Gamble King Chapter 26. Betrothed

"...Haah...twenty-seven." Max's arms burned as he pushed himself up from the snow. His breath came out in sharp white puffs that froze befor

"...Haah...twenty-seven."

Max's arms burned as he pushed himself up from the snow. His breath came out in sharp white puffs that froze before they could drift away.

"Twenty...eight."

The thing about the Proving Year was that it wasn't really about proving anything to yourself.

Max had figured that out after watching those broken riders stumble through Frosthold's gates this morning. It was about proving something to everyone else. Specifically, proving that you could survive whatever the deeper north threw at you and come back with a little bronze token that said you'd done it.

"...Twenty-nine. Ugh!"

His shoulders screamed in protest. The snow beneath his hands was packed solid from previous sessions, stained with drops of sweat that had frozen into tiny amber beads. Bro sat perched on a nearby rock, occasionally tilting his head as if he found Max's suffering mildly entertaining.

"Thirty! Whoo!"

Max collapsed face-first into the snow and lay there for a moment, tasting ice and the tang of his own exhaustion.

The squire ranking system was simple enough. You started as a Companion, which was basically a fancy word for "servant who occasionally gets to hold a sword." Then you became an Initiate once you manifested Fanga, which was where Max currently sat. After that came Standard, which required surviving the Proving Year. Then Senior Militant, like Captain Rhen had been.

Only after that could one even think about knighthood.

He rolled over and stared up at the gray winter sky. Gregory had pulled him aside after a few hours ago, right after they'd all watched those battered young knights return. "I've recommended you to the High Lord," he'd said with that expression that suggested Max should be either grateful or terrified. "He's accepted. You're going on your Proving Year."

Max sat up and brushed snow from his face. He wasn't sure what Gregory was thinking exactly. Two months of training hardly seemed like enough preparation for what looked like a death sentence with extra steps.

The northern approach to squire advancement was more like what the ancient Spartans might have dreamed up if they'd had access to frozen wastelands and tribes of cannibals for their agoge.

The idea was that Frosthold needed to maintain relationships with the barbarian clans deeper north. Some of those clans were reasonable. They traded, they talked, they occasionally helped with information about threats moving through their territories.

Others ate people.

Max pushed himself to his feet and started walking in a wide circle, letting his muscles cool down gradually. The Proving Year served multiple purposes.

Political, since squires could choose to spend time with friendly tribes, learning their customs and languages.

Social, because it created bonds between Frosthold and the clans who helped train their future knights.

And practical, because anyone who couldn't survive a year in that environment had no business calling themselves a northern warrior.

The actual test was straightforward in its brutality. Each squire was assigned a specific Hermit through random stone selection. Your job was to find them within a year, convince them to give you their token, and make it back alive.

"What kind of hermits are they?" Max had asked.

Gregory's expression had grown darker. "Exiles, mostly. Some are former knights who committed crimes too serious for execution but too valuable to waste. Treason, desertion, cowardice in battle. Others are straight criminals who chose exile over death. Murderers, thieves, rapists. A few are just men who couldn't live with what they'd done and asked to be sent north."

Max stopped walking. Bro had climbed down from his rock and was now perched on Max's shoulder, apparently deciding the entertainment value of watching push-ups had worn thin.

"So I'm going to track down a random exile who might be a disgraced knight or a convicted murderer, and... convince them how?"

Gregory's smile had been thoroughly unpleasant. "However you can. Some Hermits will give you the token if you can prove you're worthy through combat. Others want you to demonstrate wisdom, or cunning, or endurance. A few just want someone to talk to after years of solitude, so they'll hand it over if you can hold an interesting conversation."

"And if they refuse?"

"Then you take it from them."

The whole system was insane when you really thought about it.

Frosthold was essentially sending its future knights to either befriend or rob a bunch of dangerous criminals scattered across one of the most hostile regions in the known world. The fact that it worked, that it had worked for generations, said something either very impressive or very disturbing about the kind of people who chose to serve in the north.

All this had made Max train even more today.

There was barely a month left before his Proving Year, and the reality of it sat in his stomach like a cold stone. He didn't like it. Didn't like any of it, really. But he couldn't refuse Gregory's recommendation or the High Lord's acceptance.

Slacking around felt like wasting time he didn't have, and time was the one thing you couldn't get back, even with his particular advantages.

Max wiped sweat from his forehead and looked at the small spider perched on a nearby rock. "Come on, Bro. Let's go."

Bro immediately climbed onto his shoulder.

They made it halfway across the courtyard before Max's stomach reminded him that training burned calories. "I'm hungry." He glanced at his shoulder passenger. "You hungry?"

Bro's abdomen glowed once, briefly.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Max was heading toward the kitchens when he spotted his old nemesis strutting near the stables. The rooster. That absolute bastard of a bird that had been waking him up every morning for weeks now.

"Hey, Bro," Max said quietly, "you like chicken?"

