below. Soldiers trained in one yard, their breaths visible in the frigid air. Merchants pushed carts loaded with goods through the streets. Children threw snowballs while their mothers called them in for breakfast.
Smoke rose from hundreds of chimneys, creating a hazy layer above the fortress-city. Beyond the walls, forests of dark pines dotted white plains that stretched to the horizon. In the distance, mountains cut into the blue sky like nature's own fortifications.
A snowflake drifted past his face - a perfect, intricate pattern that caught the morning light. Without thinking, Max stuck out his tongue. "Aaaaaah..."
"Lord Harek?"
Max yanked his head back through the barrier, heat rising to his face. A middle-aged woman stood in his chambers, carrying a washbasin. Something in her face tugged at Harek's memories - she'd worked here for years, brought him soup when he was sick, cleaned up after his worst binges...
"Thank you, uh..." Max fumbled for her name.
"Marta, my lord." Her tone was neutral, though something in her eyes suggested she'd seen far too many of Harek's embarrassing moments to be impressed by this one.
"Right! Marta." Max cleared his throat. "How long was I...?"
"The expedition returned yesterday afternoon," she said, setting down her basin. "You were brought in with the wounded, unconscious but alive." She paused. "There was some concern when you wouldn't wake."
"But I'm fine now," Max said quickly. "Obviously. Just... catching snowflakes. For very important noble reasons."
"Of course, my lord." Marta's expression didn't change. "Your father will want to know you're awake. He's been..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Inquiring about your condition."
"He has?" Max blinked, surprised by his own reaction.
"Shall I inform him you're conscious?"
"Yes, please." Max nodded. "Though maybe leave out the snowflake-catching part?"
"I will inform him that you are awake and..." Another careful pause. "Behaving as expected."
She gave a small nod and left. The door closed with a quiet but very final click.
Max examined the clothes laid out before him with growing appreciation. The dark blue doublet was pretty well-crafted, its silver threading caught the morning light in a way that would make high-end fashion designers weep. The charcoal gray trousers were made from wool so fine it felt like silk, yet heavy enough for the northern climate.
He dressed slowly, getting used to the weight and feel of it all. The cut was perfect, which made sense - these were Harek's clothes, made for Harek's body. Different from the leather armor he'd worn during the past week of chaos.
The room revealed itself as he explored. The magical barrier wasn't just at the windows - it enveloped the entire chamber in a thin, barely visible shell that regulated temperature and dampened sound from the fortress below. Whoever had designed this place had understood comfort, at least in some ways.
Other amenities were conspicuously absent though. No bathroom. No study. Just a sad little chamber pot in the corner that made Max's heart sink.
"Right," he muttered. "Medieval plumbing." The thought of introducing modern sanitation briefly crossed his mind, but reality quickly asserted itself. Four years of marketing experience hadn't exactly prepared him for reinventing sewage systems.
He dropped back onto the bed, considering the strange mix of advanced magic and basic infrastructure, when the door burst open with enough force to make the tapestries sway.
Max shot to his feet, startled and already forming words about the concept of knocking - but they died in his throat.
The man in the doorway commanded attention without effort. Tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Dark eyes fixed on Max with an intensity that seemed to fill the room.
Lord Tredor Vanheim. Harek's father.
"Son," Tredor said, his voice unexpectedly quiet.
"Ah... good day, father," Max managed, acutely aware that the last time these two had spoken, Harek had been departing for Dragonmeet under the weight of an ultimatum.
"Wait, perhaps we should-" Max started, taking a step back as Tredor advanced. Something in the man's stern expression triggered an instinctive response, but instead of the anticipated strike, Max found himself caught in a fierce embrace.
"You're alive," Tredor said simply, his voice carefully controlled but unable to completely hide its relief.
...Oookay, Max thought, standing perfectly still as the moment stretched. This was clearly important to Tredor, even if it felt surreal to Max. He'd never been great with physical affection - marketing meetings rarely called for hugs - but this seemed like the wrong time to establish boundaries.
Tredor finally stepped back, composing himself with dignity. "Prince Keiran told me what happened at Eastwatch. Sir Gregory as well."
"Ah. Yes." Max shifted his weight. "It's been an... interesting week."
"So I've heard. The Hero of Eastwatch, they're calling you."
Max fought the urge to wince at the title. "It was a complicated situation."
They stood in awkward silence, neither quite sure how to proceed.
"You must be hungry," Tredor said finally, seizing on practicality like a lifeline. "I'll have the kitchens prepare something. You can eat in the dining hall once you're properly dressed."
He was properly dressed. Or so he thought.
"Yes, thank you," Max replied, probably too quickly. "Food would be... good."
Another silence threatened to descend, but Tredor was already moving toward the door, his natural authority reasserting itself. "I'll send someone to call you when the food is ready."
"Thank you, father."
The word felt strange in his mouth - this wasn't his father, wasn't the man who'd taught him to ride a bike or helped him with his college applications. This was effectively a stranger who happened to be genetically related to his current body.
Tredor moved to the door but stopped, his hand on the frame. He stood there, unmoving.
"Is... everything alright?" Max asked.
Tredor turned back, and for a moment, a small smile crossed his face. "I am glad you came back, son."
"Me too," Max said, and meant it, even if he wasn't quite sure why. Maybe because beneath all the awkwardness and formality, there was something genuine in Tredor's smile - something that made this strange new world feel a little less foreign.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
***
Shit.
Max stared intently at his empty plate, wondering if he could will food into existence through sheer concentration. Anything to avoid meeting Tredor's steady gaze from across the table. The dining hall of Frosthold was smaller than he'd expected - cozy rather than imposing, with a fireplace that could roast exactly one cow instead of three.
Man, you gotta be kidding me... Max thought as Tredor cleared his throat. He'd hoped to eat alone, nurse his hunger in peace, maybe practice using medieval utensils without an audience. But no. Here he was, playing the prodigal son returned, while his not-actually-father studied him like a particularly puzzling text.
Max risked a glance up. Yep, still watching. Back to studying the plate then.
The servants arrived with the food, and Max's eyes widened despite himself. If Sabo had possessed any real talent as a writer, it had been her ability to describe meals. She could spend three pages on a bowl of stew and make it sound like poetry. And this - this was the exact meal from Chapter One, when Bjorn had first arrived at one of Frosthold's taverns.
Roasted mutton with herbs. Dark bread still steaming from the ovens. Some kind of root vegetable Max didn't recognize but smelled amazing. In the books, Bjorn had eaten enough for four men. Now Max understood why.
A servant girl approached with a pewter pitcher. "Your water, my lord."
"Thank you," Max said automatically.
The silence that followed was deafening.
The girl's eyes widened slightly. Tredor's frown deepened. Right. In the memories, Harek rarely thanked servants. Not for food, not for drink, not even for hauling his half-conscious body out of a swamp.
Which, when you stopped to consider it, was pretty crazy. Max had worked as a cashier in a restaurant at eighteen. He knew exactly what happened to the meals of people who treated the waitstaff like furniture. It wasn’t seasoning.
Still, let them whisper. If saying “thank you” was suspicious behavior, they’d better prepare themselves. He planned to be civil. Especially to the people holding sharp objects and access to his plate.
The girl gave him a strange little smile - half confused, half concerned - before backing away.
"You may leave us," Tredor told the servants, his tone polite but firm. "We'll call if we need anything else."
Max picked up his fork, realized he had no idea if he should wait for Tredor to start first, put it down again. Picked it up. Put it down.
The food smelled even better than Sabo's descriptions.
His fork hovered uncertainly until Tredor spoke.
"Eat, son."
"Don't mind if I do," Max said, diving in with enough enthusiasm to make medieval etiquette teachers weep.
The mutton practically dissolved on his tongue. Whatever they'd done to this meat, it had the tenderness of a three-day barbecue without any of the work. The dark bread was still warm, releasing little puffs of steam when he tore into it, butter melting into every crevice. Even the mysterious root vegetables - some cousin of the carrot family, maybe - had been roasted to perfection.
Well, Max thought, shoveling another bite into his mouth, at least the food here beats Earth. No wonder Harek got fat. Bless his soul.
"You have changed," Tredor's voice cut through his culinary reverie.
"Yerf, I woulff hopf so," Max replied through a mouthful of mutton, then immediately wanted to sink through the floor.