The rooster's head snapped up at the sound of Max's voice. Their eyes met across the courtyard. The bird's stance shifted, wings spreading slightly, preparing for another of their ridiculous chases.

Then Bro began to glow.

Not the single pulse he'd used to answer Max's question. This was different—a steady, orange radiance that grew brighter by the second. The spider's entire body seemed to be generating heat, that dragon skull pattern on his back becoming clearly visible through the light.

The rooster took one look at this display, let out a strangled squawk, and ran. Actually ran, feathers flying as it scrambled behind the stables faster than Max had ever seen it move.

Max stared at his shoulder. "Huh. You got some kind of aura or something?"

Bro's glow faded back to normal spider levels, which was to say, none at all.

"Useful," Max admitted.

The kitchens were quieter than last time. Max had expected the usual chaos—shouting, clattering pots, the controlled fury of dinner preparation. Instead, he opened the door to find maybe half the usual staff moving around with careful, deliberate motions.

He wanted to see if he could get some meat for his protein intake of the day. Training like this, his body needed fuel.

Every person in the kitchen stopped what they were doing when they saw him. Complete, absolute silence.

"Uh," Max said, stepping inside. "Good afternoon?"

A few people nodded. Most just stared. The kind of staring that meant something was happening that he didn't understand.

"What's going on?" Max asked.

Nobody answered immediately. Then he heard it—a light melody being hummed somewhere to his right. The tune sounded almost cheerful, accompanied by the soft sounds of knife work continuing despite the silence that had fallen over the rest of the kitchen.

Max turned toward the humming and found someone standing at one of the preparation tables, back to the room.

Long, auburn curls fell past her shoulders, and even from behind, her clothing marked her as clearly highborn. Rich fabric, perfect tailoring, a dress of black and dark green.

She turned around. Her eyes went wide first—a sharp intake of breath, almost a gasp.

Max got a good look at her face. Green almond eyes, sharp features, high cheekbones. She was tall for a woman. Almost as tall as Harek, who was around 194cm. She had maybe four or five centimeters less than him. Max glanced down instinctively to check if she was wearing heels, then remembered this was a medieval world and all.

Her expression though... it changed the moment she saw him.

The slight smile that had been on her face while she hummed disappeared completely, replaced by something that looked like she'd just caught a whiff of something rotten.

Well, damn.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Max recognized her face from Harek's memories—but memories didn’t come with the gut-punch of a real person staring back at you like you were already a mistake.

The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable. Max cleared his throat.

"Aelara," he said.

"Betrothed." Her voice was flat. Not hostile exactly, but about as warm as the winter air outside.

"You're here," Max said.

"I am."

He shifted his weight slightly, glancing around the kitchen where every single person was still frozen in place, watching this exchange like they were expecting violence to break out at any moment.

"I didn't know you'd come."

"I arrived this morning." Aelara's tone remained perfectly neutral, the kind of neutral that took actual effort to maintain. "I looked for you. You weren't anywhere to be found."

"I was training."

"So I heard."

The silence stretched.

Max became acutely aware that the kitchen staff weren't just watching them—they were watching them with the kind of tense anticipation usually reserved for fights that were about to start. A young scullery maid had actually grabbed a rolling pin, though whether for protection or as a weapon wasn't clear.

What the hell had happened between them last time?

Aelara's eyes moved from his face down to his shoulders, then lower, taking in his frame. When her gaze returned to his face, something had shifted in her expression. Not warmer, exactly, but less openly hostile.

"You lost weight," she said. "It suits you."

Max felt a smile tug at his lips. "Planning to get even leaner. Maybe add some muscle while I'm at it."

"Ambitious." There was the faintest hint of something that might have been amusement in her voice. "What brought on this sudden dedication to physical improvement?"

"Seemed like a good idea."

"Did it, now?"

"Well," Max said, "the alternative was staying exactly the same. That didn't seem to be working out particularly well for anyone."

Aelara tilted her head slightly, studying him with those sharp green eyes. "No. It wasn't."

Max found himself looking at her for longer than he realized.

His pulse was slightly faster. That subtle shift in focus where everything else in the room became background noise. The way his attention kept drifting back to the movements of her hands, the angle of her jaw when she concentrated.

Twenty-six years of experience was enough for him to recognize the signs.

He liked her.

And she seemed like the type who was hard to make laugh—sharp, controlled, probably hadn't cracked a genuine smile in days. Exactly his type. He decided right then to challenge himself to make her laugh. Out loud. One way or another.

But she also seemed like the type who might stab him in his sleep if he annoyed her too much. Which, given Harek's track record, was apparently a real possibility.

He did not like that about her.

"So," Max said, glancing at the diced vegetables on her cutting board, "cooking for yourself?"

"I was hungry." She turned back to her work. "The dining schedule here doesn't accommodate my preferences."

"Right. Most people just ask the kitchen staff to prepare something."

"I prefer to do it myself."

Max watched her work. Every cut was identical, every piece exactly the same size. The way she handled the knife suggested she'd be equally comfortable using it for less culinary purposes.