"Though I see you've kept certain... behaviors."
Max swallowed hastily. "Sorry. I'm just- I haven't eaten anything this good in a while. The campaign rations were..." He trailed off, remembering the dried meat and hard bread that had sustained them on the march.
"You deserve it," Tredor said, his voice unexpectedly warm. "Eat to your heart's content."
The conversation flowed easier after that, helped along by the food and Tredor's careful questions about the expedition. Max stuck to the story he'd rehearsed on his way to dinner - how he'd manifested Fanga through "sheer power of will and determination," which sounded ridiculous even as he said it.
Tredor's expression suggested he found it about as plausible as someone claiming they'd learned to swim by really, really wanting to. This world wasn't a place for fairy tales about the power of belief. But he didn't press the issue.
Max got it. They had no framework for "guy from another world hijacks your son's body." Better to let them assume he was another warrior changed by battle. He'd practiced that speech too - about how Eastwatch had shown him what really mattered, how facing death had given him clarity. The kind of story people in this world would understand.
"You're Sir Gregory's squire now," Tredor said, changing the subject with the subtle grace of a career politician.
"Yes, indeed." Max took another bite of bread, grateful for the shift in conversation.
"And since you're an initiate squire at eighteen, you'll be required to participate in the Proving Year. It begins in three moons."
Max's fork stopped halfway to his mouth.
The Proving Year. Of course. How could he have forgotten? Sabo had written about it a bit - a brutal northern tradition where initiate squires ventured into the Deep North to find their assigned hermits and retrieve tokens. One year in the wilderness, facing monsters, evil spirits, and the kind of cold that turned men to ice.
In the books, it had sounded awesome. Peak fantasy adventure, complete with trials and tribulations. The kind of thing that made great reading while curled up on his couch with hot chocolate.
Reality, as it had been doing lately, decided to remind Max that reading about something and living it were very different experiences.
"Those who fail," Tredor continued, "must attempt it again if they wish to advance to Standard squire. Some never return at all."
Max set his fork down carefully. "Never return as in...?"
"Dead, usually." Tredor took a sip of wine. "Though occasionally we find them years later, living in mountain caves, having gone mad from isolation. Last winter we discovered three of them had formed their own little society, worshiping a bear they believed to be the avatar of winter itself."
"That's..." Max searched for an appropriate response. "Concerning."
"Indeed. The bear was quite ordinary, as it turned out. Though it had developed a taste for human flesh, which complicated the retrieval effort."
Max stared at his plate, suddenly less hungry.
"I don't suppose there's an alternative?" he asked hopefully. "Some sort of written exam, perhaps?"
Tredor just stared at him.
"Right," Max sighed. "Stupid question."
"I expected you to be more... combative about this," Tredor said, studying Max with renewed interest.
"Well," Max shrugged, "it is what it is."
Tredor fell silent, the kind of silence that felt heavy with thought. The firelight caught the silver in his salt and pepper beard as he considered his next words.
"You know," he said finally, "a man can spend his entire life fighting against what he must become. Or he can accept it, shape it, make it his own." He paused. "I like this path you've chosen, son. Stay on it."
Max nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Tredor stood, adjusting his coat. "I need to oversee the preparations for the barrier. Our mages and the ones who arrived yesterday from the capital have gathered and are ready to begin work with the Dragon Heart you brought from Dragonmeet."
"Could I come?" Max asked before he could stop himself.
Tredor smiled - a real smile this time, not the careful one from earlier. "Of course."
A servant brought Max a fur cape before they left - black bear, if he had to guess, with silver clasps that matched his doublet. The cold here was real enough to freeze spit before it hit the ground.
Frosthold sprawled around them as they walked, more alive than Max had imagined from his window view.
People stepped aside as Tredor passed, offering nods or muttered "m'lords". Just like in the books, northerners didn’t bow. Not even to the King. A special privilege they acquired generations ago, when the kingdom was still forming.
Max tried to match his father's dignified nod, probably looking more like he had a neck cramp.
"Ah, the young master returns!" A man in what might have once been military clothes stepped into their path. His beard was wild and his eyes had the intense focus of someone who'd stared too long at the sun, but his bearing was oddly martial. "I heard you broke through enemy lines at Eastwatch. Textbook pincer movement, that was. Though personally, I would have deployed the archers in a crescent formation."
Tredor glanced at Max, who found himself oddly charmed by the man's tactical analysis delivered with complete lunacy.
"The enemy's left flank was exposed," the man continued, then leaned in conspiratorially. "But between you and me, young lord, I don't believe a word about this Fanga business. Manifesting it in six days?" He winked. "Good story though. Very good story."
Max couldn't help but laugh at the sheer audacity.
"Winter's blessing, Jormund," Tredor said pointedly.
"And to you, my lord!" Jormund snapped his fist to his chest in the Frostfang salute — swift, sharp, and just shy of cracking ribs — before wandering off, muttering something about cavalry formations.
Tredor watched him go, silent for a moment as his cloak stirred in the wind.
“Do not hold his madness against him,” he said at last.
Max turned to look at him. “Madness?”
Tredor nodded once. “Aye. You used to curse his presence — called him a raving fool unfit for command. Don't you remember?”
Max glanced back toward the man in the snow. “He doesn’t bother me now. Honestly, he seems... kind of fun.”
Tredor was silent for a long moment.
“He was once the sharpest mind of his generation,” he said quietly. “Jormund the Raven-Eyed, they called him. Saw every angle of a battle before the first sword was drawn. He could make a thousand men fight like ten thousand. I made him a commander at twenty-five.”
Max raised his brows. “What happened?”
“Lionrock,” Tredor said simply. “We held the pass, but we paid in blood. He blamed himself for every name on the stone. Lost his taste for war after that... then his grip on the world followed.”
They watched in silence as Jormund handed a carved horse to a little girl, who hugged it to her chest.
“Now he drills ghosts and plays with children,” Tredor murmured. “The mind is a fragile thing, when it cracks.”
Max exhaled slowly. “I’ll be kind.”
Tredor’s gaze lingered on Jormund, then drifted to Max.
“Good. He’s earned more than pity. And he’s dangerous to underestimate — madness and genius share a narrow road.”
Max nodded. “He doesn’t seem lost to me.”
Tredor gave a faint, unreadable smile. “No. Perhaps not to you.”
They passed what looked like farmers carrying tools, which raised questions about what exactly you could farm in temperatures Max estimated at minus fifteen Celsius. The answer, based on the root vegetables at breakfast, was "surprisingly a lot."
"Did you hear that?" someone whispered as they passed. " The soldiers say he killed Gorm the Crusher."
"With a single arrow, they say."
"Through the eye while jumping over the commander's guards!"
"I heard he used the giant's corpse as a ramp."
Tredor's mouth twitched slightly. "You've earned quite a reputation. Though I notice the stories grow more elaborate with each telling."
"Yeah," Max said, thinking of his multiple deaths getting to that point. "I'm used to that."
Tredor gave him an unreadable look but didn't comment.
They rounded a corner, and Max stopped dead in his tracks.
The tower rose before them, identical to the one from Harek's memories - the same one he'd first seen in that strange inner world. It pierced the sky like a stone needle, its dark walls seeming to absorb the morning light rather than reflect it.
"What has you so captivated?" Tredor asked, noticing Max's expression.
"The tower," Max said, unable to keep the awe from his voice.
"The Mage Tower?" Tredor raised an eyebrow. "That's where we're headed."
"Of course it is," Max muttered. Because where else would you keep a magic dragon organ? The local tavern?
The tower's entrance was marked by doors that had clearly been designed by someone with strong opinions about intimidation. They were black oak, bound with iron, and tall enough that a giant would feel adequately welcomed. Or possibly crushed by the implications.
A man emerged before they could knock, shivering and brushing snow off his shoulders with obvious irritation. He was thin, with graying hair pulled back in a style that somehow managed to look both scholarly and vaguely disapproving of the world in general. For some reason, Max could tell he wasn't a northerner.
"Lord Vanheim." The man's bow was precise to the degree. "Young Lord... Harek." Another bow, marginally less deep. "I am the new Magister, Aldwin. We've been expecting you."
"Magister," Tredor replied with a nod. "I trust the preparations are proceeding smoothly?"