"You're good at that."

"I should be. My father and I used to hunt lions and deer back in Valdris. I skinned them myself."

"Practical."

"Practical," she agreed.

The conversation lapsed into an oddly comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of her knife against the cutting board and the nervous shuffling of the kitchen staff. Behind him, Max could hear whispered conversations. A young cook was literally staring at them.

"Your spider is staring at me," Aelara said without looking up.

Max glanced at his shoulder, where Bro was indeed focused intently on Aelara. The little guy's head was tilted at an angle that suggested he was studying her with the same intensity she'd been studying Max.

"He's curious about new people," Max said. "His name is Bro."

"Bro?"

"It seems to fit."

Aelara finally looked up from her vegetables to study the spider more closely. Bro, apparently deciding this was some kind of invitation, began one of his enthusiastic bouncing displays.

"He's... energetic," she observed.

"That's one word for it."

Around them, the kitchen staff were still watching with barely concealed tension. Max tried to figure out what they were so afraid of, but came up blank. Had he and Aelara actually fought in here before? Physically fought?

Aelara moved to the cooking area, heating oil in a pan with the same methodical precision she'd applied to her knife work. The smell of garlic and herbs filled the air as she began cooking her vegetables.

"Your father mentioned you'd be leaving soon," she said, not looking at him. "For your Proving Year."

"Next month."

"Are you prepared?"

Max thought about Gregory's assessment, about the random selection of potentially murderous hermits, about spending a year in the frozen wasteland tracking down exiles.

"Getting there," he said.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have."

Aelara nodded as if this made perfect sense. She added something that looked like strips of meat to her pan, the sizzling sound cutting through the kitchen's nervous quiet.

"Honest, at least," she said.

"I try to be."

"That's new."

Max winced. Around them, the kitchen staff shifted nervously, as if this comment might be the thing that finally set off whatever confrontation they were expecting.

But Aelara just continued cooking, her movements efficient and confident.

Not really caring that half the kitchen was watching their every move like it was the most entertaining thing to happen in months, Max decided to just ask what he wanted to know.

"Can I ask you something?" Max said.

"You may ask."

"What do you want? From all this, I mean. The marriage, the position, the future."

The entire kitchen went dead silent. Even the bubbling pots seemed to quiet down. Max could practically feel the collective held breath of everyone around them.

These people really liked drama. Damn.

Aelara's hand stilled for just a moment before resuming its stirring. "Why do you want to know?"

"Because if we're going to be married, I should probably understand what you're hoping to get out of it."

She was quiet for a long moment, considering him. "Competence," she said finally. "I want a partner who understands that actions have consequences. Who makes decisions based on reality rather than impulse."

"That's practical."

"Practical is what I can afford to want."

"What about what you can't afford to want?"

The kitchen staff were now openly staring, not even pretending to work. One of the younger cooks had his mouth hanging open.

Another pause. "I want to build something worthwhile. I want to use whatever influence I have to make things better rather than just maintaining what already exists."

"That's not unreasonable."

"Isn't it? Most highborn marriages are elaborate theater for political gain."

"They don't have to be."

Aelara glanced at him, something unreadable in her expression. "We'll see."

She finished cooking and began plating her food.

"That smells amazing," Max said.

"Thank you."

She gathered her plate and moved toward the kitchen door. The staff parted for her like she was carrying something dangerous, their relief at the lack of violence palpable.

At the doorway, she paused and looked back at him.

"Well," Max said, "welcome to Frosthold."

"Thank you."

And then she was gone, leaving Max standing in a kitchen full of people who were all staring at him.

"Well," Max said quietly, watching the door swing shut behind her. "That went well."

Every single person in the kitchen turned to stare at him. The silence was so complete he could hear his own heartbeat.

"What?" Max said, looking around at their shocked faces. "It's true."

Everyone in the kitchen looked... tense. Stiff.

Max sighed inwardly.

"Hey," he nudged the younger cook that had been staring with his elbow. "So what do you think of my betrothed?"

The kid froze, clearly sensing danger. "She's... very capable, my lord."

"Capable?" Max feigned offense. "That's the best you can do? What, is she hideous?"

"No! She's not—I mean—"

"So you do think she's attractive?" Max's grin was getting wider.

The poor cook was turning red. "I... that's not... I wouldn't..."

"Wouldn't what? Look at her? Because you definitely were."

"My lord, I swear I wasn't—"

Max laughed, finally taking pity on the kid. "Sorry, sorry. I'm just messing with you."

Before the cook could recover, the head cook swept into the room like a storm front. Her sharp eyes took in the scene—Max grinning, the young man's face still red with embarrassment.

"What happened here?" she demanded.

"I was with Aelana in the kitchen," Max said innocently.

The head cook's expression went completely deadpan. "Nothing was broken in my kitchen. That's a relief." She fixed Max with a withering stare. "Stop frightening my staff, Harek. Get what you want and leave."