"Indeed. The council has assembled, and our preliminary calculations suggest the Heart will integrate without catastrophic failure." Aldwin paused. "Well. Probably without catastrophic failure."
"Reassuring," Max muttered.
Aldwin's expression soured slightly. "We find unseemly optimism tends to anger the fundamental forces, my lord. Better to maintain appropriate pessimism."
The interior of the tower was significantly more spacious than the exterior had suggested, which raised questions about either architecture or the fundamental nature of reality. Max suspected the latter.
The central space rose impossibly high, with levels upon levels disappearing into shadows above. Staircases spiraled along the walls like ribbons around a maypole, if maypoles were designed by people with a serious commitment to making visitors dizzy.
Fresh mortar scented the air, and scaffolding still clung to sections of the upper levels. According to Tredor, The Dragon Heart project had required extensive modifications on the tower. Mages moved about in robes of different cuts - some in what Max began to recognize as northern furs.
Max was getting better at spotting northerners. It wasn't just skin color - Frosthold had people ranging from pale to dark brown - but something in how they carried themselves. They all had those deep brown eyes and thick curls, sure, but it was more about how they moved. Northerners walked like people who knew ice was probably waiting under the next step. They didn't waste movement, didn't gesture much when they talked. Even their smiles were quick, practical things.
The other mages stuck out like sore thumbs. They wore bright colors instead of the usual northern grays and blues, and they couldn't stop shivering. While the locals just got on with their day, the others huddled around every heat source they could find. You could spot them by how they walked - still trying to find their footing on the slippery stones, while every northerner, from kids to old folks, had that same steady stride.
"How many floors?" Max asked, craning his neck.
"Fifty-seven," Aldwin said. "Though we only use fifty-six. The top floor has structural issues."
"What kind of structural issues?"
"The previous Archmage attempted to bind a demon's essence up there. Turned out the ceiling wasn't properly warded for that sort of ambition. Were you not aware?"
"I... uh... tend to forget."
Aldwin looked at him from head to toe, with nothing better to say than a dry, judgmental: "Hm."
I do not like this guy.
They began climbing. The first few floors revealed themselves as temples to the written word - robed figures bent over massive tomes, quills scratching against parchment with the rhythm of devoted prayer. Young men and women sat in circles, eyes closed in fierce concentration, while instructors watched with the patient expression of people who had seen many small explosions.
On the third floor, a girl about sixteen suddenly opened her eyes and produced a tiny spark of light above her palm. Her face lit up with such joy that Aldwin actually winced.
"First degree manifestation," he explained, quickening his pace as if happiness might be contagious. "Very... enthusiastic of them."
The climb continued. Max's legs started their formal complaints around floor fifteen. By floor twenty-five, he was breathing like a bellows. Tredor, meanwhile, maintained the steady pace of someone who viewed fifty flights of stairs as a gentle warm-up.
"You know," Max panted, "there's got to be a better way."
"Such as?" Aldwin asked.
"Some kind of... moving platform. Or ropes and pulleys."
Aldwin considered this with the expression of someone examining a particularly stupid insect. "And why would we wish to arrive anywhere without earning it through proper suffering?"
What the hell is wrong with these people?
The floors blurred together.
More books than any kingdom should reasonably possess. More robed figures copying texts with the devotion of monks. More young people sitting very still and trying to convince the universe to cooperate with their wishes. Occasionally they passed chambers filled with apparatus that looked like the fever dreams of ancient alchemists - glass vessels connected by copper tubes, carefully balanced scales measuring powders that glowed with their own light, astrolabes pointing at things that probably weren't stars.
"Magic here requires considerable study," Max observed between breaths.
"First degree magic demands comprehension of the fundamental principles," Aldwin replied. "You cannot simply gesture at fire and expect it to appear. You must understand the essence of flame, the nature of its hunger, the proper thought to convince it of your worthiness. Magic without knowledge is merely hoping very loudly."
On floor thirty-two, they passed a chamber where an elderly mage was lecturing a group of students about the relationship between lunar phases and water's willingness to change form. By floor forty, Max was seriously questioning his commitment to consciousness. His legs belonged to someone else entirely, someone who had perhaps decided to climb a mountain while carrying a very disappointed horse.
"Nearly there," Tredor said, which was either encouraging or the sort of thing people said right before you collapsed in an undignified heap.
Floor fifty arrived with the fanfare of Max's burning lungs and a door marked with symbols that probably meant "Important People Who Know Things You Don't" in whatever script mages used.
"The council chamber," Aldwin announced. "They've been waiting to begin the consultation."
He opened the door.
Beyond lay a circular room lined with chairs, most occupied by older men and women in robes of many styles and colors. The Dragon Heart sat in the center on a pedestal, for some reason pulsing with light that made Max's teeth ache and his eyes water simultaneously.
"Lord Vanheim," came a chorus of respectful greetings.
Tredor stepped through the doorway, followed by Aldwin. Max moved to follow and immediately collided with what felt like an invisible wall.
The impact wasn't painful, exactly. But it felt rude. Very rude.
Silence fell over the chamber like a heavy blanket. The assembled mages stared at Max with expressions ranging from confusion to shock.
Tredor turned, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested this was not part of his expected itinerary. "What's the matter?"
Max rubbed his nose and attempted entry again, achieving identical results. "I appear to be... unwelcome?"
It was at that moment that an elderly man rose from one of the chairs carefully. His beard was white and his eyes sharp. Not a northerner either.
"Lord Tredor," he said with a warm smile. "It is good to see you again."
"Archmage Kellor," Tredor replied. "How was the travel from Crown Keep?"
"Two moons of very interesting travels," the old man said, stroking his beard. "This is my second time in Frosthold. Feels even colder than before."
"Winter is yet to come," Tredor said.
Kellor raised an eyebrow, still stroking his beard. "This isn't winter? I am convinced you northerners only call it winter when your piss freezes before it hits the ground." He grinned. "Down south, we'd have declared a state of emergency and retreated to our wives' beds by now."
Both men chuckled. Then Kellor turned to Max. "And you must be young Harek. Archmage Kellor." His expression grew curious as he looked at the invisible barrier. "It appears you've encountered our ward network."
"Ward network?" Tredor's frown deepened.
"The wards respond to connection with the Source," Kellor explained, approaching with measured steps. "They prevent unregistered practitioners from accessing restricted areas. Standard precautionary measures."
"My son has never been bound to the Source," Tredor stated. "He has shown no magical inclination whatsoever."
Kellor studied Max carefully. "I'm afraid the wards would suggest a rather significant change in circumstances, my lord." He paused, his expression shifting to something between professional surprise and genuine intrigue. "It appears he is now connected to the Source."
Max stared at the old man, and that's when he saw it. Floating just above Kellor's head, clear as day: the number 40.
What the hell?
Until now, those numbers had only appeared on things he ended up killing. The bear. The goblin. The doe. Gorm. All enemies—or prey.
But the archmage wasn’t an enemy. At least... he didn’t seem like one.
So what the hell was this?
Was it a glitch? A warning? Was the system telling him that elderly mages who seemed perfectly pleasant and were probably here to help save the kingdom were secretly dangerous? Was the number tied to moral alignment?
But that didn’t explain the doe. He’d chosen to kill it. It wasn’t evil. Just food.
So no—there was no pattern he could trust. No rule that made sense. Just death and a number and a reward.
Max mentally filed it under "Things That Make No Sense But Might Matter Later" and tried to focus on the more immediate problem.
Still. There was a number 40 here. Just in case.
No. I’m not going to kill this guy. Obviously. But come on... forty.
He kept staring at the old man, then at the invisible barrier that had so rudely rejected him, then back at the old man. "I'm sorry, what now?"
"You are a mage, young lord," Kellor said. "The rather pressing question is... how did this come to pass?"
Comments
Felix Jones
There is some absolute banger dialogue in here: "We find unseemly optimism tends to anger the fundamental forces, my lord. Better to maintain appropriate pessimism." and "Magic without knowledge is merely hoping very loudly." So fucking good. I read and those and godamn howled.
Ace_the_owl
Yes, sir 🫡
Ace_the_owl
TYFR! And for the many comments, too, I appreciate it so much!
Yali Zak-Malkin
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Anotherb Account
TFTC, lovely new arc, looking forward to it (this was a great kickoff, loving it)
